Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 70

Chapter 70

Chapter 70

BIANCA

The exam proctor’s voice echoed through the testing center: “You have eight hours. You may begin.”

I stared down at the thick booklet in front of me, my heart pounding against my ribs. Eight hours to prove I belonged here. Eight hours to demonstrate that everything I’d learned, everything I’d survived, had prepared me for this moment.

Eight hours to show that I was more than Matthew’s discarded wife or a charity case living in Rivera’s guest room.

I was Dr. Bianca Morrison, and I was going to pass this exam on my own merit.

Rivera had wanted to wait with me at the testing center. Had offered to take the day off, to be there when I finished, to celebrate or comfort depending on the outcome. Louis had been even more insistent, creating an elaborate plan involving victory cake

and dinosaur–themed decorations.

But I’d refused both of them.

Not because I didn’t appreciate the support. Not because I didn’t care about their concern.

But because I needed to do this alone.

For four years, I’d relied on Matthew’s approval for my sense of worth. Had measured my value by how useful I was to him, how well I fit into the role he’d designed for me. And when I’d failed to be what he wanted, I’d internalized that failure as proof of my own inadequacy.

I was done with that.

This exam, this accomplishment–it would be mine and mine alone. No one else’s influence, no one else’s support, just me and my knowledge and my determination to prove I was enough.

I picked up my pencil and began.

The first section covered emergency medicine–trauma protocols, rapid assessment techniques, magical stabilization for critical patients. Questions I could have answered in my sleep after years of working chaotic hospital shifts.

*A patient presents with magical backlash following a failed transformation spell. Vitals show tachycardia, hypotension, and visible magical burns. What is your immediate priority?*

I circled my answer without hesitation. Airway, breathing, circulation–the fundamentals never changed, magic or no magic.

The second section tested diagnostic skills. Complex case studies that required synthesizing multiple symptoms into accurate diagnoses. I worked through them methodically, drawing on every difficult case I’d ever encountered, every puzzle I’d solved in the quiet hours of night shifts when more experienced doctors had been stumped.

By hour three, my hand was cramping and my eyes were burning from concentration. But I pushed through, refusing to let physical discomfort derail my focus.

The fourth section was the hardest–rare magical healing techniques, curse identification and treatment, advanced restoration magic. The kind of specialized knowledge that most doctors never encountered, that required study beyond standard medical training.

But my mother had taught me well. Her journals had covered techniques that weren’t in textbooks, methods that existed outside official pack medicine.

* Identify the curse type based on the following magical signature: dark purple residue, three–point binding pattern,

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Chapter 70

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deterioration beginning at extremities…*

I recognized it immediately. Blood curse, council–level work, designed to cause slow organ failure while appearing natural. The same type Marcus Thorne specialized in, according to Vera’s information.

I wrote out the identification and treatment protocol in careful detail, including the counter–curse sequence my mother had documented in her private notes.

Hour five blurred into hour six. My stomach growled–I’d been too nervous to eat breakfast—but I ignored it. Food could wait. This exam couldn’t.

The final section covered ethics and pack medicine law. Questions about patient confidentiality, mandatory reporting requirements, the legal boundaries of magical healing.

*A pack Alpha demands you release a patient’s medical records without the patient’s consent. The patient is a minor child of a pack member. What is your legal and ethical obligation?*

I thought about Theo, about how Matthew might have demanded access to his medical information if I’d still been practicing. About the power dynamics that made pack medicine so complicated.

And I wrote out the answer that aligned with BloodMoon City’s progressive medical privacy laws–the kind of protection my mother’s network had fought for, the kind of ethical standard that put patient welfare above pack hierarchy.

When the proctor called time, I set down my pencil with shaking hands and leaned back in my chair, utterly exhausted.

Eight hours. I’d given everything I had to that exam, held nothing back.

Now I just had to wait for the results.

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