Alexander’s POV
My gaze was as cold as the marble floor beneath us, fixed on Owen as the Beta dragged him into the kitchen.
His grip was firm on the boy’s shoulder, but Owen didn’t flinch. He never did. Behind them, the guards hovered, drenched in sweat and utterly humiliated.
It wasn’t the first time Owen had made fools of them, and I doubted it would be the last.
He stood there, unbothered as always, his small frame taut with defiance. His face was blank, almost bored, but the silence around him carried more weight than a room full of shouted insults.
That silence—sharp, deliberate—was a weapon he wielded effortlessly.
Owen was born with a condition—Chronis Syndrome, they called it. Doctors couldn’t explain it fully, but they didn’t need to.
Withdrawn, eerily quiet, yet sharp as a blade. He was a puzzle even the best minds couldn’t decipher. And somehow, his sharpness was always turned outward, slicing through the carefully crafted order of my household.
Time and again, he’d outsmarted everyone tasked with watching him: bodyguards, maids, even tutors with years of experience. No matter how secure the locks or how watchful the eyes, he always slipped away when it suited him. This time was no different.
Then he did it—a childish gesture that left even seasoned warriors seething. He raised his hand and flicked his fingers into an exaggerated “L,” holding it to his forehead to the guards.
The Beta stiffened. The guards exchanged muttered curses, too embarrassed to meet my eyes.
I let out a slow, measured sigh. My fork stabbed into the steak in front of me, the scrape of metal against porcelain the only sound breaking the heavy silence. I took my time with a bite, savoring the smoky flavor before acknowledging him.
“So,” I said, tilting my head slightly, my focus still on the plate. My voice came out sharp, a little colder than I intended. “Where did you run off to this time?”
Owen didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget, he simply lifted his chin, meeting my gaze head-on.
His dark eyes, a mirror of my own, stared back at me with a calm that felt far too old for a child his age.
“Looking for Mommy,” he said, his tone even and measured.
The words hit me like a slap, even if this wasn’t the first time he’d said them. My jaw tightened as I drew a slow, measured breath.
“Your mommy is right here. She’s been worried about you.”
I nodded toward Sophia, who had just swept into the room like a gust of designer perfume.
Her dark red hair fell in glossy waves over her shoulders, not a strand out of place. She wore her usual uniform of control—a snug leather jacket over a skin-tight black dress, a picture of polished perfection.
Sophia crossed to Owen quickly, her arms outstretched, a maternal concern pasted onto her face.
“Oh, Owen, sweetheart,” she cooed, her tone warm and syrupy. “You scared us all to death. You have to stop running off; you’re far too young to be wandering on your own.”
Owen didn’t even glance at her. He sidestepped her outstretched arms as effortlessly as someone stepping around a chair, his expression utterly indifferent.
“She’s not my mommy,” he said, his voice flat. There was no venom, no malice, but the words cut deep all the same.
Sophia froze mid-reach, her hands still extended toward a child who had already moved past her.
I couldn’t see her face, but I heard the sharp intake of breath, a gasp that lingered in the air like an accusation.
I leaned back in my chair, running a hand through my dark hair as the tension in the room coiled tighter.
“Right.” My voice was tired, sharp, done with this game we’ve been playing for far too long. “Then who is, Owen?”
But Owen didn’t answer. His small shoulders squared as he made his way toward the stairs, without looking back, each step deliberate, measured.
When he reached his room, he didn’t slam the door. No, the quiet click of the lock felt like an even louder rejection.
Sophia turned to me, her hands trembling as they fell to her sides. She sank into the chair next to mine at the mahogany table, her carefully crafted exterior beginning to crack. Her lips pressed into a trembling line as she reached up to dab at the makeup under her eyes.
“He doesn’t like me,” she whispered, her voice brittle. Her fingers trembled as she swiped at the faint streak of a black smoky eye that had started to blur. “Maybe it’s because we’re not married yet. Maybe he doesn’t see me as his mother because… because we aren’t truly a family.”
“Stop overthinking,” I said, my tone clipped and automatic. The same thing I’d told her a hundred times before.
But this time, Sophia didn’t accept them in silence.
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, her eyes blazing with frustration.
“Is it because you still can’t let go of her?” she demanded, her voice cracked as she spit the words at me. “Is that why you refuse to marry me? Because of her”
Lauren.
Even hearing her name after all this time felt like reopening an old wound that had never truly healed. My gaze turned to ice on her, piercing low through my brow.
“You’ve crossed a line,” I said coldly, each word laced with finality.
I left her standing there, prowling out of the room without waiting for a reply. My footsteps carried me to my study.
Inside, the familiar scent of leather and paper greeted me, but my eyes were drawn immediately to the photo on my desk. One that was normally hidden away.
Lauren’s smile stared back at me, bright and gentle, her eyes holding that mix of mischief and kindness that had always disarmed me.
She’d been my Luna. My wife. My partner in every way that mattered. And I’d thrown it all away because I’d been a fool.
Our marriage had been… complicated. She’d never given me an heir, and while I’d told myself it didn’t matter, it had always been there, a silent wedge between us. Then Sophia had come along, claiming she was pregnant, armed with photos of a drunken night I could barely remember. She’d presented it as fact, undeniable and inescapable.
And I’d divorced Lauren, thinking it was for the best, for the pack.
Then, Owen was born. I ordered the paternity test the day he took his first breath, desperate for the truth. The results confirmed he was mine.
But the joy I thought I would feel never came. Because the day after Owen was born, I learned Lauren had died.
She’d been pregnant. My child. Our child. And I hadn’t known. I hadn’t been there for her, hadn’t protected her when she needed me most.
The regret was a weight I carried every day, pressing into my chest until I couldn’t breathe.
Sometimes, when I looked at Owen, I saw her. The curve of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together when he was deep in thought—it felt more like Lauren than it ever did Sophia.
And it killed me.
Sophia’s POV
The sound of shattering glass filled the room, but it did nothing to soothe the storm raging inside me. My hands were still trembling as I stared at the shards on the floor.
The vase, the papers, everything had been swept clean from the table in a single motion.
“That little brat,” I hissed, pacing the room like a caged animal. “He’s just as insufferable as that wretched woman!”
Lauren. Her name alone made my blood boil. Even in death, she managed to haunt me. Even now, years later, she was still winning.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I fought to steady my breathing.
Years ago, when I’d first seen her leaving the hospital, I’d known I had to act. She had been carrying Alexander’s child. His heir. The one thing standing between me and everything I’d worked so hard to achieve.
It hadn’t been hard to replace the delivery doctor. Money and power opened all the right doors. When the child was born, I made my move. I took him. Passed him off as my own.
And Lauren?
The wolfsbane injection had been quick, clean. The doctors called it complications from childbirth. No one suspected a thing. It was perfect. Or so I’d thought.
But nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. Owen wasn’t the obedient, adoring son I’d imagined. He was cold, distant, and far too clever for his own good. He saw through me in ways even Alexander never could.
He hated me—I could see it in the way he looked at me, in the way he refused to call me “Mommy.”
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
I would marry Alexander. I would secure my place as Luna. And once we had our own child—our real child—I’d deal with Owen. He wouldn’t be a problem much longer.
