The Thornbird's Ruined Harbor

The night I was admitted to a private clinic, pregnant with the family heir, my husband, Caspian Sterling, the Underboss of the Sterling family, received 108 frantic calls to his encrypted phone from his informant, Briar.

I asked if he needed to respond, but he just shot me an impatient glance. "She blows everything out of proportion. Can't she just keep her head down for once? She's such a liability."

But then, Briar sent a photo. The lock on her apartment door had been picked, the mark of our rival family carved into the wood.

The attached message read: "They've found me."

A sneer crossed Caspian's lips. "What an act."

But he paled, his agitation palpable. In the end, he rushed out of the clinic with his men to handle the trouble, not returning all night.

That night, I suffered a massive hemorrhage alone at the clinic and was rushed into the operating room.

When the doctor asked if they should do everything to save the baby, I glanced at the empty space beside me and answered flatly.

"No. Let it go."

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1

When the anesthesia wore off and I opened my eyes again, it was the afternoon of the next day.

I raised my hand, placing it on my now-flat stomach. As I moved, the thin cotton sleeve of my hospital gown slipped down, revealing a bruised, swollen patch on the back of my hand.

I’ve always been terrified of needles, but for the sake of my child with Caspian—the next heir to the Sterling family—I had endured over three hundred injections.

And yet, in the twenty-seven hours since I was wheeled into surgery, he hadn't returned.

As if on cue, the encrypted phone on the nightstand chimed.

It was a message from Caspian, but it had nothing to do with me or our lost child. The voice message was brief. "Briar had a scare last night and needs someone. She's all alone out here with no one to turn to, so it falls to me. What a hassle."

Though he called her a hassle, his tone held an unintended tenderness, a soothing quality he seemed oblivious to.

I glanced at his new profile picture—a lone wolf, cold and wary. I replied, "Understood."

Then, I opened their secure social channel.

Briar had posted a photo, the background clearly Caspian's study in our manor. The caption read: "After the storm, there's always a harbor."

At the same time, her profile picture had also changed to a rose sheltered by a wolf.

In the corner of the photo, a man's wrist was casually in frame. On it, the tattoo that once represented our marriage alliance had been artfully modified to incorporate Briar's initials, "B.T."

I recognized it immediately. It was Caspian's hand. He had once sworn that tattoo would forever belong only to me, Seraphina Russo.

Meanwhile, another spot on his arm, where my initials were supposed to be engraved, was now nothing but a faded scar.

A cold smirk touched my lips, and I commented: "A match made in heaven."