My Rival Paid to Have Me Dead

The morning sun filtered through the vineyard's eastern hills, casting golden light across the stone terrace where Malcolm and I sat. Three years had passed since that stormy night when I'd found him wounded among the vines. Three years of healing, of building something new from the ashes of my former life.

Malcolm's phone vibrated against the wrought iron table. He glanced at it, his expression shifting subtly—a tightening around his eyes that I'd come to recognize.

"It's time," he said simply, setting the device down.

I knew what this meant. His pack needed him. The mysterious responsibilities he'd never fully explained were calling him back.

"I have to return to New York," he continued, his fingers finding mine across the table. "The territory dispute has been settled, but there are... political matters that require my presence."

I nodded, though my heart clenched at the thought of separation. "I understand."

"Do you?" His amber eyes studied me intently. "Lilia, there's something I need to show you before we leave."

He stood, taking my hand and leading me toward the vineyard's edge where ancient oaks created a sheltered grove. The morning mist still clung to the trees, creating an ethereal atmosphere.

"I've kept part of myself hidden from you," he said, his voice dropping to a timbre that sent shivers down my spine. "Not from distrust, but from fear."

"Fear?" I echoed, unable to imagine what could frighten this powerful man.

"That you would see me as a monster." His eyes held mine, then slowly began to change. The amber deepened, flecks of gold appearing until his irises blazed like molten sunshine. "That you would run."

I gasped, stumbling back a step before catching myself. "Your eyes..."

"This is who I truly am, Lilia." He stepped closer, his hands gentle as they framed my face. "I am the Alpha of the North American Territories. A werewolf."

Instead of fear, a strange calm washed over me. The pieces clicked into place—his extraordinary healing, his nocturnal habits, the wildness I sometimes glimpsed beneath his controlled exterior.

"The wolf you found that night," I whispered. "It was you."

"Yes." His thumbs traced my cheekbones. "And now you must choose. Return to New York with me—not as a victim seeking shelter, but as my Luna, my queen. Or stay here, safe and hidden."

I thought of the life I'd built here—the vineyard thriving under Malcolm's guidance, the woman I'd become in his presence. Then I thought of New York, of those who had betrayed me, who believed me broken and gone.

"I'm not afraid," I said, reaching up to touch his face. "And I'm not running anymore."

A smile spread across his features, transforming his serious expression into something radiant. "Then it's time they see what you've become."

I placed his hand on my still-flat stomach, watching his eyes widen in shock and joy. "There's something else you should know before we go."

* * *

Three years. Three years since Lilia Powell had vanished from New York society, leaving behind whispers of scandal and tragedy. Three years since the Armstrongs had spun their tale of the broken heiress who couldn't handle her brush with death.

The PR team Malcolm had assembled worked with military precision. The rumors began weeks before our arrival—sightings of a mysterious pregnant woman in Paris, whispers of a reclusive billionaire's new love, hints of a Powell heiress reborn.

By the time our private jet touched down at JFK, cameras were already waiting.

"Ready?" Malcolm murmured, his hand warm against the small of my back as we prepared to descend the stairs.

I smoothed the silk of my dress over my swollen belly, feeling the weight of the diamonds at my throat and wrists. "They're expecting a victim."

"They'll get a queen," he replied, his eyes flashing gold momentarily before returning to their human appearance.

The door opened. Flashbulbs exploded like stars as we emerged into the New York afternoon. Malcolm's hand never left my back, a protective presence that radiated power and possession.

I saw the shock on the reporters' faces—the realization that this wasn't the broken socialite they'd expected. This was someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.

"Luna Powell-Ward!" someone called out, using the title Malcolm had insisted upon. "Look this way!"

I turned, meeting the cameras with a smile that held no warmth, no vulnerability. Behind me, I could almost hear Victoria Armstrong's perfectly composed world beginning to crack.

The image went viral before we reached the waiting car—the pregnant heiress draped in diamonds, the mysterious billionaire at her side, both of them radiating power rather than trauma.

By nightfall, #LunaPowellWard was trending nationwide, and the carefully constructed narrative of my destruction was crumbling like sand.

As our car pulled away from the airport, Malcolm's phone buzzed with an incoming call. He glanced at the screen and smiled—a predator's smile that sent a thrill down my spine.

"Xander Armstrong," he read aloud. "It seems your former fiancé has noticed your return."

I placed a protective hand over my belly, feeling our child shift beneath my palm. "Good," I said softly. "Let him see what he lost."

Malcolm's eyes met mine, golden flecks dancing in their depths. "The real show hasn't even begun."