11
1092 Words
The project swallowed us whole.
Every morning started in the main house library—blueprints spread across the massive oak table, fabric swatches pinned to corkboards, mood boards leaning against bookshelves like colorful accusations. I threw myself into the designs with everything I had. Markus deserved a legacy that felt warm, not cold and corporate. I modernized where it made sense—open-plan kitchen flowing into a sunlit family room, soft grays and warm woods replacing the heavy dark paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows to let light flood spaces that had always felt sealed shut. But I kept the heart of it: his study untouched except for fresh paint and new lighting, the framed painting he’d hung of mine still on the wall. A quiet corner garden replanted with his favorite roses. Small touches that said this house could remember love.
Chase fought me on almost everything.
“You’re gutting the formal dining room,” he said one afternoon, arms crossed, staring at my sketch of removing the heavy chandelier for something sleeker.
“It’s too dark. Too formal. Families don’t eat under crystal prisons anymore.”
He leaned over the table, close enough that his scent—leather, pine, that wild undertone—hit me like a wave. “Dad loved that room. It was where we had Christmas dinners.”
“Christmas dinners where no one talked,” I shot back. “I’m not erasing him. I’m making the house breathe again.”
His eyes flicked to mine. Gray on gray. For a second the argument dissolved into something else—heat, memory, the bond pulling tight. His gaze dropped to my mouth. I felt my pulse jump.
“Fine,” he said finally, voice rougher. “But keep the fireplace. It’s original.”
“Deal.” I marked it on the plan, trying to ignore how his fingers brushed mine when he handed me the pencil.
We clashed. We flirted without admitting it. Every disagreement ended with him standing too close, me not stepping back. The air between us crackled. My wolf wanted to close the distance. I kept my walls up.
The triplets thrived in the change. I enrolled them in a private school nearby—small classes, kind teachers. They made friends fast. Playdates filled the afternoons. Jaden joined a beginner hockey clinic (Chase’s doing, of course). Jasmine drew pictures for her new teacher. Jamin collected rocks from the estate grounds like they were treasure. They laughed more. Slept better. Asked fewer questions about why we were here.
Then Jasmine got sick.
It started with a cough. Then a fever that climbed fast. By evening she was listless, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. I pressed my hand to her forehead—burning. Her scent shifted, something wild stirring beneath the baby shampoo. Early wolf traits. Too early. She whimpered, “Mommy, it hurts.”
Panic clawed up my throat. I bundled her in blankets, grabbed my keys.
Chase appeared at the door like he’d sensed it. He must have—the bond, the wolf instincts. His face went pale when he saw her.
“I’ll drive,” he said. No argument.
We raced to the private clinic Markus used to use. Chase carried Jasmine inside, her small body limp against his chest. He spoke calmly to the nurse, held her hand while they took her temperature, rocked her when she cried during the exam. The doctor confirmed a viral fever—nothing dangerous, but her wolf side was waking early, making her temperature spike harder. Fluids, rest, fever reducers.
In the quiet exam room, Chase sat on the edge of the bed, Jasmine curled against his side. He stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense about brave little wolves and magic ice rinks. She clung to his shirt, tiny fingers knotted in the fabric. When she finally drifted off, he looked up at me.
“I’ve got her,” he said softly. “Go call the boys. Tell them she’s okay.”
I stepped into the hall, tears burning. Not just fear for Jasmine. But the sight of him—big, scarred hockey alpha—holding my daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world. Proving, without words, that he could be the father they’d never had.
When we got home, he carried her to bed, tucked her in beside her stuffed wolf. Jaden and Jamin waited in the doorway, eyes wide.
“She’s gonna be okay,” Chase told them. “Promise.”
They nodded, believing him.
I believed him too. A little.
The next morning the storm hit.
My phone buzzed nonstop while I made breakfast. Texts from Mrs. Juliet. Alerts from news apps. I opened one link and my stomach dropped.
Headlines screamed: “Hudson Heir’s Secret Affair Exposed—Step-Sister Scandal Resurfaces!”
Old photos from the gala—doctored ones, clearer now. Me and Chase in the garden. Me outside the pharmacy with the pregnancy test box circled. Grainy shots of me leaving the estate that night, looking broken. Captions speculated: “Amelia Clark’s Illegitimate Pregnancy—Chase Hudson’s Hidden Child?”
Paparazzi were already at the studio in City X—someone must have tipped them off. My assistant texted: “They’re outside. Blocking the door. What do I do?”
I felt sick. The triplets were at school. Safe for now. But how long?
Chase found me in the kitchen, staring at my phone. He took one look at my face and pulled me into his arms without asking. I didn’t fight it. Just let him hold me while the world tilted.
“We’ll handle it,” he said against my hair. “Together.”
I wanted to believe him.
Late that afternoon, while Chase was on a call with the family PR team, a plain envelope was slipped under the guest-house door. No stamp. No address. Just my name in block letters.
I opened it with shaking hands.
Inside: a single sheet of paper.
“We know the truth. The children are Hudson blood. Submit to a paternity test within 48 hours—private lab, results to us—or these photos go everywhere. The kids’ faces. Their school. Their lives. You choose.”
No signature.
But I knew.
Lucy. Samantha. Together.
I sank to the floor, the note crumpling in my fist.
The chaos had just begun. And now they wanted proof. Proof I’d guarded for seven years.
Proof that could destroy everything—or force me to face the one thing I feared most: letting Chase in for real.
- Writer
