He Named His Dad's First Love as Mom

"And the last name is Vance—"

Priya's voice clipped off, leaving a heavy static over the car's speakers.

My hands remained perfectly still on the leather steering wheel. I didn't swerve. I didn't press the brake. The frost-covered trees blurred past my window as I kept the sedan accelerating down the winding road.

"Priya," I prompted. "Finish the sentence."

"The applicant is Ezra Vance," she said, her tone cautious. "The system flagged his lineage documentation. It's a mess, Chair."

"Put file 03 on my desk," I said.

"Should I call the pack liaison? If this is a mistake on their end, we usually give prominent Alpha families a twenty-four-hour grace period to correct it."

"No grace period," I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the icy asphalt. "Leave the file exactly as it was submitted. I will handle it when I arrive."

"Understood. Drive safe."

I tapped the dashboard screen, severing the connection.

Thirty minutes later, the iron gates of Laurelmont Academy loomed ahead. I flashed my badge at the security guard. He nodded, waving me through. I parked in my reserved spot, grabbed my single suitcase from the passenger seat, and walked into the administrative wing.

The heating in the building hummed a low, steady note. I bypassed the main reception area and headed straight for my office.

Priya stood waiting by my desk. She held a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a thick manila folder in the other.

"Good morning," I said, dropping my suitcase by the coat rack.

"Morning," Priya replied, setting the folder exactly in the center of my glass tabletop. "I pulled the physical copy like you asked. It's worse than the digital scan."

I took off my wool coat and draped it over the back of my chair. I sat down and pulled the folder toward me.

File 03.

I flipped the heavy cardstock cover open.

Ezra's face stared back at me from the attached ID photo. He wore the expensive tailored suit Marcus had bought him last month. He had his father's sharp jawline and arrogant smirk.

My eyes scanned the meticulously printed pages. The high GPA. The lacrosse captaincy. The glowing recommendation letters from pack elders.

Then, I turned to page four. The maternal lineage box.

Typed in crisp, black ink was the name Lola Lockhart.

"You see the problem," Priya said, pulling up a chair opposite my desk. "The background check caught it immediately."

"I see it," I murmured.

"He claims she is his mother," Priya continued, crossing her arms. "But she isn't. Legally, biologically, she is a pack mistress. There is no marriage certificate on file. No adoption papers."

"He submitted this knowing the documentation wouldn't match," I noted.

"That's the arrogant part," Priya scoffed. "Look at his personal statement. Page six."

I flipped the pages. A typed essay about overcoming adversity and securing a legacy. My gaze locked onto the third paragraph.

"If I write my real mother's name," the sentence read, "the admissions officer will see that no one loves me enough to support my future. A prominent Luna offers stability. A human ghost offers nothing."

I stared at the words. Ezra had actually put it in writing. He packaged his cruelty as a sob story for Ivy League sympathy. He used my isolation—the very isolation he and his father enforced—as a bargaining chip for his college admission.

"It's a bold strategy," Priya said, misreading my silence. "Playing the victim of a broken home while elevating the mistress to secure a prestigious spot. He thinks we'll pity him."

"Pity is a poor foundation for an Ivy League application," I said, looking up.

"I pity his real mother," Priya replied sharply. "Imagine raising a kid just for him to erase you on the most important document of his life."

A dull ache throbbed behind my temples. I ignored it.

"This kid needs final verification for the bloodline section," Priya sighed, shifting her weight in the chair. "But he listed a non-blood relative for the maternal line. By the rules—"

"By the rules," I cut in, my voice hard, "wolf-bloods who forge lineage are denied admission."

Priya frowned. "His father is Marcus Vance. He donates heavily to the alumni fund. We reject his son, and the board will definitely push back. They might even call for a review of your decision."

"Let them call for a review," I said.

Five years ago, I walked into this exact office as a human consultant. The pack elders and the academy board laughed at the idea of a powerless woman holding the final verification seat. They expected me to fail. I smashed their doubts by auditing three years of corrupt admissions records, exposing a dozen forged bloodlines, and returning the school's prestige. They didn't laugh anymore. They rubber-stamped my decisions.

I closed Ezra's file. The thick cardstock slapped against the glass desk.

I pressed my index finger against the bottom right corner of the cover. Right over the black ink that read: Final Verification: Chair.

"So, we reject him?" Priya asked, her posture straightening.

"Prepare the denial notice," I instructed. "Cite section four, paragraph two: intentional falsification of biological records."

"No grace period?"

"None. Actions have consequences. He submitted a fraudulent document. We process it as such."

"Understood," Priya said, standing up. "I'll draft the letter now."

"Make sure it goes out in today's mail," I added. "I want a physical copy sent to the Vance estate."

Priya nodded and turned toward the door.

Before she could take three steps, the plastic intercom box on my desk buzzed. A sharp, grating noise pierced the quiet room.

I pressed the silver button. "Yes, Sarah?"

"Chair Reyes," the receptionist's voice crackled through the speaker. She sounded out of breath. "You have an unscheduled visitor. A Mr. Marcus Vance is here."

Priya stopped in her tracks. She spun around, her eyes wide. She glanced at the closed file on my desk, then back at me.

"Did he state his business?" I asked, keeping my tone perfectly even.

"He says he needs to speak with the Admissions Chair directly regarding a substantial donation," Sarah replied, her voice trembling slightly. "I told him you don't take walk-ins. He didn't listen."

"Where is he now?"

"He bypassed security. He's already walking down your hallway."

I released the button.

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed through the corridor outside.

Leather soles striking the hardwood floor.

A confident, arrogant stride. I knew that walk. I had listened to it echo through the packhouse halls for eighteen years. He always walked like he owned the ground beneath his feet.

Priya took a step back, her gaze darting toward the frosted glass door. "Should I call campus security?"

"No," I said. "You can return to your desk, Priya."

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure."

Priya slipped out of the room just as the footsteps grew louder. Closer.

I sat at my desk, resting my hands flat against the glass surface. The silver fork from last night's dinner flashed in my memory. The cold metal. The heavy silence.

The footsteps stopped right outside my door.

A large silhouette loomed against the frosted glass, and the brass doorknob began to turn.