Abandoned by False Mate

The funeral was a blur of black fabric and hollow condolences. Pack members filed past me, offering words that felt like cotton in my ears. "She was a wonderful woman." "She's in a better place now." "The Moon Goddess needed another angel."

Lies. All of it.

Grandmother Eleanor had died alone, clutching her phone, and no one could explain why her final calls never reached me. The official report claimed heart failure, but something cold and sharp twisted in my chest every time I thought about those missed calls.

Two days after we laid her to rest, I finally gathered the courage to go through her belongings. Her small cottage at the edge of pack territory felt impossibly empty without her lavender scent and gentle humming. I moved through the rooms like a ghost, touching familiar objects that now seemed foreign.

In her bedroom, I found her phone on the nightstand, its screen cracked from where it had fallen. My hands shook as I scrolled through her final messages. There, in the call log, were seventeen attempts to reach me—all during the Luna council meeting. Seventeen desperate tries to connect with me while I sat in that sterile conference room, discussing territorial boundaries.

But that wasn't what made my blood run cold.

It was the text message drafts, never sent: "Sophie, something's wrong. Can't breathe. Need help. Please come home."

My wolf, Luna, whimpered inside my chest. Grandmother had tried to mind-link me too—I could feel the phantom echoes of her panic, her fear, pressing against the edges of my consciousness like a bruise. But the connection had been... blocked. Severed.

Only someone with significant pack authority could interfere with mind-links. Someone with access to the pack's communication networks.

I sank onto Grandmother's quilted bedspread, clutching her phone to my chest. The pieces were forming a picture I didn't want to see, but couldn't ignore.

The next morning, I waited until most of the pack was at their duties before making my way to the Beta's residence. Marcus Lane's house sat prominently near the packhouse, a testament to his family's rising status. I'd been here countless times for pack functions, but never with this cold determination burning in my veins.

Andrea's room was on the second floor—I remembered from a party she'd hosted last year. The door was unlocked, and I slipped inside, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Her vanity was covered with expensive cosmetics and jewelry I'd never seen her wear publicly. Designer handbags hung from hooks on her closet door. But it was the desk in the corner that drew my attention.

Scattered across its surface were sketches. My sketches.

With trembling fingers, I lifted the top sheet—a design for an evening gown I'd created months ago, inspired by moonlight on water. The paper bore my signature style, my careful attention to drape and detail, but Andrea's name was scrawled in the corner.

I rifled through the stack, finding design after design that I'd poured my heart into. The cocktail dress I'd sketched after watching sunset over the pack lands. The flowing skirt inspired by autumn leaves. The jacket with intricate beadwork that had taken me weeks to perfect.

All of them claimed by Andrea Lane.

"Looking for something?"

I spun around, clutching the sketches to my chest. Andrea stood in the doorway, no longer bothering with her sweet facade. Her smile was sharp as a blade.

"These are mine," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Are they? I don't see your name on them."

"Because you erased it." I held up one of the sketches, pointing to the faint eraser marks where my signature had been. "How long have you been stealing from me?"

Andrea laughed, moving to her vanity and touching up her lipstick with casual indifference. "Stealing is such an ugly word. I prefer 'repurposing.' You were never going to do anything with those designs anyway, playing house as Zachary's fake Luna."

"Fake Luna?" The words hit like a physical blow.

She turned to face me, her reflection multiplied in the vanity's three-way mirror. "Did you really think he'd keep you around forever? You're unmarked, Sophie. A pretty decoration. I'm his real mate—his chosen mate. These designs are just... insurance. Something to help secure my position when the pack learns the truth."

Rage built in my chest, hot and fierce. "You had no right—"

"I had every right!" Andrea's mask finally slipped completely. "Do you know what it's like, living in your shadow? Perfect Sophie with her perfect manners and her perfect reputation. Well, guess what? Your precious grandmother learned what happens to people who get in my way."

The sketches fluttered to the floor as my hands went numb. "What did you say?"

Andrea's smile turned predatory. "Oh, you didn't know? Sweet old Eleanor tried to warn you about me. Kept calling during your little council meeting, trying to tell you what she'd overheard about Zachary and me. But communication networks can be so unreliable, can't they? Especially when someone with the right access decides certain calls shouldn't go through."

The room tilted. "You blocked her calls."

"I protected what's mine." Andrea stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And now that she's gone, and you know the truth about your pathetic excuse for a mate bond, let me make something very clear. Without Zachary's protection—which you never really had—accidents happen. Just like what happened to dear Eleanor."

She leaned in close enough that I could smell her artificial perfume, see the cold calculation in her eyes.

"Cross me again, Sophie Murphy, and you'll join her."