Sisters Don’t Forgive — Destroying Our Betrayer Mates

The dining room glowed with the warm light of a dozen candles I'd arranged throughout the space, their flames dancing across the polished mahogany table where Nathaniel's favorite meal waited—herb-crusted lamb with roasted vegetables, the same dish I'd made for our first anniversary. The scent of rosemary and thyme filled the air, mingling with the subtle fragrance of the white roses I'd placed in crystal vases.

I smoothed my hands over the emerald silk dress I'd chosen, the fabric stretching gently over my seven-month belly where our child rested. Tonight was supposed to be perfect. Our third anniversary, a celebration of everything we'd built together, and a chance to finally talk about the future—about the nursery we needed to set up, about names we'd barely discussed because Nathaniel was always too busy with pack business.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight o'clock. Then eight-thirty. Nine.

I checked my phone for the dozenth time, my thumb hovering over Nathaniel's contact. No messages. No calls. Just silence stretching through our empty house like a cold draft.

By the time I heard his key in the lock at nine-fifteen, the candles had burned down to waxy pools and the lamb had grown cold. I forced a smile as he walked in, his phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

"—tell them the quarterly reports need to be submitted by Friday, not Monday. We can't afford delays with the Henderson Pack merger on the horizon." His eyes swept over the candlelit table, the roses, my dress, but his expression didn't change. He held up one finger—wait—and continued his conversation.

I stood there, feeling the baby shift restlessly in my belly as if sensing my disappointment. The romantic evening I'd planned, the intimate conversation about our growing family, all of it seemed to shrink under the harsh reality of his divided attention.

Fifteen minutes later, he finally ended the call.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said, loosening his tie as he approached the table. "Crisis with the northern territory negotiations. You know how it is."

"It's our anniversary," I said softly, trying to keep the hurt from my voice. "I thought tonight we could focus on us. On the baby."

He paused, looking genuinely surprised, as if he'd forgotten entirely. "Of course. Yes. Anniversary." He sat down heavily, already reaching for his phone again when it buzzed with another notification. "Just let me handle this one thing—"

"Nathaniel." My voice was firmer now. "Please. One evening. That's all I'm asking."

He set the phone face-down on the table, but I could see his fingers twitching toward it. "You're right. I'm sorry. This looks wonderful, Ashley. Really."

I served him the lamb, watching as he took a few distracted bites. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the soft scrape of cutlery against china. I placed my hand on my belly, feeling our child's gentle movements.

"I've been thinking about names," I began, hope threading through my voice. "For a girl, maybe Elena? It means 'bright light.' And for a boy—"

His phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through my words like a blade. Sienna's name flashed on the screen.

Nathaniel's entire demeanor changed. His shoulders straightened, his distracted expression sharpening into focused concern. "I have to take this," he said, already swiping to answer. "Sienna? What's wrong?"

Even from across the table, I could hear her sobbing voice through the speaker, high-pitched and desperate. "Nathaniel, thank god you answered! It's Bella—my pregnant rescue dog. She's in labor and something's wrong. There's so much blood, and the puppies aren't coming out right. I think she's dying!"

Nathaniel was on his feet instantly, his face grave with heroic purpose. "Okay, calm down. Where are you? I'll come get you and we'll take her to the emergency vet clinic."

"I'm at home, but I don't have a car big enough, and the taxi companies won't take a bleeding animal. Please, Nathaniel, you're the only one who can help me. She's suffering so much!"

I watched my husband transform before my eyes, becoming the noble Alpha rushing to save the day. The same man who couldn't remember our anniversary, who hadn't asked about our baby's movements or my latest doctor's appointment, was now mobilizing like a military commander for Sienna's crisis.

"Nathaniel," I said quietly, my hand still resting on my belly. "It's our anniversary."

He looked at me with something that might have been irritation. "Ashley, this is a life-or-death situation. Sienna's dog is dying."

"And I'm here. Your pregnant wife is here, wanting to spend one evening with you."

His jaw tightened. "Don't be selfish. This isn't about us right now. An innocent animal is suffering, and Sienna needs help. All lives matter, Ashley, even the ones who can't speak for themselves."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Selfish. For wanting my husband's attention on our anniversary. For hoping we could discuss our unborn child.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he said, already grabbing his keys from the side table. "Don't wait up."

And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the cold dinner and dying candles.

I sat in the silence for a long time, my hand moving in slow circles over my belly. Our child kicked, as if responding to my distress. The romantic evening I'd planned lay in ruins around me—the carefully chosen wine I couldn't drink while pregnant, the dessert I'd made from scratch, the conversation about our future that would have to wait for another day that might never come.

Finally, I began clearing the table, blowing out candles one by one until the dining room fell into shadow. The plates clinked softly as I stacked them, the sound echoing in the empty house. My movements were mechanical, automatic, as I tried to process what had just happened.

With the last of the dishes loaded into the dishwasher, I turned off the kitchen lights and headed upstairs to our bedroom. The wooden staircase creaked under my weight, a familiar sound in our old house. I gripped the handrail as I climbed, my other hand supporting my belly.

The rail felt loose under my palm—something I'd mentioned to Nathaniel at least six times over the past few months. "The bannister needs to be fixed," I'd told him just last week. "It's not safe, especially with the baby coming."

"I'll get to it," he'd replied, not looking up from his laptop. "Add it to the list."

But like so many other things, it had remained undone, another item on an endless list of repairs and responsibilities that never seemed to reach the top of his priorities.

Halfway up the stairs, as I shifted my weight to accommodate my growing belly, the aged wood finally gave way.

The handrail snapped with a sharp crack, and suddenly I was falling, my body tumbling heavily down the hardwood steps. My belly struck the sharp edge of a step, then another, pain exploding through my abdomen as I rolled and crashed downward.

I came to rest on the foyer floor, my body twisted at an unnatural angle, warm wetness spreading beneath me. The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils as I tried to move, tried to breathe through the agony radiating from my core.

The baby. Oh God, the baby.

With trembling, blood-stained fingers, I fumbled for my phone, my vision blurring as I speed-dialed Nathaniel's number. Each ring felt like an eternity as I lay there, feeling our child's life slipping away with every passing second.