My Alpha Husband's Secret Mate Was Livestreaming Their Love Nest

The spotlight felt like fire against my skin, but I forced my smile to remain steady as I accepted the crystal award—"Outstanding Luna of the Year." Three thousand people filled the Manhattan ballroom, their applause thundering around me, while 2.3 million viewers watched the live stream.

"Thank you," I said into the microphone, my voice carrying across the opulent venue. "This honor belongs to every Luna who fights for her pack, who stands beside her Alpha through—"

The ice-blue silk of my gown caught the stage lights as I paused, scanning the audience. Somewhere in Switzerland, Ryker was supposed to be closing a business deal. At least, that's what he'd told me this morning before kissing my forehead and promising to watch the ceremony online.

The award felt heavier than it should in my hands. Crystal and gold, engraved with my name: Willow Ashford, Luna of the Crescent Moon Pack. Three years of marriage, five years of building this pack together, and somehow the weight of it all pressed down on my chest.

"—through every challenge," I continued, finding my rhythm again. The cameras captured every angle, every expression. In the VIP section, pack elders nodded approvingly. Board members from Ryker's company smiled and clapped.

I was their perfect Luna. Poised, elegant, devoted.

As I stepped off the stage, the applause still echoing, my assistant Maren rushed toward me, her usually composed face pale with panic. She clutched her phone like it might explode.

"Willow," she whispered urgently, "we need to—"

"Not now," I murmured, still waving to the crowd. "The networking reception starts in ten minutes."

"No, you need to see this now." Her voice cracked. "Before anyone else does."

Something in her tone made my blood run cold. Maren had worked for me for two years—nothing rattled her. Not hostile pack politics, not media scandals, not even death threats from rival territories.

She thrust her phone at me, and the screen showed an Instagram Live stream. My heart stopped.

A blonde woman I didn't recognize sat in what was unmistakably my penthouse apartment—the one Ryker and I shared in Tribeca. She wore a silk robe that barely covered her thighs, her hand resting on a distinctly rounded belly. The viewer count climbed rapidly: 50K, 75K, 100K.

"Hi, gorgeous followers," she purred into the camera. "Some of you have been asking about the daddy, and well..." She giggled, a sound that made my skin crawl. "I think it's time you met him."

The camera panned, and there he was.

Ryker Ashford, my husband, the most powerful Alpha in New York, walked into frame wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants. His dark hair was mussed, his chest bare, and he moved with the lazy confidence of a man completely at home.

"Daddy," the woman—Serena, according to the username—called sweetly. "Say hi to your fans."

Ryker's laugh was rich and warm, the same laugh that had once made me weak in the knees. He settled beside her on our couch—the white leather