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

I woke to the sound of pots clattering in the kitchen—a sound so foreign in our house that for a moment I thought we were being robbed. Sterling never cooked. In seven years of marriage, I'd never seen him so much as make toast.

Padding downstairs in my robe, I stopped in the doorway and stared. Sterling stood at the stove wearing one of my aprons—a frilly pink thing with ruffles that looked absurd against his broad shoulders. Oatmeal splattered the counter, the stovetop, and somehow even the wall behind him. He was stirring a pot with the concentration of a surgeon performing brain surgery.

"Daddy, is it ready yet?" Briar's voice drifted from the breakfast nook, where she sat swinging her legs in Willow's usual chair. She wore a pristine white nightgown that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, her blonde hair falling in perfect ringlets.

"Almost, sweetheart. Daddy's making it just the way you like it." Sterling's voice held a tenderness that made my chest ache. When was the last time he'd spoken to me that way? When was the last time he'd spoken to Willow that way?

Never. The answer was never.

"Good morning," I said, stepping into the kitchen.

Sterling barely glanced at me, but Briar's violet eyes went wide with what looked like practiced fear. She scrambled down from the chair and ran to Sterling, wrapping her small arms around his legs.

"Daddy, the bad lady is back!" she cried, her voice trembling with theatrical terror. "I'm scared!"

The spoon clattered to the floor as Sterling immediately scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. "Shh, it's okay, baby girl. Daddy's here. I'm an Alpha, remember? I'll always protect you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. How many times had I imagined him saying something like that to Willow? How many nights had our daughter cried herself to sleep, wondering why Daddy never held her, never comforted her, never promised to keep her safe?

Briar buried her face in Sterling's neck, but not before I caught the quick, calculating look she shot me over his shoulder. This child was no innocent victim. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"Harper," Sterling's voice was sharp, authoritative. "You're scaring her."

"I haven't said a word."

"Your presence is enough. Maybe you should—"

The shrill ring of my phone cut through his words. I glanced at the screen and felt my blood turn to ice. Ashford Manor. I hadn't heard from the Ashford family in months, not since Ivy had made it clear that I was no longer welcome at family gatherings.

My finger hovered over the decline button, but something made me answer.

"Hello?"

"Harper, dear." Margaret Ashford's cultured voice filled the kitchen, and I saw Sterling's head snap up, his attention suddenly focused on my conversation. "I think it's time we had a proper talk. About your real parents."

The phone nearly slipped from my hand. "Mrs. Ashford, I don't think—"

"Oh, but I do think, dear. You see, there's been a terrible mistake. One that's gone on far too long." Her voice carried that particular tone of aristocratic authority that brooked no argument. "You were never supposed to be raised by the Quinns. You're an Ashford, Harper. The real Ashford daughter."

The kitchen seemed to tilt around me. Sterling had gone completely still, Briar still in his arms, both of them staring at me with expressions I couldn't read.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that twenty-seven years ago, there was a mix-up at the hospital. You and Ivy were switched at birth. She's been living the life that was meant for you, while you... well, you've been living as a Quinn." Margaret's voice softened slightly. "I've known for some time, dear. The DNA tests confirmed it months ago. You are my granddaughter. My blood. Not Ivy."

The words echoed in my head like gunshots. Not Ivy. Not the golden child, the perfect daughter, the one everyone loved. Me.

But instead of relief or vindication, all I felt was a crushing weight of dread. Because I'd known. God help me, I'd known for almost a year.

The private investigator I'd hired to look into Ivy's background had uncovered the truth by accident. Birth records, hospital logs, a nurse who'd been on duty that night and remembered the chaos of a power outage, the confusion, the two babies who'd somehow ended up with the wrong families.

I'd sat in that investigator's office, staring at the DNA results that proved what I'd always suspected deep down—that I was the real Ashford heir, that Ivy was nothing more than a pretender who'd stolen my life.

But I'd buried the truth. Hidden it. Because I knew what would happen if Sterling ever found out. If he discovered that I was the legitimate Ashford daughter, the one with the real claim to the family fortune and status, he'd find a way to use it. To justify keeping me around while openly flaunting his relationship with Ivy. To have his cake and eat it too.

"Harper?" Margaret's voice pulled me back to the present. "Are you still there?"

"Yes," I whispered. "I'm here."

"Good. I'm sending a car for you this afternoon. It's time you took your rightful place in this family."

The line went dead. I stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling Sterling's eyes boring into me.

"What was that about?" His voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the wheels turning behind his dark eyes.

Before I could answer, my phone rang again. This time, the number made my stomach drop to my feet. Mercy General Hospital.

I'd been putting off returning their calls for three days, telling myself the tests were routine, that the fatigue and the strange pains in my chest were just stress. But the persistent calling suggested otherwise.

"I should take this," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Harper Quinn?" The voice on the other end was professional, clinical.

"Yes."

"This is Dr. Reeves from Mercy General. I need you to come in to discuss your test results as soon as possible."

"Just tell me over the phone."

A pause. "Ms. Quinn, I'm afraid I have some difficult news. The blood work and imaging we did last week... we found some abnormalities. Significant abnormalities."

My knees went weak. "What kind of abnormalities?"

"Ms. Quinn, I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but you have stage four lymphoma. It's quite advanced, and I'm afraid... the prognosis isn't good."

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the kitchen floor. The word 'lymphoma' echoed in my head, followed by another word that made my vision blur: terminal.

I was dying.