My Alpha Tried to Steal Our Son

I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing incessantly. Squinting at the screen, I saw a flood of notifications—all from pack members. My stomach tightened as I scrolled through them.

"Have you seen what they've done?" Marcus's voice came through the door, his usually composed tone edged with anger.

I opened the curtains and felt my breath catch. Across the manicured lawn of our gated community, massive banners hung from trees and lampposts. "WHORE," screamed one in blood-red letters. "TRAITOR TO THE PACK," declared another. The morning sun made them glow with sickening visibility.

"They were put up overnight," Marcus explained, his face grim as he handed me a coffee. "Security cameras showed Emerald and two pack members doing it at 3 AM."

I sipped the coffee, letting its warmth steady me. "And social media?"

" Worse."

I opened Instagram to find Emerald's account had posted a professional-looking PDF—the same medical report from the christening, but now with highlighted sections and annotations. "PROOF: The Luna's deception!" The caption read. "How long has she been lying to us all?"

Comments flooded in beneath it:

"Always knew she was too good to be true."

"Alpha deserves better!"

"How could she bring another man's bastard into our pack?"

Bot accounts—I could spot them from the identical profile pictures and similar comment patterns. Emerald had planned this thoroughly.

My fingers trembled slightly as I scrolled through the Silverveil Pack forums. Threads with titles like "The Truth About Our Luna" and "Who's Really Behind the Baby?" dominated the page. Members I'd known for years were posting vicious speculation about my "secret lovers" and questioning my "moral character."

"Mrs. O'Brien?" Marcus's voice pulled me back. "What do you want to do?"

I caught my reflection in the window—pale, shocked, with dark circles under my eyes. For a moment, I wanted to hide. To disappear with Liam and never face this humiliation again.

Then I straightened my shoulders. "Call my father."

---

Two hours later, I sat across from Dr. Ivan O'Brien in his private office at Seattle General Hospital. The space smelled of antiseptic and old books—a comforting combination that had anchored me since childhood.

"These reports," my father said, his surgeon's hands methodically dissecting the documents Emerald had produced. "They're forgeries."

"Can you prove it?" I asked.

He tapped a section highlighted in yellow. "This terminology—'oligoasthenoteratozoospermia'—isn't used in standard medical practice anymore. It was replaced by 'severe oligozoospermia' in the latest guidelines." He pointed to another section. "And this lab letterhead—the font is wrong. I've worked with Westlake Diagnostics for twenty years; their reports use Arial, not Calibri."

A knock interrupted us. Naya slipped in, her detective's badge glinting on her belt. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was hell."

"Find anything?" I asked.

She dropped a folder on the desk. "'Dr. Emerald Chavez' doesn't exist in any medical licensing database in the country." She flipped to a page showing a driver's license photo of a woman with the same name—but clearly not the same person. "This is the real Emerald Chavez. She's been dead for three years."

My father leaned forward. "So our Emerald..."

"Is a fraud," Naya confirmed. "And based on what I'm seeing in these reports, she's committed multiple felonies just with the forgery alone."

---

That afternoon, I sat in my home office with my laptop open to our bank accounts. Marcus stood guard outside the door as I systematically dismantled Benjamin's financial world.

First, the joint accounts—all three of them—frozen with a single click. Then the supplementary credit cards he'd used for "pack business" but which had paid for countless dinners with Emerald. Cancelled.

Next, I called the leasing company for the two luxury cars his mother drove around in—both in my name, both paid for with my money.

"I'm revoking authorization for all drivers except myself," I explained calmly to the manager. "Please arrange for their return by tomorrow."

"Of course, Mrs. O'Brien. Will there be anything else?"

I smiled, thinking of Benjamin's face when his card declined. "No, that will be all."

My phone buzzed with a text from Naya: "Just got word. Benjamin's at Tiffany's on Fifth Avenue, trying to buy Emerald a 'victory gift.'"

I closed my eyes, picturing the scene. The salesman's expectant smile as Benjamin handed over his black card—the one that had never been declined in his life.

"Would you like the gift wrapped, sir?"

"Yes, make it special."

"I'm sorry, sir. Your card has been declined."

The pack members shopping nearby would hear every word. Benjamin's face would flush that ugly shade of red it always did when he was embarrassed.

My phone buzzed again: "It's happening. He's losing it."

I set the phone down and returned to my computer. There was still more work to do. After all, if Benjamin wanted war, I would give him one he couldn't win.