10

Scarlett.

The morning light slowly filled my bedroom, casting a golden glow on the floor. I lay still for a moment, thinking about my life. Another morning, another day in this luxurious but confining place. It had been five months since I arrived, but it felt like an eternity.

The gentle breeze rustled the silk curtains, bringing the sweet fragrance of blooming roses from the garden below. Such beauty in this place felt like a cruel joke. I stretched carefully, one hand instinctively moving to protect my growing belly as I sat up against the plush headboard.

“You’re awake, Luna,” the maid said as soon as she walked into my room. She smiled sweetly, making me remember Amber. Alisha was the only one here who looked at me with kindness rather than contempt. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Alisha.” I managed a genuine smile for her—the only real one I’d give all day. She moved through the room with practiced grace, drawing back curtains and gathering what I’d need for the day.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her eyes soft with concern as she helped me to my feet.

I ran my hand over the subtle curve of my stomach, a bit visible beneath my nightgown. “We’re doing well today.” The baby shifted, as if agreeing, and my smile grew warmer. “He’s active this morning.”

Alisha’s face brightened. “I can’t wait to meet him, Luna. He’ll be such a blessing.”

“My only source of joy,” I whispered, the words more honest than I’d intended.

Her expression flickered with worry before she smoothed it away. “We should get you ready, Luna. Being late would be...” She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t need to.

I nodded, letting her guide me through the familiar morning ritual. The warm bath she drew was fragrant with lavender—her small attempt to soothe my nerves for the day ahead. She washed my hair with gentle hands, humming softly under her breath. For these few precious moments, I could almost pretend I was somewhere else, someone else.

“What about this gown?” she asked later, holding up a flowing dress in muted blue. “It suits your coloring, and the cut is forgiving.”

“Perfect,” I agreed, letting her help me into it. The fabric was soft against my skin, but I knew better than to take too much comfort in anything here. Beauty often hid the sharpest thorns.

As she styled my hair, pinning it just so, I caught her eye in the mirror. “Thank you, Alisha. For everything.”

She squeezed my shoulder gently. “Time to go, Luna.”

I rose, squaring my shoulders beneath the fine fabric. Another day in paradise, I thought bitterly. Another day of surviving, one breath at a time.

Alisha led me out. Stepping into the hallway, I walked with purpose, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards that betrayed every secret in this house. My goal was simple: to remain invisible. A ghost, unseen and unheard. But even ghosts are noticed when someone is determined to see them.

“Luna,” she called, trying to get my attention.

“Let’s go.”

There was no point lingering or admiring the opulence around me—this place, no matter how gilded, was a prison.

The dining hall stood before me, its doors swinging open as the guards made way. I entered cautiously, the sound of my steps fading into the vast space. My husband sat at the head of the table, surrounded by his whores.

“Late,” he muttered, not bothering to look at me. A single word, cold and indifferent, meant to remind me of my place.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. Apologies were expected, demanded even when I wasn’t in the wrong. It was part of the role I had to play. Even with my head bowed, I could feel his eyes lingering, waiting for me to falter.

“Perhaps it’s time you learned your place, wife,” he said, not even sparing me a glance.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized again.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Another dinner, another parade of humiliation. I sat at the far end of the endless mahogany table, as far from Dickson as protocol would allow. Not that distance could shield me from the theatrics unfolding before me.

“Darling,” Vanessa, his primary mistress, draped herself across his lap, her red lips brushing his ear. “The chef outdid himself tonight, don’t you think?” She took a bite from his plate, an intimacy I’d never been allowed.

The other two mistresses—Rebecca and Claire—flanked him like decorative bookends, each vying for his attention with practiced laughs and strategic touches. I pushed my untouched food around my plate, my stomach too knotted to eat.

“Scarlett.” His voice cracked through the room like a whip. “You’re being rude to our chef. Or perhaps the food isn’t good enough for you?”

I forced a forkful past my lips, tasting nothing. “It’s excellent, Alpha.”

“Then why the sour expression?” Vanessa’s saccharine voice dripped with false concern. “Oh wait, it must be the morning sickness. Still? How... inconvenient.”

Rebecca laughed, high and sharp. “At least she’s good for something. Though carrying another wolf’s bastard hardly counts as an achievement.”

My hand instinctively moved to my growing belly. Five months now, and each day felt like an eternity.

“Speaking of achievements,” Claire interjected, “Vanessa, tell everyone about the new legislation you helped draft. She’s absolutely brilliant with policy, isn’t she, darling?” She smiled at Dickson, who nodded approvingly.

“Unlike some people,” Vanessa’s eyes cut to me, “who can’t even manage basic pack politics. How many council meetings have you attended, Scarlett? Oh, that’s right—none. Because you’re not trusted to speak without embarrassing us all.”

I gripped my fork tighter, knuckles white. “I wasn’t aware I was welcome at council meetings.”

“You’re not,” Dickson stated firmly. “Your only duty is to stay out of the way and eventually produce a proper heir. Though given your... history, even that’s questionable.”

The walls felt like they were closing in on me, turning the ornate dining room into a suffocating box. “May I be excused?” I managed to whisper. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Of course you’re not,” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Go on then. We have important matters to discuss anyway. Pack business, you understand. Well, perhaps you don’t.”

I stood carefully, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm me. The baby kicked—hard—as if protesting our shared distress.

“Oh, and Scarlett?” Dickson called as I reached the door. “The pack gathering tomorrow night—you won’t be attending. Can’t have you embarrassing us in front of the allied packs. You understand.”

I nodded silently, unable to speak. The door closed behind me, sealing me in with a sense of finality.

My feet carried me through familiar corridors, each adorned with portraits of Dickson’s family line. None of them seemed to look at me the same way twice—their painted eyes followed, judged, condemned. The whispers of servants fell silent as I passed, their pitying glances worse than any cruelty.

Finally, I reached my room. My beautiful prison. I collapsed onto the window seat. Outside, pack members went about their evening, laughing, living. Everything looked so normal, so alive.

While I sat here, dying by inches.

My baby kicked again, and I pressed my hand against the spot. “I’m sorry, little one,” I whispered. “I’m sorry this is the life I’ve given you.” Tears fell freely now, no one here to judge them. “I don’t know how to save us.”

The moon rose over the pack lands, full and bright, mocking me with its freedom.

Somewhere in this mansion, my husband and his mistresses would be plotting, laughing, ruling. And I would be here, trapped in this gilded cage, watching life happen without me.

Each breath felt shorter, the walls closing in with every inhale. The elegant furnishings, the silk curtains, the priceless art—all of it just pretty wrapping on my prison cell.

How many more days could I survive like this? How many more dinners, more snubs, more reminders of my worthlessness? The baby kicked again, answering my unspoken question.