My Alpha Sold Our Daughter to Pay His Debts

I woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains, my head still foggy from yesterday's sedative. The room felt smaller than it already was—my prison growing more claustrophobic by the hour. I ran my fingers over the silver locket around my neck, drawing strength from Oaklee's memory.

The door opened, and Archer strode in, his face a mask of concern that didn't reach his eyes.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked, his voice dripping with false solicitude.

I forced my lips into what I hoped was a convincing smile. "Better. I think... I think I was just exhausted."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Eight years of searching for Oaklee had left me hollow, and now this elaborate deception had pushed me to the brink.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," I continued, hating myself for the words but knowing they were necessary. "I just... when I saw her, I panicked."

Archer's posture relaxed slightly. Men like him always believed their own lies, especially when others echoed them back.

"You've been under tremendous strain," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. I fought the urge to recoil. "Perhaps we rushed things."

"I'd like to see her," I said, looking up at him with what I hoped appeared to be maternal longing. "To apologize properly."

His eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Please," I whispered. "I need to make this right."

Twenty minutes later, Thalia entered the room, her posture perfect for a frightened child. She wore a pink dress that seemed designed to emphasize her diminutive stature, her dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

"Come here," I said softly, gesturing her forward.

She approached cautiously, her eyes—too old for her face—watching me warily.

"I'm sorry I frightened you yesterday," I said, opening my arms.

After a moment's hesitation, she stepped into my embrace. I held her tightly, feeling her stiffen at the contact.

"It's okay," I murmured, my fingers moving to stroke her hair. "Mommy's sorry."

As I spoke the words, I carefully plucked several strands of hair from her scalp, tucking them into my palm. When she pulled away, I noticed a tissue on the nightstand—used and discarded.

"Would you like some water?" I asked, already reaching for the tissue.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine.

While she drank, I slipped the tissue into my pocket. "I'll have someone bring you some breakfast," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart.

Once alone, I locked the bathroom door and pulled out the portable sequencer I'd hidden behind the loose tile beneath the sink months ago—part of my obsessive research into Oaklee's genetic markers.

My hands trembled as I prepared the samples. The machine hummed to life, scanning the DNA strands with remarkable speed.

The results appeared on the small screen: 0% maternal match.

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. But then I noticed something else—the age markers. Twenty-four years old. Not thirteen.

"There has to be an error," I whispered, rerunning the test.

The second result confirmed the first. But it also revealed something more disturbing—a specific genetic mutation associated with dwarfism in rogue populations.

"This isn't Oaklee," I said to my reflection in the mirror. "This is an adult impostor."

I quickly transferred the data to a micro-SD card and sewed it into the hem of my dress. Evidence. Proof.

That evening, a soft knock preceded Archer's entrance. He carried a silver tray with two teacups.

"I thought we could talk," he said, setting the tray on the bedside table. "Clear the air."

He handed me a steaming cup, his eyes watching me intently.

"To understanding," he said, raising his own cup.

I lifted the tea to my lips, inhaling deeply. My Luna senses, heightened by danger, detected something acrid and metallic beneath the bergamot scent.

Wolfsbane. Mixed with something else—a viral agent I recognized from my own research into bloodline-targeting pathogens.

"Is something wrong?" Archer asked, his smile not reaching his eyes.

"Just admiring the blend," I lied, taking a fake sip. "It's... unusual."

He turned slightly, checking his phone. In that split second, I poured half the tea into the potted plant beside the bed.

"To new beginnings," I said, raising the cup again.

We talked—or rather, he talked while I nodded, pretending to drink occasionally. When he finally left, I watched the plant. Within an hour, its leaves began to wilt, turning brown at the edges.

He wasn't just trying to control me anymore.

He was trying to kill me.