He Named His Dad's First Love as Mom

The brass doorknob turned, the metal clicking sharply in the quiet office. The heavy frosted glass door swung inward.

"Let's skip the formalities," Marcus said.

His leather shoes thudded against the hardwood, eating up the distance between the door and my desk in three long strides. I kept my chair angled toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The harsh morning glare washed over me, casting my face in shadow and throwing my silhouette into sharp relief against the glass.

"I am Marcus Vance," he continued, stopping just on the other side of my desk. "I assume your assistant briefed you. I am prepared to authorize a five-hundred-thousand-dollar transfer to the alumni endowment today, specifically earmarked for the new athletic center."

"An athletic center," I murmured, keeping my gaze fixed on the frost-covered trees outside.

"My son is a pureblood elite. Ezra Vance. He will be your starting lacrosse captain next spring," Marcus stated, his tone brooking no argument. "His file speaks for itself. The GPA, the athletic records, the pack lineage. I want his acceptance letter expedited. The Vance family does not wait in applicant pools, and we certainly do not jump through bureaucratic hoops."

"Laurelmont prides itself on a rigorous review process," I said.

"Money smooths out the rigorous parts," Marcus replied smoothly. "Process the paperwork. I have a pack council meeting at noon."

"An impressive sum," I said.

I pressed my foot against the carpet and rotated my chair.

Marcus stopped mid-breath. His arm jerked. The base of his cardboard coffee cup clipped the edge of my glass desk with a loud, hollow thud. Dark liquid sloshed violently against the plastic lid, a few drops flying out to stain the cuff of his tailored suit.

For a man who negotiated million-dollar pack treaties without a single misstep, his jaw actually went slack. He stared down at me, his eyes darting from my face to the brass nameplate sitting on my desk.

Chair Reyes.

"Dahlia?" he asked. The commanding Alpha register vanished, replaced by genuine, jarring confusion.

"Good morning, Mr. Vance," I replied. I folded my hands over the thick manila folder resting in the center of the glass.

Marcus blinked, recovering his composure with a violent shake of his head. He set the cup down hard. "What kind of game is this? You left the house this morning to play pretend at a high school?"

"I have been employed here for five years," I said, my voice entirely flat. "I was promoted to Chair of Admissions two years ago. There is no game."

He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "Marcus, stop. You don't have the qualifications to run a bake sale, let alone an Ivy-feeder admissions board. Get up. We are going home."

"We are discussing file zero-three," I said, tapping the cardstock cover with my index finger. "Your son's application."

Marcus leaned forward, planting his palms flat on the glass. He tried to crowd my space, a classic intimidation tactic he used on rival Alphas. "I said, get up. If you are throwing a tantrum over the ceremony last night, this is a pathetic way to do it."

"As of this semester, the board implemented a new compliance measure for all endowment contributions," I continued, ignoring his posturing entirely. "All donor lineage must cross-verify with the applicant's listed maternal line."

The color drained from Marcus's face. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

He knew exactly what Ezra had typed into that box.

"The maternal line listed on this document is Lola Lockhart," I said, keeping my gaze locked on his. "You are the sole financial donor. Lola Lockhart holds no legal guardianship, no marital ties to the Vance estate, and no biological connection to the applicant. The bloodlines do not match the financial source."

"It is a technicality," Marcus snapped, his fingers curling into fists against the desk.

"It is intentional falsification of biological records," I corrected him. "Section four, paragraph two of the Laurelmont code of conduct."

"She is his mother in the eyes of the pack!" Marcus barked.

"The pack does not govern this academy. I do."

"She attends the galas. She sits on the charity boards with the other Laurelmont parents," Marcus argued, his voice rising. "She is the Luna. The board wants a cohesive narrative, and Lola provides it. You bring nothing but questions."

"I bring the final verification stamp," I said. "And right now, this application is fraudulent."

"It is a minor discrepancy."

"It is a lie."

Marcus glared at me, his chest heaving. He searched my face for any sign of the quiet, obedient wife who sat at his dining table twelve hours ago. He found nothing. I sat perfectly still, my spine straight, my expression hollowed out and rebuilt into something he couldn't break.

"Dahlia, stop this," Marcus said, his tone shifting. He lowered his voice, attempting a placating, familiar cadence. "We can handle this privately. You know how important this is to Ezra. Don't punish the boy for our issues."

"This is Laurelmont," I said.

"Dahlia—"

"Please call me Chair."

Silence slammed into the room.

Marcus stared at me. His mouth opened, then snapped shut. A dark, ugly red crept up his neck, disappearing into his collar. The realization hit him all at once. He was standing in my office. He needed my signature. I held his son's entire future under my palm, and his money meant absolutely nothing here.

He straightened up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over my desk. The placating tone vanished, replaced by cold, naked fury.

"You think you have the upper hand," Marcus said softly.

"I am enforcing academy policy," I replied.

"You are a human," he spat. "You have no wolf-blood. You have no pack authority. You spent eighteen years hiding in my house, eating my food, spending my money. You sit in this little office and think you can dictate the future of an Alpha heir?"

"My authority comes from the board, Mr. Vance. Not your checkbook."

Marcus reached inside his suit jacket. He didn't pull out a pen. He didn't pull out a checkbook.

He yanked out a thick, folded parchment document and slammed it onto the glass desk. The impact rattled his coffee cup, sending another drop of dark liquid spilling onto the surface.

"This is a bloodline guarantee letter," Marcus sneered.

He flattened the heavy paper out with his palm, sliding it directly over Ezra's file. The top of the page bore the official wax seal of the regional pack council.

"Co-signed by Elder Theo," Marcus added, his voice dripping with venom.

He pressed his knuckles hard against the bottom of the page, directly over the sprawling black ink of the Elder's signature.

"A human has no right to review my son."

He kept his knuckles pinned to the signature line, waiting for me to open it.