Escaping with the Alpha

While I Was Bleeding Out, He Lit Lanterns For Her

Katie Oettgen

As I lay on the floor of our manor, bleeding out from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, I used my last ounce of strength to call my husband, Cole. I begged him for help, my vision blurring. But the only thing I heard was the clinking of champagne glasses and his mistress's giggle in the background. "Stop the drama, June," Cole snapped, his voice cold. "We're about to go on stage. Don't call again." He hung up, leaving me to die alone on the Persian rug while he accepted an award with another woman on his arm. I woke up in the hospital days later. My baby was gone. They had removed my fallopian tube. Cole finally arrived, smelling of expensive scotch and his mistress's perfume. He didn't hug me. He didn't cry. Instead, he leaned over my hospital bed, pressing his knee into the mattress until my fresh stitches tore open and bled. "You embarrassed me by calling an ambulance," he hissed. "My mistress, Alycia, says you're faking it. Clean yourself up." He left me bleeding again to go announce a $10 million donation to Alycia's "groundbreaking" medical research. I stared at the TV screen, numb. The research Alycia was taking credit for? It was mine. I wrote that patent years ago under a pseudonym. They thought I was just a poor, orphan housewife who needed Cole's money to survive. They had no idea I was actually a billionaire scientist hiding my identity. I pulled the IV needle out of my arm. A drop of blood fell onto the divorce papers I had been hiding. I didn't wipe it off. I signed my name right over it. Then I walked into the bank, reactivated my dormant account with $128 million, and bought the penthouse directly overlooking Cole's house. The mourning widow is dead. The avenger is born.

Romance Crime Revenge Pregnancy Enemies to Lovers Pregnancy Personal Growth

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Vivian POV

The sterile, bleach-heavy air of the Pack-affiliated medical center on the Upper East Side did nothing to calm my racing heart. I sat on the edge of the examination table, my hands tightly gripping the crinkling paper beneath me.

Dr. Smith, the senior Pack Doctor, stood before me with an unmarked folder. Her usually warm eyes were clouded with a deep, terrifying gravity.

"You are pregnant, Luna," she said softly.

For a fraction of a second, a desperate spark of hope ignited in my chest. A pup. An heir. Maybe this was the miracle I needed to bridge the freezing chasm between me and my husband, Alpha Julian Sterling. Maybe a child of his own blood would finally awaken his dormant mate instincts and make him look at me as more than just a political obligation.

But Dr. Smith didn't smile. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper. "Vivian, you must listen to me. This is an extremely dangerous pregnancy. You are a wolfless Omega. You don't have the accelerated healing or the physical resilience of a shifted wolf." She paused, her words heavy with dread. "The pup's Alpha blood will be a fire your body may not be able to contain. Any severe emotional distress or physical trauma could be catastrophic for both of you."

The spark of hope instantly turned to ash, replaced by a suffocating terror. My body was a fragile vessel carrying a raging inferno. If the Pack Elders—the very people who despised my "tainted" bloodline—found out about this vulnerability, they would strip this child from me, or worse, terminate it to protect the Alpha's legacy.

"No one can know," I breathed out, my voice trembling but resolute. I looked up, meeting Dr. Smith's eyes. "Not the Elders. And especially not Julian. Keep this completely off the Pack records. I will pay for everything in cash, from my personal accounts."

Dr. Smith hesitated, torn between her duty to the Alpha and her oath as a healer. But seeing the fierce, desperate plea of a mother in my eyes, she slowly nodded.

Hours later, I stood alone in the cavernous, echoing space of the VIP private terminal at the Sterling Pack's airfield.

Because I was wolfless, I was deaf to the Pack's *Mind-Link*. I had to rely on human flight trackers just to discover that my own husband was returning from Europe a day early. I had come here to surprise him, clinging to the foolish fantasy that I could still save our dying mate-bond.

But the terminal was empty. The sleek black private jet sat on the tarmac, its engines already cooling.

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