Chapter 1: Borrowed Names, Broken Promises

It had only been two months since I came back to the Whitmore family. That’s when I married Ethan Langley.

The memory of that day still feels surreal sometimes. The Whitmores’ house was huge—polished wood, cold marble. Every step echoed, but none of them were mine. My name on the marriage certificate felt like a borrowed coat—stiff, ill-fitting. Not really mine.

Ethan looked indifferent as he tossed me a credit card.

He didn’t even glance up, just slid the card across the kitchen island, his voice as flat as the granite. “I don’t want to spend my life with someone I barely know. There’s money on this card—it’s compensation. Once things settle in three years, we’ll get divorced.” I felt a pause hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, before the moment moved on.

I remember the way the card glinted in the sunlight, the weight of it in my palm—heavy, not with promise, but with resignation. It was the kind of gesture that said, "Let’s not pretend this is anything but business."

Later, everything changed. I found out I was pregnant. Ethan started resting his hand on my belly, absentminded, as if he was already somewhere else, lost in thought about the future.

Sometimes, when the house was quiet, evening light slanting gold through the window, I’d catch him just standing there. His palm pressed lightly to my stomach, his gaze distant. He looked more like a man trying to solve a puzzle than a father-to-be. I’d watch the tension in his jaw, the way his thumb would trace slow, unconscious circles, as if trying to communicate with the life growing inside me.

"Maybe we should move somewhere bigger. Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl? Have you… I don’t know, have you thought of any names yet?"

His voice was softer than usual, almost hopeful. Like he was daring himself to imagine something different.

I shook my head.

I wasn't going to name the baby. Once he was born, I'd have to leave. That was always the plan.

I kept my voice steady, but my hands shook just a little. There was a tightness in my chest I couldn’t quite breathe through. Naming the baby would make everything too real, too permanent. I wasn’t supposed to stay.

I tried to keep things simple. Just run errands, keep my head down. I'd only planned to come to the mall for some cake, but I ended up seeing a beautiful omega in Ethan's arms, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.

It was one of those afternoons. The world felt too big. Too small. I just wanted something sweet. But then I saw them: Ethan, tall and composed, with a stunning omega clinging to his arm, the two of them caught in a moment that felt like it should’ve belonged to a movie. The omega reached up, lips parted, eyes shining, and for a second I forgot how to breathe.

Just a few days earlier, Ethan had told me he’d be gone on business. To make it up to me, he promised to bring home a rose, something he almost never did.

He’d said it so casually, keys jingling in his hand as he left. “I’ll bring you a rose, okay? Just to make up for being gone.” I’d almost laughed—Ethan Langley, romantic? But a small, silly part of me had hoped he’d remember.

I picked at my cuticles, thinking there was no reason for him to lie to me.

My nails dug into my palm as I watched them. I told myself, over and over, that I didn’t care. That I was just a placeholder, a means to an end. But it stung anyway. I hated that it did.

A gorgeous, capable omega and a tall, strong alpha—no matter how you looked at it, they were a much better match than me, the unwanted illegitimate kid.

They looked like the kind of couple you’d see in a magazine ad—perfectly matched, perfectly happy.

I felt like a smudge on the page, something the editors would crop out.

I'd known this since the day we got married.

Even on my wedding day, I’d felt out of place. Like I’d snuck into someone else’s life. Just waiting to get caught.

Ethan was a responsible man. If he saw me here, he'd definitely stay with me and the baby. Better if he didn't notice me at all.

I ducked my head, trying to disappear into the crowd. The noise of the mall pressed in on me. Ethan would do the right thing if he saw me, but I didn’t want his pity. I wanted to keep what little dignity I had left.

I grabbed my bag and stood up. A sharp pain twisted in my belly. Hot liquid trickled down my leg.

It hit me out of nowhere—a cramp so sharp I nearly doubled over. Warmth spread down my thigh, and panic set in. I pressed a hand to my stomach, heart pounding. No, not now. Please, not here.

I froze. His voice was loud, innocent, and it made my cheeks burn. A little boy nearby tugged on his mom's hand and asked, "Mom, why did that guy wet his pants?"

I looked down. The wet patch was spreading across my jeans.

