I didn't cry at the funeral. Not even once.
Not because I wasn't grieving. I just couldn't. My tears dried up the moment I saw the casket close over my father's face. Cold. Wooden. Final. That was it. The man who raised me, protected me, taught me how to read when my mother died too young—he was gone. Just like that. And the world kept spinning like it didn't even care.
The pack leaders gave their condolences. Their words were empty. My father's allies bowed their heads but didn't bother looking me in the eye. Most of them had already aligned with Noah anyway. It was politics, not mourning. Power, not love. Even Cassie, my stepmother, had the gall to wear white. Said it was to "honor my father's pure soul." I wanted to puke.
Noah stood next to me the whole ceremony like some proud statue. He didn't hold my hand. He didn't whisper comfort. He didn't even flinch when I nearly collapsed during the blessing ritual. He just stared straight ahead, stone-faced, while I wilted beside him like a forgotten flower.
But I told myself he was just hurting too. That he wasn't cold, just overwhelmed. That he still loved me.
God, I was such a fool.
I clutched my purse tighter as I stepped out of the cemetery and into the long black car waiting outside. The same one we'd used at our wedding, two years ago. Funny how things come full circle. One ride for a beginning. Another for an end.
But this time, there was something else. A heartbeat. A second one, beneath my own.
I didn't realize until this morning. I'd been so wrapped up in the funeral, the estate, the silence between me and Noah, that I'd ignored the signs—missed periods, nausea, the sudden sensitivity to every damn smell. I'd taken the test in my father's bathroom before the funeral, hands shaking so bad I almost dropped it in the toilet.
Two lines. Clear as day.
I was pregnant.
It should've been good news. It should've made everything better between us. Noah always talked about starting a family. "One day," he'd say, rubbing my belly even when there was nothing there. "One day we'll have a pup with your eyes and my temper." I used to laugh at that.
And so, stupidly, I thought this was it. The thing that would fix the cracks. The thing that would make him look at me the way he used to. Before the distance. Before Cassie moved in permanently to "help with the house" after my father got sick. Before everything started feeling… wrong.
I clutched the test in my coat pocket, hidden in tissue paper like some delicate secret. I just needed to find Noah. Tell him. Then maybe—just maybe—he'd hold me again. Kiss me like I mattered.
The mansion was quiet when I arrived. Too quiet. Most of the guests had gone back to their corners of the kingdom. The staff were cleaning up the post-funeral mess, white flowers already wilting in the vases. My father always hated lilies. Said they smelled like fake grief.
I took the back stairs, the ones I used to sneak down for midnight snacks. My heels clicked on the marble like gunshots. Every step echoed in my chest. I was scared, and I didn't even know why.
"Noah?" I called, halfway up. "Babe? Are you home?"
No answer.
I headed toward his office, the old study that used to belong to my father. Noah had taken it over the day after the will was read. Said he needed the space for "pack business." I didn't argue. I hadn't been in there since. It felt wrong, like a grave that hadn't been filled yet.
The door was cracked open.
I should've knocked. I should've turned around. I should've done anything but what I did next.
But I pushed it open.
And everything shattered.
Cassie was bent over my father's desk, the same one he used to write bedtime stories for me when I was six. Her red dress was bunched around her waist, her long legs trembling as Noah, my Noah slammed into her from behind. His mouth was on her neck. Her fingers clawed the wood. They were both moaning like animals in heat.
I didn't scream. I couldn't. My voice got stuck somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
Cassie saw me first. Her head jerked back, eyes locking with mine, lips parted in a cruel, perfect "O". She didn't stop. Neither did he.
Noah turned a second later, his hips still moving, his face flushed with sweat and something darker. For a split second, he froze. Guilt. Panic. Or maybe just annoyance.
"Paula—" he started.
I backed away so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.
The test fell from my coat pocket. Hit the floor. Rolled near the desk.
Two pink lines.
Cassie's eyes followed it. She laughed.
"Oops," she said, her voice all honey and venom. "Guess the puppy got herself knocked up."
I ran. Down the stairs, out the door, past the staff who called after me like ghosts in a nightmare. I didn't know where I was going. My chest burned. My heart felt like it was breaking with every step. Not metaphorically. Literally. Like someone was driving a knife through it and twisting.
I made it to the garden before I collapsed.
My knees hit the dirt hard. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My hands clutched my belly like I could somehow shield the little life inside me from the truth. From the betrayal. From the pain that swallowed me whole.
Noah was screwing my stepmother. My father's widow. In his office. On the day of his funeral.
Everything I knew… everything I trusted…
Gone.
Footsteps pounded behind me. Then hands. Familiar hands. Grabbing my shoulders, trying to pull me up.
"Paula," Noah's voice. "Stop…just…just let me explain."
I jerked away from him, sobbing. "Don't touch me!"
"Please," he said, gripping my arms tighter. "Just come with me. I'll explain everything. It's not what you think."
I stared at him, broken and bleeding inside.
And then I heard myself whisper, "Then what the hell is it?"