"There's your answer," Maeve said, her bitterness thick enough to taste. It coated the back of my throat, made me want to gag. "Callaghan paid my father a dowry. Hastings is paying you a salary. Different price, same cage. Don't confuse a gold-plated contract for a home."
I looked at the two pink lines on the stick across the room. An hour ago, they were the start of my life. The beginning of something beautiful and terrifying and real.
Now, they looked like the terms and conditions of my sale.
"That's not the action of a pack that wants a mate," Maeve continued, relentless. "That's the action of a corporation paying for a service. They're making sure the surrogate stays happy while the investment grows."
"He kissed me this morning," I whispered, my hand flying to the claiming mark on my neck. It throbbed under my fingers, a dull ache that had nothing to do with physical pain. "He said we were celebrating tonight."
"Of course he is." Maeve's laugh was hollow. "He's getting a return on his investment."
I paid for Maeve to stay in a hotel nearby. A nice one, with room service and soft towels and a door that locked. She'd argued. Said she couldn't take my money, that it was wrong, but I'd insisted.
"It's their money," I'd told her. "Might as well use it for something good."
She'd hugged me, fierce and tight, before climbing back into a cab. "Be careful, Pres. Men like that always have an angle."
I'd watched the cab disappear into London traffic, then walked back into the house that suddenly felt more like a prison than a palace.
I spent the rest of the day pacing. Kitchen to drawing room to hallway to bedroom. My feet wore a path on the carpets. My thoughts spun in circles I couldn't escape.
Were they paying me because they didn't trust me to stay?
Were they paying me because they wanted an exit clause?
Were they paying me because I was an employee, not a mate?
By five o'clock, I was shattered. Exhausted from thinking, from feeling, from trying to make sense of numbers that didn't lie but alphaswho might.
I went to bed, pulling the duvet over my head like I was a child hiding from monsters. But the monsters were in my head now, whispering Maeve's words on repeat.
Different price, same cage.
Before I fell asleep, I sent Etienne a message. My fingers trembled as I typed.
I'm sorry. For everything. I miss you.
He didn't answer.
I fell asleep with my phone clutched in my hand, waiting for a reply that didn't come.
I woke to a buzzing.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn. I fumbled for the phone, squinting at the bright screen.
A text from Etienne.
You're not at fault, Princesse, and I'm sorry for making you feel that way.
My chest loosened slightly. I typed back with shaking hands.
I am. I had no idea why I did it.
His response came immediately.
Because you felt him.
I stared at the words. Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. But no follow-up came.
