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I stepped onto the stone terrace, gripping the marble railing as cool October wind cleared my head. Below, the city glittered like scattered diamonds. Above, the three-quarter moon cast everything in silver light.

That's when I heard Marcus's voice through the partially open door beside me. Speaking in Moonspeak, the ancient werewolf language.

"The bloodline will be secured within months. Vera carries strong genetics."

My world tilted. I pressed against the glass wall, hidden in shadow.

"And your wife?" Elder Ravencrest's gravelly voice.

"The singing woman serves her purpose in human business, but she's proven inadequate for an alpha mate's primary responsibility, a useless infertile piece of sh*t."

Each word was a physical blow. Singing woman—dismissive, diminishing. The dance we'd shared minutes ago suddenly felt like mockery.

"Vera understands what's required. No complicated emotions or romantic pretense. Just the practical matter of securing the next generation."

"When will you dissolve the current arrangement?"

"After the child is born healthy. The divorce must appear natural—irreconcilable differences, then a respectable period before the new mating ceremony."

My legs nearly gave out. The man who'd just told me he loved me, who'd danced with me in front of the pack, was planning my replacement. The concerned questions about my health, the fertility research—all preparation for discarding me.

The conversation ended. Footsteps retreated toward the party.

I remained frozen, my perfect evening shattered. Marcus's tenderness had been an act. The weekend in Napa, the careful attention, the "I love you"—all performance while he calculated my expiration date.