He Chose His Mistress: The Pregnant Luna's Escape

Olivia POV

The next morning, the sun rose with an unforgiving brilliance, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air of a bedroom I shared with a stranger.

I sat at the vanity, staring into the glass as if it were a stranger’s face. My skin was parchment-pale, almost translucent, and dark circles bruised the delicate flesh beneath my eyes. But my expression was stone.

I had spent the night on the bathroom floor, purging until my body was empty, crying until my tear ducts were parched deserts. Now, there was only a cold, hollow silence where my love used to be.

I reached for the velvet box on the dresser. Inside lay the diamond necklace Michael had given me on our first anniversary. *To my true north,* the card had read.

Lies.

I opened the jewelry drawer. The earrings he bought when I announced the pregnancy. The bracelet from my birthday. The silver locket with his picture.

One by one, I took them off. I placed them into a plain, unadorned cardboard box. Then, I walked to the walk-in closet. I pulled down the silk dresses he preferred, the ones that made me look 'regal' for his business dinners. I packed them away.

By the time I was done, the room looked barren. Much like my soul.

The door opened.

Michael walked in, buttoning his cuffs. He smelled of shower gel and... cloyingly... of vanilla. Serena’s scent.

He paused, his gaze sweeping the sudden minimalism of the room. His brow furrowed.

"Liv? Where are all your things?"

I didn't turn around. I continued folding a plain cotton shirt, my movements mechanical. "I packed them away."

"Why?"

"Nothing fits anymore," I said, my voice steady. "The pregnancy. I feel like a beached whale in those silks. I'd rather wear comfortable clothes."

It was a lie, but a logical one. Michael accepted it immediately. Why wouldn't he? He thought I was his foolish, devoted little wife who lived only to please him.

"Oh." He finished with his cuffs, dismissing the matter. "Well, don't worry. Once the pup is born and you get your figure back, I'll buy you new things. Better things. The Hayes inheritance transfers upon the birth, correct?"

The mention of my father's money made bile rise in my throat.

"Perhaps," I said.

"You look pale," he noted, stepping closer. He reached out to touch my forehead.

I flinched. I couldn't help it. His touch, which used to send sparks of electricity through me—the sacred mark of a mate—now felt like a branding iron.

He pulled his hand back, annoyed. "You're so jumpy lately. It's the hormones. You need to control yourself, Olivia. An Alpha's mate should be composed, not skittish."

Before I could answer, his eyes glazed over. He was Mind-Linking someone. A small, soft smile played on his lips—a smile he tried to suppress, but failed.

*Serena,* I thought bitterly.

"I have to go," he said abruptly, snapping back to reality. "Pack business."

"Wait," I said. "My mother called this morning."

He froze. "Elizabeth? What did she want?"

"The Hayes Pack annual gathering is this weekend. She expects us. Both of us."

Michael's eyes lit up. The Hayes gathering was the most exclusive event in the werewolf world. Connections, power, money. It was the oxygen he breathed.

"Of course we'll go," he said, grabbing his phone. "I'll clear my schedule." Then, a thought seemed to cross his mind, dark and calculating. "We should bring Serena."

I stared at him, keeping my face blank. "Serena? Why?"

"She's... having a hard time adjusting," he lied, the falsehood sliding off his tongue like oil. "She has no family. It would be good charity for the Hayes Pack to see we take care of strays. It makes us look benevolent, Liv. Your father likes benevolence."

He wasn't asking. He was telling.

*

The car ride to the Hayes territory was suffocating.

I sat in the back seat. Michael drove, and Serena sat in the passenger seat—*my* seat.

"I get motion sickness in the back," she had claimed, batting her eyelashes. Her voice was like syrup. She was petite, with blonde curls and wide, innocent blue eyes. She looked like a porcelain doll. A poisonous one.

"Here, Liv," Michael said, handing a small gift bag over the center console without glancing back. "Hold this for me. It's for... a contact at the party."

I peeked inside. It was a bracelet. Platinum, encrusted with sapphires. It must have cost a fortune—my fortune, likely.

We arrived at the Hayes estate. The grandeur of my childhood home usually brought me peace, but today it felt like a stage set for my public humiliation.

My mother, Elizabeth, was waiting on the porch. She looked elegant and formidable.

"Olivia!" She rushed down the stairs, ignoring protocol to hug me. "Oh, look at you. You're too thin." Her eyes snapped to Michael, sharp as flint.

"She's been sick in the mornings," Michael said charmingly, stepping out and wrapping a possessive arm around my waist. It took every ounce of my willpower not to shove him away. "But I'm taking good care of her."

"And who is this?" Mother asked, her gaze shifting to Serena.

"This is Serena," Michael said, beaming. "A friend of the pack. I thought she could use some fresh air."

Inside the ballroom, the atmosphere was stifling. Michael immediately abandoned me at a table near the wall.

"Rest your feet, Liv," he commanded softly. "I need to introduce Serena to some people. She's shy."

I watched them. They moved through the crowd like a couple. He touched the small of her back. She laughed at his jokes, leaning into him, marking him. He grabbed a glass of champagne for her.

He grabbed a plate of food. Shrimp canapés.

He walked back to the table, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Serena, who had followed him like a shadow.

"Here," Michael said, offering the plate to Serena. "Try these. They're excellent."

Then he looked at me. "You want some, Liv?"

I looked at the shrimp. Pink, curled, and lethal.

"I'm allergic to shellfish, Michael. I have been since I was five."

Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, not guilt.

"Right," he muttered. "I forgot. Pregnancy brain, catching onto me too, I guess."

"Oh, poor Olivia," Serena cooed, placing a hand on Michael's arm. "Don't be mad at him. He has so much on his mind running the pack."

She looked at me, and for a second, the mask slipped. Her blue eyes weren't innocent. They were mocking. She touched the platinum bracelet on her wrist—the one I had held in the car.

"Michael has such good taste," she whispered, twisting the sapphires so they caught the chandelier's light. "Don't you think?"

I felt a kick in my womb. My child, waking up to the toxicity of its father.

"Yes," I said, my voice dead. "He is very good at picking things that sparkle on the surface."