Cecily POV:
The miles dissolved under the wheels of my Mercedes, the sun-drenched pastels of Miami giving way to the monotonous gray of the interstate. Each mile I put between myself and that hotel balcony was another layer of ice forming around my heart.
The pain from the mate bond was a constant, throbbing headache behind my eyes. It was a dull, physical ache in my chest, a phantom limb that had been crudely amputated.
My mind was a relentless projector, replaying the scene on the beach. Caden's smile for Seraphina. The way he held their child. The kiss. Each image was a fresh twist of the knife.
I was somewhere in Georgia when it happened.
One moment, I was in the fast lane, the road ahead clear. The next, a massive semi-truck, its horn blaring, swerved from the right lane directly into my path.
There was no time to react.
The screech of metal on metal was deafening. The world became a violent, spinning blur of glass and steel. My head slammed against the side window. The airbag exploded from the steering wheel, a brutal punch to my face and chest.
Then, nothing.
I woke to the smell of antiseptic and something else. A scent I knew better than my own. Cedarwood and mint. Caden.
My entire body screamed in protest as I tried to move. My eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead. I kept them closed. A primal instinct for self-preservation told me to stay still. To listen.
And to remember.
The crash came back to me in fragments. The horn. The screech of tires. And one detail, sharp and strange, that surfaced through the fog of pain like a splinter working its way out of skin.
In the last fractured second before impact, I hadn't seen panic in the truck driver's eyes. I hadn't seen a man yanking the wheel, desperate to avoid a collision. What I remembered—clearer than it should have been—was his hand. It wasn't gripping the steering wheel. It was lifting, calm and unhurried, to touch something near his ear.
A Bluetooth earpiece.
He hadn't been swerving to avoid an accident. He'd been listening. Waiting. Adjusting the device as if whatever he was hearing mattered more than the semi-truck he was driving straight into my car.
The thought should have been paranoid. The shattered, concussed fantasy of a traumatized mind.
But it wasn't.
I had spent four years married to a man who smiled at investors while hiding a secret family. I knew what calculated lies looked like. And the more I replayed that image—the calm, the earpiece, the deliberate trajectory of that truck—the more it settled into a cold, unshakeable certainty.
Someone had wanted me dead.
But who? Caden and Seraphina were still in Miami. They had a perfect alibi. And yet, the truck hadn't swerved in panic. It had been precise. Calculated. That meant there was someone else in the shadows—someone who had seen me as a threat long before I even knew I was one. My mind, trained to dissect data points, began connecting fragments: Caden's fear of my silence, Seraphina's desperation, and the alliance that kept them both fed. Someone had made a decision about my life months ago. This was just the execution.
The memory faded. The hospital room came back into focus—or rather, the darkness behind my closed eyelids did. I stayed perfectly still.
I heard a soft, cloying sob. Seraphina.
"Caden, she's going to be okay, isn't she? The doctors said..."
"She's tough." Caden's voice cut her off. It was flat, impatient. Devoid of any worry. "She'll survive."
"Will you stay with me tonight?" Seraphina's voice was a seductive whisper. "I'll be so scared, all alone."
I heard the rustle of fabric, the soft squeak of a shoe. She was moving closer to him, pressing herself against him right here, in my hospital room. My stomach churned with nausea.
"Not here," Caden muttered, his voice low and harsh. "I don't even want to touch her."
Seraphina's voice was laced with faux innocence. "Why? Is it because of the bond?"
A humorless chuckle escaped Caden's lips. The sound was poison, seeping directly into my veins. "No," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "It's because her wolfless state is disgusting."
Disgusting.
The word hit me with more force than the truck. It wasn't just that he didn't love me. It wasn't just that he had another family. He was physically repulsed by the very essence of my being.
Every insecurity I had ever felt, every fear that I wasn't good enough, that my lack of a wolf made me less of a mate, less of a woman—he had just confirmed it all.
The love I thought I had for him, the stubborn, foolish hope that had lingered even after Miami, died in that moment. It didn't just die; it was annihilated, reduced to ash.
They left soon after, their footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving me in a silence that was louder than their voices. They thought I was unconscious. A broken, pathetic thing lying in a hospital bed.
A little while later, the door opened again. I recognized the heavy tread of Blake Knight, Caden's Beta.
He must have thought I was asleep. He walked over to the window, his back to me, and answered his phone.
He kept his voice low, but in the sterile quiet of the room, I heard every word.
"Yes, the Alpha is very concerned... No, not about the Luna. He's worried that Miss Seraphina and his child were frightened by the news."
There was a pause. Blake listened, then confirmed what my heart already knew.
"That's right. His and Miss Seraphina's child. Ava."
The last sliver of doubt vanished. It was real. All of it.
Blake sighed heavily after he hung up, shot a look of what might have been pity at my still form, and then left.
The silence returned.
Slowly, I opened my eyes. The white ceiling tiles swam in and out of focus. My body ached, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the gaping, hollow wound in my soul.
There were no tears. Just a cold, burning rage that started in my gut and spread through my entire body.
"Disgusting," I whispered the word to the empty room. A bitter, mocking smile touched my lips.
My phone was on the bedside table. Someone, a nurse probably, had placed it there. The screen was new, pristine. My old one must have been destroyed in the crash. They had likely recovered my data.
I picked it up. My movements were slow, deliberate. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number Chloe had given me. A specialist.
The phone rang twice before a calm, professional voice answered. "Foster."
My own voice was steady. Not a single tremor.
"Mr. Foster," I said. "This is Cecily Dalton."
There was a brief pause on the other end. "Mrs. Sterling. I was sorry to hear about your accident. Are you alright?"
"I'm alive," I said, the words tasting like metal. "And I'm ready."
"Ready for what, precisely?"
"Prepare the Rejection papers," I commanded, my voice as cold and hard as the resolve that now filled me. "It's time to act."
