My Mate Bought My Cure for Her

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our dining room as I gathered my family around the mahogany table one last time. The accelerant had given me a restless night, my heart racing at irregular intervals, but I'd woken with crystal clarity about what needed to be done.

Killian sat at the head of the table, his hair still damp from the shower, while Mira curled into the chair beside him like a contented cat. She wore one of my cashmere sweaters—the cream one I'd been looking for all week—and had the audacity to compliment me on my "generous closet" when I walked in.

Victoria and Robert had arrived twenty minutes early, their faces bright with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Christmas morning. They knew something was coming, could sense the shift in the family dynamic like wolves scenting blood on the wind.

"Thank you all for coming," I began, my voice steady despite the irregular flutter in my chest. "I have some additional arrangements I'd like to make."

I placed a thick manila folder on the table, the legal documents inside representing the dismantling of everything I'd built over the past decade. Bank statements, investment portfolios, property deeds—all of it meticulously organized and ready for transfer.

"Yesterday, I gave Mira the company," I continued, watching their faces carefully. "Today, I want to give her everything else."

The silence that followed was different from yesterday's shocked quiet. This was the kind of stunned silence that preceded explosions.

Killian leaned forward, his Alpha instincts clearly on high alert. "Scarlett, what are you talking about?"

"My personal assets," I said, opening the folder and spreading the documents across the polished surface. "Bank accounts, investment funds, the vacation home in Aspen, the apartment in Manhattan, my grandmother's jewelry collection. I want it all transferred to Mira for... management purposes."

Robert's businessman facade cracked completely. He grabbed the nearest document—a bank statement showing my personal account balance—and his face went pale. "Scarlett, this is... this is millions of dollars. You can't just give away your entire net worth."

"Why not?" I asked, genuinely curious about his sudden concern for my financial welfare. "Yesterday you were thrilled when I gave away my company."

"That's different," he sputtered, his reading glasses sliding down his nose as he frantically shuffled through the papers. "This is your personal security, your retirement, your—"

"My choice," I finished firmly.

Killian stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "Something's wrong. This isn't like you, Scarlett. Are you being blackmailed? Threatened? Did someone get to you?"

The concern in his voice might have touched me once. Now it just felt like too little, too late. He was worried about external threats when the real danger had been sitting at our dinner table for months, wearing my clothes and sleeping in my bed.

"I'm fine," I lied smoothly. "I've simply realized that family should come first. Isn't that what you've all been telling me?"

Victoria, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up. Her voice was warm with approval, the kind of maternal pride I'd craved my entire life. "Oh, Scarlett. You've finally developed a proper sense of family responsibility. I'm so proud of you."

She reached across the table to squeeze my hand, her touch gentle and affectionate. "Mira has such a good head for finances. She'll take excellent care of everything, won't you, dear?"

Mira had been suspiciously silent through the entire exchange, but now she stirred, putting on her performance of reluctant acceptance. "I... I don't know what to say. This is so generous, but I'm not sure I should—"

"Of course you should," Victoria interrupted, her eyes practically glowing with satisfaction. "Scarlett clearly trusts your judgment. And with your condition requiring so much medical care, having access to proper resources will be essential."

The way my mother said "your condition" made it sound like Mira was battling cancer instead of whatever mysterious weakness syndrome she claimed to have. But I noticed how quickly Mira's protests died away once Victoria gave her blessing.

"Well," Mira said, her voice taking on that breathy quality she used when she wanted to sound overwhelmed, "if you really think it's best... I suppose I could help manage things. Temporarily, of course."

Temporarily. Just like Killian's "temporary" mental bond.

I called in the lawyers I'd arranged to have on standby. As they began preparing the transfer documents, I watched Mira carefully. Her performance of reluctance was flawless—the occasional protest, the worried glances at Killian, the way she kept insisting this was "too much responsibility."

But I caught the tells. The way her fingers drummed impatiently against the table when the lawyers took too long to prepare a document. The sharp look she shot the lead attorney when he began explaining the reversibility clauses. The subtle way she kept checking her phone, as if she was expecting an important message.

"Could we perhaps expedite this process?" Mira asked, her voice carefully casual. "I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and I'd hate to keep them waiting."

A doctor's appointment. Right. I thought about the bank records I'd discovered, the monthly transfers to Jason Cole that had been steadily increasing over the past six months. The most recent payment had been for fifty thousand dollars, made just three days ago.

Who was Jason Cole, and why was my dying sister-in-law funneling money to him with such urgency?

"Of course," the lawyer said, speeding up his explanations and skipping over several clauses that would have protected my interests. "We can have everything finalized within the hour."

As Mira signed her name to document after document, I noticed the slight tremor in her hands. Not the weakness she claimed plagued her, but excitement. Anticipation. The same kind of nervous energy a gambler felt when the dice were in the air.

When the last signature was complete, the lawyers packed up their briefcases and left us alone with the aftermath of what I'd just done. The family sat in stunned silence, processing the magnitude of the transfer.

"Well," I said, standing up and smoothing down my skirt, "I think I'll get some air."

I walked out to the balcony that overlooked our manicured gardens, leaving the door slightly ajar behind me. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of the roses I'd planted when we first moved into this house. Everything looked exactly the same as it had yesterday, but somehow felt completely different.

Behind me, I could hear my family's voices rising in animated conversation. Mira was already discussing her "vision" for restructuring my investment portfolio, her voice bright with newfound confidence. Victoria was praising her financial acumen, while Robert peppered her with questions about her plans.

Killian's voice was quieter, more thoughtful, but I caught fragments of his responses. Agreement. Encouragement. Support for his sister-in-law's sudden windfall.

Not once did anyone ask how I was feeling. Not once did anyone wonder if I might need emotional support after giving away everything I'd worked for. I had just made myself financially destitute, and my family was celebrating.

My phone buzzed against my hip, and I pulled it out to check the message. Unknown number, but the words on the screen made my heart stop:

*Scarlett, I just got back from overseas and heard your company changed hands? Are you okay? What happened?*

I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling as I recognized the writing style. Layla. My college roommate, my former best friend, the only person who had ever warned me that something was "off" about Killian during our engagement.

Layla, who had moved to London for work five years ago and had slowly drifted out of my life as Killian made it increasingly difficult for me to maintain friendships outside the pack.

Layla, who had been the only person to ever look at my perfect life and ask, "But are you happy?"

I took a shaky breath and dialed her number, my heart pounding as it rang once, twice—

"Scarlett?" Her voice was exactly as I remembered it—warm, concerned, genuine. "Oh my God, I've been so worried. I heard through the grapevine that Wynter Rose was sold, and I couldn't believe it. What's going on?"

I closed my eyes, feeling tears threaten for the first time in days. "Layla... can you come see me? I need... this might be the last time we can talk."