Chapter 3

I stood outside the office door, my hand still resting on the doorknob.

Through the crack in the door, I heard the soft clink of ice against glass.

Sabrina asked, "How long do you plan to keep up this marriage?"

Damon answered without hesitation.

"Until she gives birth to the heir."

My nails dug sharply into my palms.

"The purity of the Whitmore bloodline is second only to Blackridge," his tone was as clinical as evaluating a corporate acquisition. "As long as an heir sharing both our bloodlines is born, the Alliance will be completely solidified. When that happens, the value of this marriage will have been fulfilled."

"And then you can dissolve the marriage?"

"Yes."

That single word was light, yet it pierced precisely into the wound where I had taken a silver bullet for him.

Sabrina chuckled softly. "Poor Claire. She still thinks you're just sick. You miss anniversaries, and she makes excuses for you. You abandon her in public, and she tells everyone it's because of your illness, not because you want to hurt her."

The office fell silent for a moment.

I held my breath, waiting for Damon to deny it, even just a little.

But he said, "It saves everyone a lot of trouble this way."

The hallway lights beat down on me, blindingly white.

Over the past five years, I had accompanied him to see three different doctors and undergone mate evaluations time and time again. Those people held up medical certificates and told me that Damon didn't want to not love me; he was just born unable to form a normal bond.

So, when he left me alone in our bedroom on our wedding night, I forgave him. When he brought Sabrina to a gala on our anniversary, I explained it away as work. When the Elders publicly interrogated us about why we didn't have children, and he let all the scrutiny fall on me, I still covered up his "illness."

Even when the Silver Moon Hunter's bullet was aimed at him, I didn't hesitate.

That silver bullet tore through my shoulder. He held my blood-soaked body, and for a split second, there was panic in his eyes. I clung to that tiny, pathetic illusion, enduring the burning agony of the wound through the night, thinking it was his clumsy way of showing love.

It turned out he could sense everything all along.

He knew I loved him. He knew every broken promise broke my heart. He knew exactly why I kept backing down. He just stood behind his lie, watching me make excuses for him.

"She is loyal, I'll give her that," Sabrina's laughter carried a hint of disdain. "If you told her the truth, she might still willingly bear your child."

"There's no need to add unnecessary complications."

Damon didn't laugh, but he didn't stop her either.

That tacit agreement was crueler than the mockery itself.

I looked down and saw the crumpled pregnancy report.

Six weeks pregnant. Fetus healthy. At the very bottom of the page, there was even a blessing written by the doctor for us.

On the way to the headquarters, I had repeatedly imagined Damon's expression when he saw the report. Maybe he would initiate a hug for the first time. Maybe he would cancel his meetings and take me home. Even if he remained aloof, as long as he was willing to place his hand on my stomach, I was ready to believe in him one more time.

Now, I finally understood those rare moments of gentleness.

He only came home on time on specific days to get me pregnant. He asked about my wound after I was shot because he was worried the silver toxicity would damage the Whitmore bloodline. He hadn't ended this cold marriage not because he couldn't bear to lose me, but because I hadn't yet given him the heir he needed.

Once the child was born, I would become nothing more than a fulfilled contract.

I raised my hand, but I didn't push the door open.

Confronting him wouldn't bring me answers; I had already heard the whole truth. It would only result in Damon finding this report, and then, under the guise of protecting the Luna and the heir, he would confiscate my phone, my car, and my clearance to leave the estate.

I slowly released the doorknob and backed away silently.

As I turned toward the elevator, my legs felt like they were walking on cotton. The metal doors closed, and the mirrored surface reflected a deathly pale face. I folded the report and shoved it into the deepest part of my handbag, as if hiding it deep enough could temporarily hide the bloodline belonging to him in my womb.

When I returned to the estate, the guards bowed to me as usual, and the security cameras tracked my movements.

I used to view these as the protection Blackridge provided for their Luna. Only now did I realize that the gates, the cars, the servants, and every patrol route didn't belong to me. This was never a home; it was just a beautifully decorated cage.

I locked my bedroom door, dug out an ancient genealogy book from the back of the bookshelf, and logged into the werewolf Alliance's maternity archives.

Soon, a record regarding the highest bloodline tier appeared on the screen.

When a Double Alpha bloodline reaches the eighth week of gestation, the fetus's power will produce its first pulse. The biological father will instinctively sense the offspring's existence and can track the bloodline within a certain radius.

I stared at the words "eighth week," my fingers turning ice cold.

The doctor said I was exactly six weeks along today.

I picked up a calendar and counted the days one by one, stopping at the fourteenth day.

My palm rested on my still-flat stomach. This child, unseen by anyone yet, had already become the bargaining chip Damon had waited five years for.

In fourteen days, he would know I was carrying his heir.

And I had to die from his world before then.