~One Week Later~
The moment the door shut behind us, "One year," I whispered, my voice shaking so violently it sounded like someone else was speaking. "They gave us one year, Gideon. One year to produce a miracle from a graveyard."
I didn't wait for him to respond. I ripped my designer bag from my shoulder and flung it across the foyer. It hit the marble floor with a thwack before sliding toward the feet of a waiting figure.
"Oh, Luna! Please, let me…"
Marisol, my personal maid, scurried forward like a startled mouse. She was twenty-one, the same age as me, but she carried herself with a wide-eyed submissiveness that usually irritated my wolf, Nyla. Today, however, Nyla was too busy licking her internal wounds to care. Marisol scooped up the bag. Her eyes started to brim with sympathetic tears as if she were the one who had just been shredded by the Pack Council.
"Get out," I yelled at the air, though I didn't mean Marisol. I meant the ghost of the meeting we had just fled.
"Ellie, sweetheart, breathe. Please," Gideon said, stepping closer.
His hands landed on my shoulders with that practiced. "Don't let the Council's verdict get to you. They're just old men rattling their sabers because they're afraid of change."
I let out a hysterical laugh, "Afraid of change? They aren't afraid of change, Gideon! They're afraid of us. They're afraid of the fact that an Alpha's throne is being kept warm by a man who wasn't born to it, while the true heiress is..."
I choked on the word. Barren.
"Hush," Gideon hissed, his eyes darting toward Marisol and the two guards standing at the perimeter of the hall.
He moved even closer to me and whispered: "Not here. You know we are keeping that between us. If the pack hears you screaming about your 'damaged' state, we won't even have a year. We'll have a week before they drag us out of this house."
"How am I supposed to do it, Gideon?!" I screamed anyway as the grief had already broken my composure.
I didn't care who heard. My father was dead, my baby was a memory, and my womb was fucking gone. "The Goldbane bloodline ends with me! My father's legacy, centuries of power... It's all going to be handed over to the Vanes or some other ambitious family because I can't do the one thing a Luna is 'built' for!"
I collapsed against the banister, my head in my hands. The pressure was suffocating. In our society, a Luna wasn't just a leader; she was the fountain of the next generation. Without an heir, Gideon was just a placeholder—a temporary Alpha whose authority would expire the moment the Council decided they'd waited long enough.
The image of storm-blue eyes and shoulder-length dark hair suddenly flashed behind my eyelids. "It's his fault! Jarek Ashthorne. If that rogue king hadn't brought his filth into existence, if he hadn't shown us that poison, my father would still be alive! The Council wouldn't be so panicked. They think we're weak. They think we're targets."
Gideon nodded fervently. "Exactly. That gutter-wolf came here to destabilize us. He probably caused the accident himself just to watch us crumble. We have to ensure the rogues never get close again, Ellie. We'll find a way to seek revenge for your father and the baby, I promise. But for now, we need to focus on…"
Whoosh.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the foyer's tall windows. One of the latches gave way. A stray breeze swirled into the room, carrying with it a crumpled piece of paper that looked like it had been dancing in the garden. It tumbled through the air, fluttering twice before landing directly on my chest.
I frowned, plucking the glossy paper from my dress. It was a bright and colorful flyer.
"THE GIFT OF HOPE: SURROGACY IN THE MODERN SUPERNATURAL WORLD."
Surrogacy.
I stared at it. My heart did a strange skip. There was a photo of a glowing woman holding a child, and beneath it, bullet points about safety, genetic legacy, and "hope for the hopeless."
"Gideon... look," I whispered, my fingers quivering as I smoothed out the creases. "Maybe the Moon Goddess is listening. Maybe this is the sign. If I can't carry... someone else can carry our blood. My father's legacy could live on."
Gideon snatched the flyer from my hand, scanning through it. He wasn't looking at it with disgust; he was looking at it like a man reading a map and that gave me hope—that maybe he'd love the idea.
"Surrogacy," he sang.
"Gideon?" I prompted, sensing the change in his demeanor. It was as though he had been compensated for the council's troubles.
He suddenly blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and to my greatest surprise, all the satisfied expressions vanished like they were never there. Instead, a horrified look crossed his features. He crumpled the paper into a ball.
"Absolutely not. No. You can't possibly be considering this, Elowen. To have a stranger carry a Goldbane heir? The scandal would be catastrophic. People would talk. They would say you weren't enough. They would say we weren't enough."
"But I am not enough!" I yelled, stepping toward him. "Look at me, Gideon! I am an empty vessel! If the choice is a little gossip or losing the entire Goldbane holdings, how is this even a question?"
Gideon looked down at the crumpled ball in his hand, then back at me. He let out a long, heavy sigh like a man who was "reluctantly" considering a sin.
"Trust me, Elowen, this man's expressions and actions are a walking irony. He WANTS it too." Nyla sarcastically clicked her tongue.
"I suppose... if it were the only way to protect you," he whispered, his thumb grazing the paper ball. "But no. I can't ask that of you. It's too much. It's too messy. I'll find another way to handle the Council."
"There is no other way," I whispered.
He didn't argue. He didn't even try to convince me otherwise. He just tucked the crumpled flyer into the pocket of his jacket—instead of throwing it in the trash—and kissed my forehead.
"We are both exhausted. Your mind is playing games with you because of the trauma. Marisol!"
The maid jumped, her shoulders hitting her ears. "Yes, Alpha?"
"Help the Luna into her room. Make sure she bathes and rests. I'll be in my study. I have... work to do."
But as he turned toward his study, I noticed he didn't throw the paper away. He kept it. And I stood there, shivering, feeling like he'd just handed me a match and told me not to start a fire, knowing damn well I was standing in a room full of gasoline.