My Son Told His Father I Was Faking My Miscarriage

"We cannot find a fetal heartbeat, Luna Maya."

Dr. Evans stood beside the sterile metal exam bed, holding a blue clipboard against his white coat. The heart monitor next to him beeped in a slow, steady rhythm, tracking my vitals while the screen beside it remained entirely blank.

"The bleeding is severe," Dr. Evans continued, his voice maintaining a careful, clinical distance. "We need to proceed with a surgical evacuation immediately to prevent further hemorrhaging. Do you want me to page Alpha Jace?"

"I will call him," I said.

I pulled my phone from my blood-stained pajama pocket. My fingers left red smudges on the glass screen. I dialed Jace's private number, the one reserved exclusively for family emergencies.

It rang twice before the line clicked dead. He sent me straight to voicemail.

Handling Talia's relapse. Be right there.

I stared at the plain black text. My husband was in the clinic down the street from our house, tending to a woman who had faked a panic attack, while I lay in the emergency ward losing our child.

I closed the message thread and tapped the speed-dial for Owen's pediatric communicator. The screen showed the word Read under my outgoing emergency alert, but the call went straight to his automated voicemail.

Dr. Evans tapped his pen against the plastic edge of his clipboard. "Luna? We need a signature on the emergency contact release form before we can administer the anesthesia."

I took the pen from his hand. I looked at the line where Jace's name sat in neat, typed letters. I pressed the pen tip to the paper and drew a thick black line straight through my husband's name.

In the blank space next to it, I wrote: Notify Patient Only.

A nurse asked if I wanted to wait ten more minutes.

"No," I told her, handing the clipboard back to the doctor. "Start the prep."

"I have already waited," I said.

The nurse unzipped my ruined coat to swap it for a blue surgical gown. As she pulled the fabric off my shoulders, a glossy square of paper slipped from the pocket and landed on the linoleum floor.

"Should I put this in the family locker?" the nurse asked, holding it by the corner. "So your mate can hold onto it when he gets here?"

I looked at the black-and-white image. I pictured Owen standing in our living room earlier today, shielding Talia with his small body. I remembered his voice echoing over the sound of my own pain.

"Put it in my personal belongings bag," I instructed the nurse. "Do not give it to anyone else. Under any circumstances."

The nurse nodded and slid the photo into a clear plastic pouch with my name printed on the label.

Dr. Evans returned with a yellow sheet of paper. "Anesthesia consent. We need a witness signature since your mate is not present in the building."

I lay flat on the mattress, staring at the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights. I was the Luna of this Pack. I had a husband who swore loyalty vows to me eight years ago. I had a ten-year-old son. Yet, as the medication flowed into my veins and the monitor tracked my fading pulse, the chair sitting outside my operating room remained completely empty.

"Did she really lose the baby?"

The whispered question pulled me through the heavy fog of the anesthesia.

I opened my eyes. Jace stood near the door of the recovery room, cornering the shift nurse. He wore the same gray shirt from this morning.

Even now, with me lying in a hospital bed attached to a saline drip, he needed a medical professional to verify my loss. He needed proof that I was not faking a miscarriage just to ruin Talia's afternoon.

Jace noticed I was awake. He dropped his conversation with the nurse and rushed to the side of the bed. He reached out to grab my hand.

I pulled my arm back, letting his fingers grasp empty air.

Owen stood at the foot of the mattress. His face was pale, his shoulders hunched, but he kept his distance. He did not step forward to check on me. He just stared at the white blanket covering my legs.

Dr. Evans walked into the room, flipping through my chart. "The procedure went smoothly, Luna. You will need strict bed rest for the next three weeks. No stress. No heavy lifting. We need to monitor your recovery closely."

"I will take her back to the Alpha House," Jace announced immediately, stepping into the doctor's line of sight. "We have the staff to care for her properly. I will make sure she rests."

I did not look at Jace. I shifted my gaze to the end of the bed, locking eyes with my son.

"Owen," I said, my voice raspy but entirely steady.

"Do you also think I was acting?" I asked.

Owen opened his mouth. He looked at his father. Then, he turned his head, glancing out the open door toward the hallway that led to the Pack clinic where Talia was staying. He swallowed hard.

His silence hit me harder than the physical pain in my abdomen. I could no longer use his age as an excuse. I could no longer pretend he just did not understand the situation. My son knew exactly what he was doing, and he chose to protect Talia's feelings over my life.

Jace frowned, resting a heavy hand on Owen's shoulder. "Do not interrogate the kid, Maya. We all had a rough night. Let us just get you home and talk about this tomorrow."

"I will sign the discharge papers," I told Dr. Evans.

Jace let out a relieved breath, assuming I was falling back into line. He did not know I was only returning to that house to pack my bags and end my life there permanently.

The nurse walked in carrying a brown paper bag. She set it gently on the rolling tray table next to me. Inside sat the ultrasound photo, my cut hospital wristband, and a small silver memory box provided by the grieving ward.

Jace reached for the twisted paper handles. "I have got it."

I slapped his hand away. I grabbed the bag and pulled it flush against my chest, gripping the rough paper until my knuckles turned white.

"No," I said, staring directly into his eyes. "This time, I carry it myself."