Flashback
I stare at the pregnancy report and let out a bitter laugh.
Charles can breathe easy now-no pup of ours will come into this world.
Good thing, too, because I don't want it anymore.
Charles exhales, his tone softening.
"Isabel," he said, his voice low as a growl held back, "I can't bear the thought of you enduring that trial again. The scent of your weariness lingered for moons after-let it stay gone." His gaze flickered to the door, where the cubs' laughter echoed. "Adrian and Ivy are all our pack needs. No more strain, no more ache. Just... this."
What a hypocrite.
"Appreciate the care," I say, voice as cool as a moonlit pelt.
His brows lift, a flicker of confusion crossing his features-like a wolf catching an unfamiliar scent. "Why the frost in your tone?"
Frost? I'm an outsider in my own den. How else was I supposed to sound?
I pause, then pivot, pulling a folded sheet from my pocket. The bond-sunder papers crinkle faintly.
"Fine. I'm buying a shop space."
It's the first time I've ever asked for anything.
Charles hesitates, sensing something's off, but before he can read the contract closely, I cut in, my voice icy.
"What, you can't part with it?"
He signs without another word.
His mate wants something? He'd never hold back.
I take the papers, one weight off my chest. Outside, I hear Adrian and Ivy whispering.
"Mom's not actually gonna have another cub, right? She's so addled-what if it turns out a dullard like her?"
Adrian grumbles, nose wrinkling like he's caught a foul scent.
Ugh, exactly," Ivy snorts, voice sharp as a snapped branch.
"She only got lucky with us-we're the good ones. I don't want a mom that's such a hassle. All that moping, like she can't keep up with our kind."
They'll get their wish soon enough.
One month from now, when these papers take effect, I won't be their mom anymore.
The next day, I don't drag myself out of bed like usual.
I leave the pups and Charles to the staff.
Big mistake-everything falls apart.
Adrian's fussy beyond reason-he'll only eat what I cook.
The staff turn out a dozen morning plates, and he won't so much as nibble.
Ivy can't stand the plaits they fumble with, but with no time to redo them, she storms off to preschool, lower lip jutting.
Then a wolf rushes to me, flustered.
"Ma'am, how do I pair the pocket square with Mr. Sterling's new blazer? The subtle pattern's tricky-I've tried three folds, and he's still unsatisfied."
"Grab the linen one from the second wardrobe, top shelf, left compartment. And the gold tie bar from the fourth wardrobe, middle drawer, velvet tray-it'll catch the pattern without clashing."
Soon after, Charles strides into the bedroom, looking every inch the alpha in that perfectly matched suit.
He leans against the doorframe, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
"What's with the strike?"
"I'm not feeling well," I say, not meeting his gaze.
His expression shifts as he remembers yesterday-my fall, the blood, all thanks to him and the pups.
Guilt flashes across his face.
"Rest up," he says, backing off.
With me "on strike," the house descends into chaos.
The staff stick to my meal plans, but Adrian insists the food's off-he's shed pounds in a matter of days.
They attempt to plait Ivy's hair the way I do, but she either cries out in discomfort or her plaits come undone by noon, leaving her sniffling.
Charles, who never fussed over the little things, now stumbles over every tiny detail-schedules, outfits, meals. It's driving him to distraction.
He even snaps at the staff, which isn't like him.
"You can't handle the simplest things!"
The staff tiptoe around, and I just find it laughable.
Maybe to Charles, I'm just a stay-at-home she-wolf, doing meaningless, replaceable work. He doesn't know how many hours I spent tweaking recipes to get Adrian to eat just a little more. How I watched nearly a thousand videos, practicing until I could make them pretty, sturdy, and gentle on Ivy's hair.
How I took design and art classes, studied aesthetics, just to match his picky taste and be the perfect mate by his side.
Those "small" things?
They're woven with every bit of love I had.
They took it all for granted, never seeing it for what it was.
Never seeing me-not just a mate or a mom, but Isabel.
Soon, I'll just be me again.
After days of chaos, Charles finally senses something's wrong.
"We need to talk," he says one morning, his fingers tapping the bedside table.
"Did you hear something?"
Yeah, the pack's a small world. Gossip travels fast.
Charles has been parading Colette around-auctions, galas, you name it.
The rare treasures that used to be mine? They're hers now.
She mentions she's not used to local architecture, and he hands her the keys to his Vaelin-style estate. She talks about starting a career, and he buys her a top-tier private conservatory in Ferralon Town to run as director.
He's done all this, yet has the nerve to tell me,
"Don't read into it so much. Colette's just a friend, that's all."
"Even if you're bitter or riled up at me, the kids are innocent. You're shaking up their lives. What, you don't want to be their mom anymore?"
I meet his gaze, unflinching. "You're right. I'm done being their mom."
