When my pup died in a wreck along the mountain road, fate—or cruelty—had Harvey passing by at that exact moment. He was behind the wheel of his black SUV, the territory crest gleaming on the hood, his female human assistant seated comfortably beside him.
He slowed just enough to take in the scene. My white mating dress was drenched in blood, the sharp scent of loss hanging heavy in the air. Instead of stepping out, he lifted a hand and blocked her line of sight, his voice flat and detached as he said, “Bad sign. Don’t stare.”
Then he drove on, tires crunching over gravel, leaving me behind under the cold sky.
That night, back in the den we shared, I was standing in our bedroom when something caught my eye. Shoved carelessly into the corner of the closet was a lace bra—delicate, unfamiliar, carrying a scent that wasn’t mine. I didn’t need to think twice to know it didn’t belong there.
I shut the closet door gently, picked up my phone, and dialed a number I’d saved long ago but never used.
“Mr. Miller,” I said once the call connected, my tone steady. “I’ve thought it through. I can leave the territory next week and officially join your pack’s company.”
——
“That’s excellent news, Ms. Baker!” he responded immediately, clearly pleased. “We’re looking forward to welcoming you.”
The call ended just as Harvey stepped out of the bathroom. His hair was still damp, water sliding down his neck and across his shoulders. He used to be quick in the shower—five minutes at most. Recently, though, he’d been taking his time, never without his phone nearby.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked casually, eyes fixed on the screen in his hand rather than on me.
“Mr. Miller,” I answered truthfully.
“Mm,” he hummed in response, already distracted. As always, he wasn’t really listening.
For once, I didn’t argue. I didn’t complain or demand his attention. I simply opened a new document on my phone and began typing my resignation letter.
When he reached for his usual cup, likely expecting the calming herbal brew I prepared every night to ease his Alpha temper, he hesitated. The cup was empty. He finally looked over at me.
“I showed your scan to a healer I know,” he said. “They said it’s nothing serious. Just a surface injury. Keep it clean and dry.”
“Okay,” I replied, not lifting my eyes from the screen.
Earlier that afternoon, I’d received eight stitches in my leg. Worse than the pain was what followed—the pack doctor had confirmed I was four weeks along and already miscarrying.
He’d apologized quietly, explaining that if I’d been brought in sooner, the pup might have survived.
My expression must have been too blank, because Harvey frowned and started toward me, clearly intending to see what I was doing.
Before he could reach me, his phone vibrated.
His entire demeanor shifted. A smile tugged at his lips, soft and unguarded, and without another glance in my direction, he turned and disappeared into his study.
Once the door closed, I switched accounts and opened my private social feed. As expected, there was a new post—visible to everyone except me.
It was an apology.
[I really let down the sweetest assistant alive. Promised her dinner after work, but meetings ran late and I made her wait ten whole minutes. Completely my fault. I’ll make it up to her—better boss from now on.]
I tapped the like button.
Almost instantly, a notification popped up from Mr. Miller. The contract had been sent. I opened the file and signed it without hesitation.
The following morning, Harvey woke up unusually early and returned with a bag full of pastries from a famous bakery near the city border.
As I reached for a chocolate croissant, his hand came down sharply, knocking mine aside.
“You prefer peanut butter bagels, don’t you?” he said. “I got one just for you.”
I went still. Then it clicked—the chocolate pastries weren’t meant for me. They were for his assistant. For Sofia Hepburn.
I finally spoke. “We’ve been together seven years,” I said quietly. “How do you still not know that I’m allergic to peanuts?”
His face hardened instantly. He pushed back his chair and snapped, “Stop overreacting. Eat it or don’t. I don’t care.”
As he gathered his things to leave, I walked into the bedroom and returned holding a small bag.
“When you see Sofia later,” I said, handing it to him, “could you give this back to her?”
He frowned, curiosity flickering as he looked inside. The lace bra stared back at him. Surprise flashed across his eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to explain. But when he saw how calm—how distant—I looked, all he said was, “I’ll remind her to be more careful.”
“Sure,” I replied softly.
Perhaps sensing the shift in me, he added, “I can drive you to work today.”
In seven years, he had never once driven me—not during storms, not during full moons, not when I was injured. He always claimed boundaries between work and personal life.
Yet Sofia? On her very first day as his assistant, she’d already earned a daily ride from my mate.
