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

The drive to Mercy General felt like traveling through a fog. Every red light, every turn, every mile stretched into an eternity while my mind struggled to process what I'd just heard.

Lymphoma. Stage four. Terminal.

The words kept echoing in my head as I sat in the sterile waiting room, watching other patients shuffle past with their IV poles and tired eyes. Some looked hopeful. Others looked resigned. I wondered which category I fell into.

"Harper Quinn?" Dr. Reeves appeared in the doorway, his expression professionally neutral in that way doctors perfected when delivering bad news.

I followed him into his office, noting the box of tissues strategically placed on his desk, the motivational posters on the walls that suddenly seemed obscene in their cheerfulness.

"Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair across from his desk, then opened a thick file. "I wanted to go over your test results in person."

"Just tell me how long." The words came out steadier than I felt.

Dr. Reeves looked up, surprised by my directness. "I'm sorry?"

"How long do I have? Six months? A year?"

He set down the file, his expression softening with what might have been respect. "Given the advanced stage and the... unique nature of your condition, I'd estimate six months. Maybe less."

Unique nature. I almost laughed. If only he knew how unique.

"The thing is, Ms. Quinn, your blood work shows something I've only seen in a handful of cases. It's not just lymphoma. There's something else happening—a deterioration at the cellular level that we can't fully explain. It's as if your body is... giving up."

Wolf Spirit Decay. That's what the old healers would have called it. When a mate bond turned toxic, when one wolf was constantly rejected by their mate, their spirit began to wither. And when the wolf died, the human followed.

Seven years of Sterling's indifference, his cruelty, his emotional abandonment—it had finally caught up with me. My wolf had been crying out in pain for so long that she was simply... fading away.

"Is there any treatment?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"We can try chemotherapy, radiation, but given the advanced stage and the underlying... complications, it would likely only buy you a few weeks. And the quality of life would be severely compromised."

I nodded, my hands folded carefully in my lap. "What about my daughter? Is it genetic?"

"No, this particular condition isn't hereditary. She'll be fine."

At least there was that. Willow would be okay. She'd be an orphan, but she'd be healthy.

"You should notify your spouse," Dr. Reeves continued gently. "You'll need support during this time. Family, friends—"

"He won't care." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Dr. Reeves blinked, clearly taken aback. "I'm sure that's not true. When people hear a diagnosis like this—"

"Trust me, Doctor. He won't care." I stood, smoothing down my skirt with hands that barely trembled. "Thank you for being honest with me. I appreciate it."

"Ms. Quinn, please. There are support groups, counselors who specialize in helping families navigate—"

"I'll be fine. Thank you."

I walked out of his office with my head high, past the other patients in the waiting room, through the sliding glass doors into the harsh afternoon sunlight. Only when I reached my car did I allow myself to lean against the door and close my eyes.

Six months.

Six months to make sure Willow would be taken care of. Six months to secure her future, to find her a safe place in this world that had been so cruel to both of us.

As I drove home, my mind began to work with a clarity I hadn't felt in years. The Ashford revelation this morning—it wasn't just a cruel twist of fate. It was an opportunity.

I was the real Ashford daughter. Not Ivy. Me. Which meant I had a legitimate claim to the family fortune, the business empire, the social standing that Sterling valued above all else. I could destroy him if I wanted to. I could expose Ivy as a fraud, claim my rightful inheritance, and watch Sterling's carefully constructed world crumble around him.

But as I pulled into our driveway, past the perfectly manicured lawn and the fountain Sterling had installed to impress his business associates, I realized I didn't want revenge. Not really.

I just wanted my daughter to be safe.

I wanted her to have the resources to build a life for herself, to never have to depend on anyone the way I'd depended on Sterling. I wanted her to have choices.

The house was quiet when I walked in. Too quiet. I found Sterling in his study, Briar curled up in his lap while he read to her from what looked like a first-edition children's book. The scene was so domestic, so perfectly paternal, that it made my chest ache.

"Where's Willow?" I asked from the doorway.

Sterling looked up, and for a moment, I thought I saw something like concern cross his face. "Upstairs. She seemed upset about something. How did your appointment go?"

The question caught me off guard. Sterling never asked about my appointments, my health, my anything. For a split second, hope fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird.

"Fine," I said carefully. "Just routine tests."

He nodded, then looked back at the book. "Good. Listen, Ivy's coming to see Briar the day after tomorrow. I need you to take Willow out for the afternoon. Maybe to that children's museum she likes. I don't want any... awkward encounters."

And there it was. The real reason for his sudden interest in our daughter's whereabouts. Not concern for Willow's wellbeing, but concern for his own comfort. He didn't want his wife and his mistress in the same space, didn't want to deal with the messy reality of his choices.

"Of course," I said, my voice hollow. "Wouldn't want things to get awkward."

Sterling either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. "Thank you. I knew you'd understand."

I turned to leave, but something sharp caught in my throat. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to suppress the cough, but it came anyway—violent and wet. When I pulled my hand away, there was blood on my palm.

Quickly, I grabbed a tissue from the hall table, wiping away the evidence before Sterling could see. But as I crumpled the stained tissue and shoved it into my pocket, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.

Pale skin, hollow cheeks, eyes that looked too big for my face. How had I not noticed how sick I looked? How long had I been dying without realizing it?

Six months. Maybe less.

I climbed the stairs to check on Willow, my mind already working, already planning. Six months to secure my daughter's future. Six months to make sure she'd never have to beg for love the way I had.

And if certain people had to pay a price along the way... well, perhaps it was time they learned that even dying wolves still had teeth.