Chapter 2 — An Heir for a “Dead” Man

POV: Aria

I freeze beside the bed.

“Ronan?”

His eyes open only a fraction, unfocused and glassy. The monitor accelerates. I hit the call button, and a doctor and two nurses rush in.

They check his pupils, call his name, and ask him to blink. He gives no response. By the time the doctor straightens, Ronan's eyes are closed again.

I insist that he looked at me. The doctor believes I saw something, but warns that it may have been a brief neurological response rather than consciousness. It is still encouraging. Ronan may also be able to hear voices, so speaking to him could help.

After they leave, I sit down again with sweat cooling beneath my dress.

Those few seconds should not change anything, yet they do. Until now, I could treat Ronan as a name in a contract, a silent reason the Vales used to control me. If he is truly fighting his way back, then this marriage no longer belongs only to Eleanor, the Council, and me. A living man may soon ask who gave us the right to arrange his life.

I take his cold hand.

“You should wake up soon. Your family seems determined to finish planning your future without you.”

The following morning, a maid summons me to breakfast. Every direct member of the Vale family is already seated when I enter the dining room.

The silverware is perfectly aligned. Coffee steams in untouched cups. No one is here to eat.

Eleanor occupies the head of the table. The chair at her right—the Alpha's chair—remains empty. Everyone looks from me to that vacant place, silently measuring what each of us can still provide the family.

Gavin begins by pointing out that my wolf never awakened and questioning how someone like me could become Blackridge's Luna. Technically, he is right. Ronan has not marked me, and the Pack has not accepted me. But he turns those facts into a verdict on my worth.

Eleanor defends only my provisional legal status. Monica dismisses even that. Their argument has little to do with me; they are fighting over who gets to define Ronan's marriage while he cannot speak for himself.

Then Monica accuses the family of treating Ronan as though he is already dead.

Eleanor's expression turns to ice. “Ronan is not dead.”

“Then why are you in such a hurry to make her carry his child?” Monica asks.

I look at Eleanor. “What child?”

The silence tells me everyone else knows more than I do.

Eleanor has a file placed in front of me and explains that Ronan voluntarily preserved reproductive samples before his last mission. He also signed an authorization governing their use.

I read until I find the condition she has carefully avoided mentioning: the samples may be used only after his death or a medical determination of permanent incapacity.

Ronan meets neither condition.

Yet his relatives are already discussing who should bear his heir.

Eleanor calls it protection of his bloodline. The Council is afraid that if Ronan dies without a direct heir, the Alpha title will pass into the wider Vale family and trigger a challenge. Six months of uncertainty has made them impatient enough to treat a limited authorization as permission.

Monica mocks her for buying a wife and forgetting to mention the pregnancy requirement. Her gaze drops to my stomach, and nausea rolls through me. I want to walk away, but leaving now would allow them to turn silence into agreement.

“My father needs treatment,” I say. “That is why I'm sitting here. It does not mean you purchased the right to decide what happens to my body.”

My voice sounds steadier than I feel. Under the table, my fingers are clenched so tightly they ache. Eleanor can still withdraw the money keeping my father alive. But if I say nothing, the family will write my silence into the next contract.

One of the elders warns Eleanor that medical consent cannot be obtained through financial pressure. She ends the meeting before the disagreement can grow.

As everyone rises, no one looks directly at me. Gavin is still angry that the family kept the plan from him. Monica seems more offended by the scandal than by what it will cost me. Eleanor gathers her papers as though the decision is already administrative fact. I remain seated for a few seconds after they leave, staring at Ronan's empty chair. He is the only person whose body is being discussed more impersonally than mine.

That afternoon, Doctor Revan meets me without any family members present. He separates medical consent from Eleanor's promises to Quinn Tech, then leaves the pen on his side of the desk.

“What happens if I refuse?”

“Nothing,” he says without hesitation. “If you do not consent, I will not begin any procedure.”

For the first time since I entered Blackridge, someone treats me as the owner of my own body rather than a useful resource.

Doctor Revan turns the consent form toward me. “Initial testing is followed by roughly twelve days of hormone injections,” he explains. “We then retrieve the eggs and fertilize them with Ronan's preserved sample. If an embryo reaches the blastocyst stage after five days, one may be transferred. We cannot confirm pregnancy until roughly two weeks later, and none of this guarantees success.”

The disputed authorization troubles him as well. He has requested a separate Council review.

I do not sign.

Adrian is waiting outside the consultation room.

He grabs my wrist before I can pass him and tells me not to carry Ronan's child. He wants me to have his instead, then claim the baby belongs to his uncle. Because the men share a bloodline, he believes he can hide the fraud long enough to control the succession.

He describes it as a way to protect my place as Luna.

Looking at the face I once trusted, I finally understand what I loved. Adrian does not want me, and he does not want a child. He wants an heir wearing Ronan's name—a hand he can reach through the gates of Blackridge.

And he still calls it saving me.

His fingers tighten. Pain shoots through my wrist.

I drive my knee into him. The moment he releases me, I step back and start recording.

“Say it again,” I tell him.

His expression hardens. “I already have one recording,” I warn him. “Give me a reason and I'll gladly hand the Council a second.”

By the time I return to the bedroom, a red band has formed around my wrist. I hide it from the servants on the way upstairs. Not because I am ashamed, but because I refuse to let anyone else decide whether what happened was a misunderstanding, an argument, or proof of Adrian's lingering affection.

Only I know what he proposed: a calculated bloodline fraud.

I close the door and lean against it until my breathing steadies. Evidence gives me leverage, but it does not make me safe.

Ronan lies exactly as I left him.

I sit beside the bed. “Adrian wants me to carry his child and pass it off as yours,” I tell Ronan. “Your mother is stretching your authorization beyond its limits, your nephew is planning to steal your succession, and I have no idea which choice will cost me less.”

“If you can hear me,” I whisper, “wake up.”

I start to pull my hand away.

Five cold fingers close around my wrist.