After His Mistress Killed My Baby, I Stole Her Future

The pen felt like a dagger in my hand, heavy and sharp enough to draw blood. I stared at the cream-colored cardstock on the mahogany desk, the ink blurring under my gaze.

"Stop trembling, Clara," Alpha Colton’s voice sliced through the silence of his office. It wasn’t a request; it was a command laced with the Alpha tone that forced my wolf to cower in submission. "It’s pathetic."

I gripped the pen harder, my knuckles turning white. "You can’t do this, Colton. Please."

Colton turned away from the window, his silhouette imposing against the afternoon sun. He looked every bit the powerful Alpha—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, radiating an aura that used to make my heart flutter. Now, it just made me cold. He walked over to the desk, his fingers idly straightening his diamond cufflinks—a nervous tic he thought I didn’t notice.

"It is already decided," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Kimora and I agree that the boy needs a strong, sacred name to legitimize his position as Future Alpha. He will be named Jedidiah."

The name hit me like a physical blow to the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. *Jedidiah.* The name I had whispered to my own belly for months. The name I had screamed when my son was born too early, too small, and then... gone.

"That was his name," I whispered, the words scraping my throat. "That was *our* son’s name."

Colton leaned down, placing his hands flat on the desk, invading my space. His scent—cedar and rain—was suffocating. "Your son didn't survive, Clara. My heir needs a legacy, and you are going to give it to him. You will write these invitations by hand. You will organize the presentation. And when the pack looks at you, you will smile. Do not embarrass me."

He tapped the paper with his index finger. "Write it."

With a shaking hand, I forced the nib to the paper. *Future Alpha Jedidiah.* Each letter was a betrayal. Each curve of the ink felt like I was erasing the memory of the tiny, cold bundle I had held for only a moment before they took him away.

***

That night, the Pack House was alive with the noise of preparation, but my world had shrunk to the size of a closet. I pushed aside the rack of heavy winter coats and pressed my palm against the back wall. The hidden panel clicked softly, sliding open to reveal the only thing that kept me sane.

It was a small alcove, lit by a single battery-operated candle. In the center sat a small, silver urn. I knew, deep in the paranoid corners of my mind, that it might be empty. Colton had handled the cremation so quickly, so secretly. But it was all I had.

I sank to my knees, the plush carpet offering no comfort. My fingers traced the cold metal. "I'm sorry, baby," I choked out, the tears finally spilling over. "I'm so sorry I couldn't