Chapter 4

I had underestimated how quickly this body could collapse.

The moment I stepped back into the financial club, every ounce of strength I’d been forcing myself to hold onto was abruptly drained. The world tilted, spun, my vision bleaching into a harsh gray-white blur.

The last thing burned into my consciousness before I blacked out was the sight of a girl running toward me in panic.

How ironic.

Concern from a stranger felt more like real salvation than anything offered by those I had trusted for years.

When I opened my eyes again, every bone in my body was screaming. My throat felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper, my skin burning as if it were about to split.

“Where am I?” My voice was hoarse beyond recognition as I turned toward the girl sitting quietly by the bed.

“You fainted,” she said softly, as if afraid to shatter something fragile. “Your fever was really high, but it’s stabilized now.” She leaned over to replace the damp towel on my forehead, her smile gentle and clean. “You are…?”

—“Just a regular administrative assistant here,” she said. “I’ve seen you a few times. My name is Helena.”

I blinked slowly, trying to bring the world into focus. She was young, her eyes clear and warm.

“Thank you,” I said in a rasp. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Looking at her open, kind face, I felt as if I were seeing a version of myself from years ago—before the fall into the abyss. Bright. Trusting.

In that instant, somewhere deep inside me, a frozen corner cracked with a faint but unmistakable sound. A question long buried tore through the thick cocoon of guilt and silence and woke up, raw and bleeding.

What really happened that night?

The night Lyra accused me of pushing her into the fire pit.

All these years, I had accepted the erasure of the truth, simply because the key surveillance footage had mysteriously disappeared. But I had never gone to find him—the man who had always stood at the center of that storm.

I picked up my phone and dialed my assistant.

“Arrange a meeting for me with Mr. Stone of the Northern Pack. …Yes. No, it’s not business-related… it’s personal. An old case. …Alright. Once the time and place are set, let me know.”

The meeting was arranged.

I had to admit, I’d imagined I would be facing a monster—a man with a feral face, soaked in the stench of blood.

Instead, the man who walked in looked like he had stepped straight out of a high-end fashion campaign.

Early thirties. Lean, powerful build. Black hair meticulously groomed. A flash of cold light at his wrist—worth enough to buy my wedding ring from back then ten times over. Handsome. Polished. Charming… and profoundly deceptive.

“Miss Cross,” he greeted me, his voice smooth like aged wine. “What wind has blown you here?”

I kept my face impassive, though under the table my fingers had already curled tight, nails digging into my palm.

“I’m here about an old matter. Several years ago. In this very club.”

His brow lifted slightly, amused, as if intrigued by the opening line. “Did I offend you?”

“I need you to tell me,” I cleared my dry, burning throat, each word deliberate, “do you remember an Omega girl? Very young. She claimed that… you forced yourself on her.”

He tilted his head. A nearly inaudible chuckle slipped from his lips, as if he’d just heard a bad joke.

“Forced?” Miss Cross, I’m an Alpha, not a rogue wolf. Do I look like a man who needs to force any woman?”

Sadly, by this world’s standards, he wasn’t wrong. He was exactly the type women approached willingly.

I took out Lyra’s photo and slid it across the table. In it, she smiled brightly, innocence almost painful to look at.

“Perhaps this will help refresh your memory.”

He glanced at it without interest, then turned to the Beta bodyguard standing beside him like a steel tower. “Do you remember?”

The tall man grinned, as if he’d been waiting for that question.

“That one? Heh. Of course I do. Isn’t this Lyra, who never turned anyone down?” He snorted, his contempt undisguised. “Ambitious, sure, but her methods were trash. I personally saw her getting intimate with multiple wolves. Then she came to me claiming she was pregnant with your child. I know you, Alpha—always clean, always careful. No way you’d do something like that. She even tried to bribe me with money. I sent her packing.”

He spat to the side, then added, “Later I heard she managed to latch onto someone higher up, got some poor bastard to acknowledge the kid. What, did she mess with you too, Miss Cross? Women like that are like chewing gum stuck to your shoe.”

The truth lay before me just like that—naked, ugly, with rough, jagged edges.

Lyra had not been violated.

She had lied.

I slowly recalled how, back then, Lyra had inexplicably gained weight, constantly complaining of feeling unwell. She had been pregnant.

What was absurd was that her attempt to cling to Maxwell had failed.

Which meant that the man she ultimately latched onto—the “poor bastard,” the “higher branch”—was almost painfully obvious.

Ethan.

The man who had insisted on adopting Lucas.

The man who poured into him a level of devotion far beyond that of an ordinary adoptive father.

I had always believed Lucas was Ethan’s blood.

Now, I wasn’t so sure.

I didn’t contact Ethan immediately.

And right on time, Ethan’s call came through.

“Where the hell did you run off to, Rosalie?” His voice was soaked in exhaustion and irritation. “Can you stop this already? Lucas and I need you. Lyra’s still here—can’t you at least come back and take care of the house?”

A brief pause.

Then came the familiar, poisoned dagger—thrown with perfect precision.

“You know it yourself. You owe her so much.”

I laughed softly.

“I don’t owe her anything. But you, Ethan—are you sure you truly understand the woman you’re protecting so desperately, and the full truth behind the ‘gift’ she brought you?”

Then I hung up.

I sent Ethan a voice recording.

The Maxwell Alpha’s bodyguard, crude and smug, describing how Lyra had actively tried to latch on, how she’d gotten pregnant and gone looking for someone to take responsibility.

Along with a single line of text:

“This is a fragment of the truth you’ve always demanded—about the ‘mother of your child.’

Good luck to you and your perfect family.”

Then I turned off the screen, letting the last sliver of light sink into complete darkness.