Seven Years as His Chosen Luna, But I Was Just the Nanny

The sound of Sterling's footsteps disappeared down the hallway, followed by the soft click of our bedroom door closing. Our bedroom. The thought felt foreign now, like trying to claim ownership of something that had never really been mine.

I looked down at Willow, who was still clinging to my legs, her small body trembling. The birthday decorations suddenly seemed garish in the dim light—purple streamers hanging like wilted flowers, balloons that had started to lose their buoyancy.

"Come on, sweetheart," I whispered, gently extracting myself from her grip. "Let's have some cake."

Willow looked up at me with those dark eyes—Sterling's eyes—but where his had grown cold, hers held nothing but confusion and hurt. "But Daddy didn't sing happy birthday."

The words were a knife between my ribs. I forced a smile and led her to the dining table, pulling out her chair with exaggerated ceremony. "Well then, Mommy will have to sing extra loud to make up for it."

I lit the five candles again, my hands steadier than I felt. The flames danced in the quiet room, casting shifting shadows across Willow's face as I began to sing. My voice cracked on the high notes, but I pushed through, clapping and making silly faces until she giggled.

"Make a wish, baby."

Willow closed her eyes tight, her small hands pressed together like she was praying. When she blew out the candles, smoke curled between us, and I wondered what she had wished for. Probably the same thing I would have wished for at her age—for Daddy to love me.

As I cut the cake, serving her a piece with extra frosting, Willow's voice came out small and uncertain. "Mommy, why doesn't Daddy like me?"

The knife slipped, nearly cutting my finger. I set it down carefully, my hands shaking. "What makes you think that, sweetheart?"

"He never picks me up like he picked up that other girl. He never reads me stories or tucks me in." Her lower lip trembled. "And he forgot my birthday."

I knelt beside her chair, taking her small hands in mine. How do you explain to a five-year-old that sometimes people are just broken? That sometimes love isn't enough?

"Daddy's just... busy with work," I lied, the words tasting like ash.

But even as I said it, memories flooded back. Five years ago, when I'd first told Sterling I was pregnant, the look of horror that had crossed his face.

*"Get rid of it,"* he'd said, his voice flat and cold. *"We're not ready for children."*

*"But Sterling, this is our baby—"*

*"No. I won't discuss this. Make an appointment."*

I'd refused. For weeks, he'd barely spoken to me, moving through our house like I was invisible. When Willow was born, I'd held her in the hospital bed, waiting for him to come, to hold his daughter, to fall in love with her the way I had the moment I'd felt her first kick.

He'd arrived three hours late, still in his work clothes. He'd looked at Willow for exactly thirty seconds before checking his phone.

*"She's healthy?"* he'd asked the doctor, not me.

*"Perfect,"* the doctor had replied.

*"Good. Harper, I'll send someone to drive you home when you're discharged."*

And that was it. He'd never held her. Never fed her a bottle or changed her diaper. Never sang her to sleep or kissed her scraped knees. For five years, I'd told myself he just wasn't good with children, that he'd warm up to her eventually.

But tonight, I'd watched him cradle that little girl—Ivy's daughter—with a tenderness I'd never seen him show our child. The realization hit me like a physical blow: Sterling didn't dislike children. He disliked *our* child.

"Mommy?" Willow's voice pulled me back to the present. "You're crying."

I wiped my cheeks quickly, not realizing the tears had started. "I'm just happy it's your birthday, baby. Eat your cake."

We sat in the decorated dining room, just the two of us, sharing birthday cake while the sound of Sterling's voice drifted from upstairs. He was reading to that little girl—Briar—his voice warm and patient in a way I'd never heard him use with Willow.

After Willow finished her cake, I helped her into her pajamas and tucked her into bed. She was asleep before I finished her bedtime story, exhausted from staying up past her bedtime waiting for a father who would never come.

I was cleaning up the dining room when Sterling appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He'd changed into casual clothes, looking more relaxed than he had in months.

"I need you to move to the guest room," he said without preamble. "Briar isn't comfortable sleeping alone in a new place. She needs the master bedroom."

I stopped wiping down the table, the cloth frozen in my hand. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Pack your things tonight. I'll sleep on the couch until she adjusts."

The casual way he said it, like he was rearranging furniture instead of dismantling our marriage, made something snap inside me. "It's Willow's birthday, Sterling. You walked into our home two hours late, didn't even acknowledge her, and now you want me to give up our bedroom for some other woman's child?"

His jaw tightened. "Briar is not 'some other woman's child.' She's mine."

The admission hung between us like a loaded gun. Mine. Not ours. His.

"And what about Willow?" I asked, my voice barely controlled. "She's yours too. She waited all night for you. You didn't even say happy birthday to her."

Sterling shrugged, the gesture so dismissive it took my breath away. "She's fine. Kids are resilient."

"She asked me why you don't like her."

Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or annoyance at being caught. But it was gone in an instant. "Do whatever you want, Harper. I'm not going to argue with you about this."

He turned to go back upstairs, and I heard it again—his voice, soft and gentle as he spoke to Briar. "It's okay, sweetheart. Daddy's here. Let me read you another story."

I stood in our living room, surrounded by the remnants of a birthday party no one had attended, listening to my husband give another child the love he'd never shown our daughter. The pain in my chest was so sharp I gasped, pressing my hand to my heart.

Deep inside me, my wolf let out a keening wail—a sound of such profound grief it made my knees buckle. But the sound was different now, weaker, like it was coming from very far away.

I sank onto the couch, my hand still pressed to my chest. The bond between mates was sacred, unbreakable under normal circumstances. But what happened when one mate simply... stopped caring? When love died not in a dramatic confrontation but in a thousand small cruelties?

My wolf's cry came again, fainter this time, and terror gripped me. Was this what happened when a mate bond slowly dissolved? Or was something else happening to me, something I was too afraid to name?

I closed my eyes and tried to reach for that connection that had once been as natural as breathing. But all I found was silence, growing deeper with each passing moment.