Chapter 1

1.

When Ethan Frost publicly rejected me at the engagement party, my seven-year-old son Lachlan watched me.

There were no tears in his amber eyes, only a chilling disdain, the kind you’d give a wounded dog left on the side of the road.

“Face it, Mom. An Omega is too weak to survive in this family.”

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his expensive, custom-made suit, his tone a cold lecture he’d learned from Kaelan, far beyond his years.

“Dad is a top-tier Alpha with Royal Blood. Did you really think he’d be satisfied with someone useless who can’t do anything but smell like strawberries?”

In the next second, his expression shifted to a practiced, charming smile as he turned to take Vivienne’s hand―the celebrated Beta socialite everyone adored.

“The Frost pack needs a Luna who can fight by his side. Vivienne is the only one worthy of standing with Dad. And I need a strong mother, so Dad won’t think I’m the offspring of a weakling.”

I understood then. It wasn’t just a child’s tantrum. He was a victim, thoroughly brainwashed by a toxic, patriarchal environment, desperate to sever his ties with the “weak” to beg for the protection of the strong.

Later, I found a wandering witch hiding out on the West Coast. I traded half my life force for a Blood Ritual, severing the soul-crushing bond between me and Kaelan and washing away the permanent mark he’d left on my neck.

Seven years later. Tofino, Long Beach.

The salty Pacific wind tangled my long hair. I was walking along the boardwalk, holding my younger son Noah’s hand, when I heard frantic footsteps and heavy breathing behind me.

The boy who once looked down on me with contempt was now chasing us, his face flushed from running five whole blocks.

“Mom! Please, wait―”

…

As Gabriel’s muse, I often traveled the world with him. This time, we were on the west coast of Canada.

Giant waves crashed against the rocks. I took a few photos of Gabriel as he sketched. A moment later, my phone buzzed with a selfie from him―a pencil tucked behind his ear, the relaxed sexiness of a true artist.

[Enjoy your vacation, my love. Spoil yourself―no limit. Buy the whole coastline if you want.]

Noah tugged on my sleeve, his mixed-heritage face full of longing.

“Mommy, can I have a double-scoop vanilla ice cream?”

Just as I turned toward the ice cream truck, a dark-haired teenager shot out from the beach like an out-of-control football player and slammed into me. The cone flew from my hand, splattering into a sticky white mess on the ground.

“Mom!”

“I knew you’d come back! You came back for me, didn’t you?”

The boy was about fourteen or fifteen, with sharp features that were both strange and familiar. He stared at me with a sick, feverish intensity, the edges of his pupils flashing with the tell-tale gold of a wolf losing control.

I froze, instinctively replying in English, “I’m sorry? I don’t know you.”

He bit his lower lip so hard it nearly bled, his eyes filled with the panic of being abandoned.

“Stop pretending. It’s me, Lachlan. You don’t even recognize your own heir?”

The sea breeze carried the howling memories back to me.

Yes, in another life, a nightmare of a life, I did give birth to a son.