Chapter 1

BIANCA

My husband and my son were celebrating my birthday without me, but with another woman…

A massive banner stretched across the far wall of the pack house, and my gaze froze on the words: “Happy Birthday Mia.”

Not me. Not Bianca. Just Mia.

The great hall was packed with pack members, all dressed in their finest. Music and laughter spilling out into the night.

I stood there, invisible in the doorway, as the crowd parted to reveal a laughing Mia in the center of the room, radiant in a white dress that seemed to glow under the chandeliers. Matthew was beside her, his hand resting on the small of her back, that warm smile I rarely saw directed at me now beaming down at her.

Theo bounced at their feet, clutching a balloon. “Mummy! Mummy, look!” he called, reaching up for Mia.

Great. The first birthday gift I received was hearing my own son call my husband’s mistress Mom.

She scooped him up effortlessly, spinning him around as the pack members applauded. Matthew’s hand remained on her waist, steadying them both, the three of them forming a perfect family portrait while I stood frozen in the shadows by the door.

No one had noticed me arrive. No one was looking for me.

They were all busy celebrating Mia’s birthday—on my birthday. At the Pack House where I had foolishly, desperately imagined they might finally celebrate me.

Because Matthew had sent me a message earlier that afternoon—cryptic but promising: “Come to the Pack House at 7. We have something special planned.”

I thought he remembered… but apparently, he didn’t. My heart felt like a bubble, bursting all at once.

Then I saw it. Near the refreshment table, partially hidden behind an ice sculpture, was another banner rolled up and tossed aside. Curiosity—or maybe masochism—drew me closer. I unrolled it with trembling hands.

“Happy Birthday Bianca” it read, with my name crossed out in thick black marker and “Mia” written above it in glittering letters.

They’d recycled my decorations. Crossed out my name. Given my birthday to her.

I fought back my tears, gripping the banner tightly, and looked at Matthew once more. This time, my eyes locked with his across the crowded room. His expression shifted—surprise, then something that might have been shame.

He walked toward me. I lifted my head, trying to swallow my tears before they could fall. When he stopped in front of me, I stared up at him, my voice cold. “Explain it.”

Matthew scratched the back of his head like some awkward teenager, then muttered, “Today is Mia’s birthday. She wanted to celebrate in the pack house, so…”

“So you gave her my birthday party,” I said with a bitter laugh, my eyes drifting to Mia, who was standing with Theo. She had clearly noticed the tension.

Matthew’s expression tightened at my tone. He straightened, said irritatingly. “You know what Mia’s been through. Try to be understanding, Bianca.”

Again. Ever since the day Mia came back, I’ve been told to be patient and understanding every single day.

I remembered the day he’d told me about her return. We’d been in the kitchen. I’d been preparing dinner—his favorite, chicken marsala, the recipe that had earned me that rare “tastes like home” smile. Matthew had stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, his jaw set in that way that meant he’d already made a decision and was simply informing me of it.

Something inside me cracked.

She put on an overly admiring look and continued, “You really do have such a wonderful husband and son.”

Now that you’ve taken them both from me. I wanted to scream it in her face, but I couldn’t.

Matthew was already hovering beside her like a devoted knight.

He laughed and walked away with Mia. I reached out, wanting to grab him, but he shifted out of my reach and said, almost impatiently, “It’s just the cake-cutting, Bianca. Don’t make a scene.”

Then he walked straight toward the cake in the center of the room, without even looking back at me.

Soon, Theo spotted them and squealed, “Daddy! Mummy!” He broke away from the other children and ran toward them on unsteady toddler legs.

They gathered around an elaborate cake decorated with pink roses. The crowd cheered, voices rising together as they sang the birthday song.

And I stood there. Alone.

“Happy 30th birthday, Bianca,” I whispered to myself as the tears slipped free.

As they blew out the candles together, I felt my four-year marriage vanish with the smoke.