Seven Years as His Chosen Luna, But I Was Just the Nanny

The vanilla frosting on Willow's birthday cake had started to form a thin crust, the five pink candles standing like tiny soldiers waiting for a battle that might never come. I smoothed my hands over my dress—the blue one Sterling had complimented once, back when his compliments still meant something—and checked the clock again. Nine-fifteen.

Seven years. Seven years of marriage, and tonight was supposed to celebrate both our anniversary and our daughter's fifth birthday. The living room looked perfect: streamers in Willow's favorite purple, balloons clustered in the corners, and the dining table set with our good china. Everything exactly as Sterling liked it.

"Mommy, when is Daddy coming home?" Willow's small voice carried from the couch where she sat with her stuffed unicorn, her dark hair—so much like Sterling's—falling in waves around her shoulders.

"Soon, sweetheart." The lie tasted bitter. I pulled out my phone and typed another message: *Willow's waiting for you. Where are you?*

The double checkmarks appeared immediately. Read. But no response.

I tried calling. The phone rang once before the line went dead. He'd hung up on me.

Willow's stomach growled audibly, and she pressed her small hands against it. "I'm hungry, Mommy."

"Just a little longer, baby. Daddy will be here soon, and then we can have cake and dinner together." I forced brightness into my voice, but my chest felt tight. This was supposed to be special. Willow had been talking about her birthday for weeks, asking if Daddy would be home, if they could blow out the candles together.

The minutes crawled by. Nine-thirty. Nine-forty-five. Willow had curled up on the couch, her eyelids growing heavy despite her efforts to stay awake. The birthday cake sat untouched, the candles now slightly bent from the warmth of the room.

Then I heard it—the distinctive purr of Sterling's Aston Martin pulling into the driveway. Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by irritation. Two hours late, but at least he was here.

"Daddy's home!" Willow perked up, sliding off the couch and running to the window.

I smoothed my hair and tried to arrange my expression into something welcoming rather than accusatory. Whatever had kept him, we could discuss it later. Tonight was about Willow.

The front door opened, and Sterling stepped inside. Even after seven years, he still took my breath away—tall and commanding, his dark hair perfectly styled despite the late hour, his Alpha presence filling the room like electricity. But something was different tonight.

He wasn't alone.

In his arms, he carried a small girl in a pink dress, her blonde hair catching the light like spun gold. She couldn't have been much younger than Willow, maybe four years old. But it was her eyes that made my blood freeze—violet. A shade so rare and distinctive that I'd only seen it on one other person.

Ivy Ashford.

"Daddy!" Willow ran toward them, her arms outstretched, but Sterling barely glanced at her. His attention was entirely focused on the child in his