The silence in the Ashford ancestral home felt heavier than a funeral shroud.
I pressed my back against the mahogany door of my childhood bedroom, my wolf still buried so deep within me that I wondered if she'd ever surface again. Three weeks since the miscarriage. Three weeks since my body had failed to protect the life growing inside me. Three weeks since Kade had looked at me with those cold amber eyes and said, "Maybe it's for the best, Wren. We weren't ready."
My hands trembled as I pushed away from the door. The east wing had always been my sanctuary—my grandmother's old quarters that she'd left to me before her death. I needed to feel close to her memory, to something that had once been purely mine in this house that increasingly felt foreign.
The brass handle of the east wing door was cold beneath my palm. I turned it slowly, expecting the familiar scent of lavender and old books that had always lingered in grandmother's space.
Instead, the smell of fresh paint hit me like a physical blow.
I stumbled backward, my breath catching in my throat. The room that had been draped in deep burgundy velvet and lined with antique furniture was gone. In its place stood a nursery so perfect it could have been torn from a magazine spread.
Pink walls the color of dawn stretched before me, adorned with hand-painted murals of woodland creatures. A white birch crib sat in the center, its mattress covered in the softest-looking bedding I'd ever seen. Shelves lined the walls, already stocked with tiny clothes, stuffed animals, and gleaming baby bottles.
My legs gave out. I gripped the doorframe, my knuckles white against the wood.
This wasn't possible. This couldn't be real.
I forced myself forward on unsteady feet, my eyes searching frantically for some explanation. Above the crib, where my grandmother's name had been engraved on a brass plaque for over sixty years, I found only scratched metal and gouges in the wood. Someone had taken a blade to it, scraping away every letter of "Eleanor Ashford" with deliberate violence.
In its place, a simple piece of paper had been taped to the wall. A single letter written in flowing script: "S."
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone, photographing everything. The crib, the clothes, the destroyed nameplate. I needed proof. I needed evidence that I wasn't losing my mind along with everything else.
A stack of receipts sat on the changing table, held down by a crystal paperweight I recognized from the main library. I grabbed them with trembling fingers, scanning the dates and amounts. Pottery Barn Kids. Buy Buy Baby. A custom furniture company in Vermont.
All charged to the Ashford family account. My money. My inheritance.
The first purchase had been made the day after I'd been admitted to the hospital. While I'd been bleeding out the remnants of my pregnancy, someone had been shopping for another woman's baby.
I sank into the rocking chair—expensive, with hand-carved wolves running along the armrests—and continued flipping through the receipts. Thousands of dollars. A fortune spent on creating this perfect nest for someone else's child.
That's when I saw the ultrasound photo tucked between two receipts.
The black and white image showed a perfect profile—tiny nose, curved spine, one small hand pressed against what looked like a yawn. But it was the writing on the back that made my world tilt sideways:
"For our little warrior—Love, Mommy Selene. Due date: November 15th."
Next month. Someone was due next month.
I stared at the photo until the image blurred, my eyes burning with unshed tears. My baby would have been born in December. This child—this "little warrior"—would arrive first.
The sound of laughter drifted up from the main floor, cutting through my shock like broken glass. I recognized the throaty chuckle immediately—Marta Volkov, Kade's mother. But there was another voice, lighter and younger, responding with genuine warmth.
I crept to the top of the grand staircase, keeping to the shadows as I peered down into the foyer. Marta stood near the fireplace, her silver hair perfectly coiffed as always. But it was the woman beside her that made my blood turn to ice.
She was young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three—with the kind of natural beauty that didn't need enhancement. Glossy black hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and even from this distance, I could see the healthy glow in her olive skin. She was visibly pregnant, her hand resting protectively over a rounded belly that strained against the fabric of her dress.
My cashmere shawl. The one Kade had given me for our mating ceremony. She was wearing my cashmere shawl.
"Oh, darling, you're absolutely glowing," Marta cooed, reaching out to stroke the woman's stomach with proprietary familiarity. "This is what Volkov blood should look like. Strong. Healthy. Perfect."
The woman—Selene, it had to be Selene—laughed and placed her hand over Marta's. "Kade says the baby's already showing alpha traits. Very active, especially at night."
"Of course he is," Marta said with pride. "This is the true heir we've been waiting for. The rightful continuation of both bloodlines."
I pressed my hand to my mouth, stifling the sound that wanted to escape. Both bloodlines. They were talking about Ashford blood too. My blood.
Selene turned slightly, and the light from the chandelier caught something at her throat. My breath stopped entirely.
The moonstone pendant. My grandmother's moonstone pendant, the one that had been passed down through seven generations of Ashford women. The one that was only given to the true mate of an Ashford alpha.
Kade had fastened it around my neck on our wedding night, his fingers gentle against my skin as he whispered about forever and family and the children we'd have together.
Now it rested against another woman's throat, the stone seeming to pulse with its own inner light.
I backed away from the railing, my heart hammering so hard I was sure they'd hear it downstairs. I had to get out of here. Had to get back to the east wing and collect the evidence before—
"You shouldn't be in this room, Wren."
The voice came from directly behind me, cold and familiar. I spun around to find Kade standing in the doorway of the nursery, his amber eyes reflecting no warmth, no recognition of the woman he'd once claimed to love.
He looked exactly the same—tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair slightly mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it. But there was something different in his expression, something that made him feel like a stranger wearing my husband's face.
"Kade," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "What is this place?"
Before he could answer, soft footsteps echoed on the stairs behind him. Selene appeared, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the other trailing along the banister with casual ownership. She moved with the confident grace of someone who belonged here, who had every right to climb these stairs and enter these rooms.
She smiled at me—a gentle, almost pitying expression that made my skin crawl.
"Hello, Wren," she said, her voice warm honey over broken glass. "I've been so looking forward to meeting you."
