The moon was full when Isla Thorne returned to Blackwater Manor.

She'd checked her cycle three times before making the drive from the medical center where she'd been working late. Ovulation peaked tonight—her body's brief window of fertility that had become the only reason her husband came home anymore.

The manor loomed against the night sky, all dark stone and darker windows. Only the master bedroom glowed with warm light. Caden was already here, waiting. Of course he was. Ophelia would have reminded him. His mother tracked Isla's cycle more carefully than Isla did herself.

Isla parked her modest sedan next to Caden's sleek black SUV and sat for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel. Through the windshield, she could see that lit window. Her bedroom. Their bedroom. Though it hadn't felt like "theirs" in years.

*Just get through tonight,* she told herself. *Maybe this time will be different.*

She cut off the thought. Four years of "maybes" hadn't changed anything yet.

The house was quiet when she entered, her footsteps echoing on marble floors. The butler, Marcus, appeared from the shadows with his usual impeccable timing.

"Luna," he greeted with a respectful nod. "The Alpha is upstairs."

"Thank you, Marcus."

She climbed the grand staircase, each step heavier than the last. The master bedroom door was ajar, light spilling into the hallway. Isla pushed it open.

Caden stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, his back to her. He was already dressed in sleeping pants and nothing else, his broad shoulders tense. Even from across the room, Isla could feel the restless energy of his wolf—impatient, duty-bound, wanting this over with.

"I'll call you back," Caden said into the phone, his voice low and warm in a way it never was with her anymore. He ended the call without waiting for a response and finally turned to face her.

Alpha Caden Blackwater was objectively beautiful. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that shifted between gray and gold depending on how close his wolf was to the surface. When they'd first met six years ago, Isla had thought herself the luckiest woman alive to be chosen as his mate.

Now she just felt tired.

"You're late," he said, glancing at his watch.

"I had a patient emergency. A child with a severe allergic reaction. I couldn't just leave."

"You're a healer, not a doctor. There are others who could have handled it."

*But I'm the best one,* Isla wanted to say. Instead, she said nothing and moved toward the bathroom.

"Don't take too long," Caden called after her. "I have an early morning."

Of course he did. He always had somewhere else to be.

Isla showered quickly, trying to wash away the feeling that she was preparing for a transaction rather than intimacy with her husband. When she emerged in her nightgown, Caden was already in bed, scrolling through his phone with a slight frown.

He looked up when she approached, and for just a moment—so brief she might have imagined it—something flickered in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or memory of what they used to be.

Then it was gone.

"Come here," he said, setting his phone aside.

Isla slid into bed beside him, and Caden reached for her with practiced efficiency. His hands were familiar but not gentle, his touch skilled but not tender. He knew exactly how to prepare her body for what came next—four years of scheduled encounters had made him efficient.

But efficiency wasn't the same as desire.

The act itself was mercifully quick. Caden had always been considerate of her physical comfort, even as he'd grown indifferent to everything else. When it was over, he rolled away immediately, chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

Isla lay still, staring at the ceiling, feeling the familiar emptiness that came after these encounters. Once upon a time, they would have stayed tangled together, talking and laughing until dawn. Now the silence was so heavy it hurt to breathe through it.

Caden got up without a word and headed to the bathroom. Isla heard water running, the sounds of him washing her off his skin. When he emerged, he was already half-dressed.

"Remember to take a pregnancy test in two weeks," he said, buttoning his shirt with brisk movements. "Let me know immediately if it's positive."

"Where are you going?" The question slipped out before Isla could stop it.

"Back to the city." Caden didn't look at her as he fastened his belt. "I have meetings tomorrow."

Meetings. That's what he called the time he spent with Vivienne Cross, his mistress. The she-wolf he'd been openly involved with for three years now, whose existence everyone in the pack knew about but pretended not to see.

Isla pushed herself up on her elbows. "Caden—"

"What?" He finally looked at her, and the impatience in his eyes made her chest tight.

"Could we... could we talk? About us?"

"Us?" Caden's brow furrowed as if the concept confused him. "What about us?"

"Our marriage. We never see each other anymore. You only come home when—" She gestured helplessly at the bed between them.

"When it's time to try for an heir," Caden finished bluntly. "Yes. That's the priority right now."

"But what about after? What if I do get pregnant? Will things change?"

For a long moment, Caden just stared at her with those cold gray eyes. Then he picked up his jacket from the chair and shrugged it on.

"If you give me a son," he said carefully, "then we can discuss what comes next. Until then, I don't see the point in this conversation."

*If you give me a son.* Not "when we have a child together." Not "when our family grows." Just another transaction. Another duty to be fulfilled.

"And if it's another daughter?" Isla whispered.

