Chapter 2

Giving birth was like walking through the gates of hell.

Because so much amniotic fluid had leaked and my emotions were spiraling out of control, I dilated at an agonizingly slow pace. It was just me and two healers in the delivery room. Through the wall, I could hear another laboring mother screaming for her mate. Her mate's soothing voice rumbled in response, their mate bond weaving together to ease her pain and smooth out the delivery.

Meanwhile, I lay on that cold bed, utterly alone.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, Aunt Sarah whispered, “Mia, try calling Ethan again. For werewolves, having your mate there isn't just about presence. Your bond shares the physical burden. Without him here, your pain is magnified ten times over.”

Staring at the dim ceiling light, I shook my head.

I couldn't reach him anyway.

Right before they wheeled me in, I had seen Vivian’s second Instagram update:

*[Tommy finally fell asleep. Thank you to the best godfather in the world for staying up all night with us. With you here, we finally have someone to lean on.]*

The picture showed Ethan passed out by the bedside, his hand tightly clutching the boy's little fingers. Warm, touching, and intimate.

While my child was fighting for her life.

In that exact moment, the very last trace of love I had for Ethan shattered into dust, swallowed by the sheer agony racking my body.

“Push! The head is crowning!” Aunt Sarah urged.

I clamped my teeth down on the towel in my mouth, channeling every ounce of hatred into one final push.

Ten hours. After ten grueling hours of torture, a loud, clear cry pierced the room. My baby girl was born.

Aunt Sarah held the wrinkled little bundle up for me to see, her eyes rimmed with red. “A beautiful little princess. Mia, you did it.”

I looked at her weakly, silent tears slipping down my cheeks.

Back in the recovery room, dull aches still radiated through my body. Without the soothing touch of a mate bond, postpartum healing was painfully slow.

My phone buzzed.

It was a text from Ethan: *[You awake? I just woke up. Tommy was having a rough night. Did you say your stomach hurt yesterday? Get some rest and stop being so dramatic. I'll bring you breakfast later.]*

Every word dripped with dismissive indifference. He hadn't even considered that my desperate cry for help the night before had been real.

I didn't bother replying. I tossed the phone aside.

Around noon, the door was shoved open.

Ethan hurried in, carrying a bag of cold sandwiches. When he saw me lying in a hospital gown with an infant sleeping in the bassinet beside me, he froze dead in his tracks. The irritation on his face melted into shock, instantly replaced by sheer panic.

“Mia... You... you actually gave birth?”

He rushed to the bedside, reaching for my hand, but I pulled away with disgust.

“Don’t touch me,” I rasped, my voice rough as sandpaper.

A flash of humiliation crossed his features, quickly turning into defensive anger. “Why didn’t you call me?! Having a baby is a huge deal, and you came to the clinic without saying a word? Do you have any idea how worried I was?!”

I let out a bitter, mocking laugh, wincing as it tugged at my stitches.

“Are you suffering from amnesia, Ethan? At two in the morning, I called you and told you my water broke. You told me to stop acting, and you hung up on me.”

Ethan froze, the memory seemingly rushing back. A moment later, his eyes darted away, his tone softening with guilty deflection. “I thought... I thought you were just jealous of Vivian and making things up. You know how it is—when someone cries wolf, how was I supposed to know it was real this time?”

“So in your eyes, I'm the kind of person who would joke about our child’s life just to score points in some petty jealousy contest?” I stared at him blankly, my eyes dead.