Caden's jaw tightened. "Let's hope it's not."

He moved toward the door, and desperation flared in Isla's chest.

"Caden, please. Can't we at least try to—"

"I'll be home next month," he interrupted, not turning around. "Same schedule. Make sure you're here."

Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft click that sounded like a cell lock engaging.

Isla sat in the big empty bed, surrounded by silk sheets that smelled like nothing, in a room that had never felt like home. Slowly, she reached for her phone on the nightside table. Her fingers moved on autopilot, opening the social media app, typing in the name she'd memorized against her will.

Vivienne Cross's profile loaded—public, always public, like she wanted the world to see her happiness. The latest post was from twenty minutes ago. A photo of a champagne glass catching candlelight, the edge of a masculine hand visible across the table. The caption read: "Perfect endings to perfect days ✨"

The post already had dozens of likes. Isla scrolled down, torturing herself with evidence of her husband's real life. Vivienne at pack gatherings Isla wasn't invited to. Vivienne laughing at restaurants Caden had never taken Isla to. Vivienne wearing jewelry Isla recognized from Caden's favorite boutique.

A life in full color, while Isla existed in grayscale.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Isla opened it and immediately wished she hadn't.

*He says you have pretty eyes when you cry. Does he make you cry a lot?*

The message was unsigned, but Isla knew it was from Vivienne. It wasn't the first time the other woman had sent her cruel little reminders of who really mattered to Caden.

Isla deleted the message and set her phone down with shaking hands. She should feel rage, shouldn't she? Heartbreak? Something hot and sharp and alive?

Instead, she just felt numb.

Her eyes fell on the bathroom counter, where three pregnancy tests sat waiting. She'd bought them on the way home, ever-prepared, ever-dutiful.

Isla walked to the bathroom and unwrapped one of the tests, following the familiar routine. While she waited for the result, she caught her own reflection in the mirror. When had she started looking so hollowed out? When had the light gone out of her eyes?

The timer on her phone chimed. Isla looked down at the test in her hand.

Two pink lines. Positive.

She should be happy. Relieved. This was what she'd been trying for, what would secure her position, what might finally bring Caden home for good.

But as Isla stared at those two lines, all she could think about was the clinical encounter that had created this life. The cold efficiency. The immediate departure. The total absence of love.

Voices drifted up from downstairs—Caden's deep rumble and another voice, older, sharper. His mother. Ophelia must have been waiting in the study.

Isla crept to the bedroom door and eased it open. The study was directly below the master suite, and the old manor's ventilation system carried sound perfectly. She'd discovered this accidentally years ago and had hated herself for using it since, but tonight she couldn't help herself.

"—handled it?" Ophelia was saying. "Did she take the test?"

"She will." Caden sounded tired. "She's very dutiful about these things."

"If it's another daughter, we need to consider alternatives."

Isla's breath caught. She pressed closer to the doorway, heart hammering.

"What alternatives?" Caden asked warily.

"Vivienne is young, healthy. She could bear you a son without complications."

"Absolutely not."

Relief flooded through Isla so intensely she felt dizzy. He'd refused. He'd actually refused his mother's suggestion to have his mistress bear his heir. Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe he did still care—

"Isla already went through one difficult pregnancy," Caden continued. "She nearly died, but she survived it. She can handle that risk again if needed. But Vivienne—she's never been through childbirth. I won't put her in that kind of danger."

The world stopped.

Isla stood frozen in the doorway, the positive pregnancy test still clutched in her hand, as her husband's words replayed in her mind.

*She can handle that risk again.*

Not "I won't risk my wife's life." Not "I care too much about Isla to endanger her."

Just... she could handle it. She'd survived it before. She was the safe option because she was already broken, already used, already disposable.

While Vivienne—precious, delicate Vivienne—had to be protected.

Four years of marriage, of devotion, of nearly dying to give him a child, and this was what she meant to him. Not a partner. Not a mate. Just a vessel that had already proven it could take damage and keep functioning.

Something cracked open inside Isla's chest, something that had been holding together through sheer stubborn hope. It shattered now, completely and irrevocably.

"Well, we'll see what this month brings," Ophelia said. "But Caden, you need to be firm with her. She needs to understand her duty."

"I know, Mother."

Their voices faded as they moved toward the front of the house. Isla heard the front door open and close, heard Caden's car engine start, heard him drive away into the night.

Back to his perfect life. Back to Vivienne.

Isla looked down at the pregnancy test in her hand. Two pink lines that should have meant joy, hope, a future. Instead, they felt like a prison sentence.

She walked back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror again. Same face, same body, but something fundamental had changed. The woman looking back at her wasn't the hopeful, devoted mate who'd arrived at the manor tonight.

That woman was dead.