The evidence was right there—no hiding it. My face went hot with embarrassment. I’d always prided myself on staying invisible, but now everyone was staring.

Ethan hadn't been home the past few days. Without his scent to soothe me, my belly had felt off all along.

I’d tried not to notice the way my body ached for comfort. The apartment felt emptier without him, every room echoing with silence. I told myself I didn’t care, but the truth was, I missed him. More than I wanted to admit.

Today, I'd finally felt a little better and wanted to go out to buy some cake.

I’d promised myself a small treat—a slice of cake, something sweet to make up for the grayness of the past few days. I never expected things to go so wrong.

If I'd known my legs would start aching, I wouldn't have gone out. Now I wouldn't even get to eat cake.

Regret twisted in my gut. I should’ve just stayed home, curled up with a book. Instead, I was here, making a spectacle of myself. Great job, Jamie. Real subtle.

I forced a smile, embarrassed, but I’d rehearsed what to do and quickly pulled out my phone.

My hands shook as I dialed, but my voice was steady. I’d practiced this—what to say, how to sound calm. I wasn’t going to let anyone see me fall apart. Not again.

"Hi, I'm at the north entrance on the first floor of Willowbrook Mall. I think I'm in early labor. Can someone come get me?"

I made sure my voice didn’t crack, repeating the words like a mantra. North entrance, first floor, Willowbrook Mall. I clung to the details, hoping they’d anchor me.

I put my jacket down to sit on, not daring to move an inch.

The cold tile pressed through the thin fabric. I stayed perfectly still. Every movement sent another jolt of pain through me. I just waited, eyes fixed on the pattern of the floor tiles.

I didn't know if the omega actually kissed the alpha, but the two of them were chatting and laughing together.

Their laughter floated over, bright and carefree. It sounded like another world—a world I’d never belong to. Not my world. Not ever. I wondered, in some distant part of my mind, if they even noticed me sitting there, invisible and falling apart.

I’d never seen him look that way before. Like someone had turned on the lights inside him. Ethan's eyes were gentle, his face alive with rare warmth—vivid, unrestrained, full of life.

…It stung to look at.

I turned away, blinking hard. Sometimes it hurt more to see what you could never have than to be ignored entirely.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the contractions had started, each one stronger than the last, the pain tearing through me until I couldn't stop crying.

Everything became a blur—sirens, bright lights, the press of hands lifting me onto a stretcher. I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the tears. It wasn’t just the pain; it was everything I’d been holding in, spilling out at once. It was too much. All of it.

I cried because this child was so thoughtless, wanting to come out just because he saw his dad smiling at someone else. Figures.

He didn't know that once he was born, I'd have to leave.

I pressed a hand to my belly, whispering apologies he couldn’t hear. I wanted to tell him to wait. Just a little more time. But babies never listen.

Ethan hadn't even given me that rose yet.

When they gave me the oxytocin, I finally couldn't help but cry out in pain.

The pain was like fire, sharp and consuming. I bit down on my lip, trying to hold back the screams, but they forced their way out anyway.

The doctor paused, disbelief in her voice.

"You're an unranked omega? Where's your alpha? You can’t do this alone—it’s dangerous!"

She looked at me like I was a puzzle missing half its pieces. I could hear the judgment in her tone, the disbelief that anyone would go through this alone.

I shook my head and reached out, trembling, for the consent form.

"No alpha. I'll sign for myself."

My signature wobbled on the page, but I made it through. I was used to doing things alone. Always alone.

I was the Whitmore family's illegitimate child.

Harrison Whitmore, Mr. Whitmore, had been wild and reckless in his youth, drifting from woman to woman. He never expected my mom would get pregnant.

She was only nineteen then, having run away from her foster family to work as a cocktail waitress.

She wore tired shoes and borrowed hope, slipping through the cracks of other people’s lives. She was just a kid, really. The city lights must have looked so bright to her back then.

She had no education, no family, had never been loved. Naively, she believed the sweet nothings men whispered in bed, thinking that having me would turn her life around.

She wanted so badly to believe in happy endings. She thought love could fix everything, that I’d be her miracle.

But Harrison Whitmore already had a legitimate wife from an old-money family.

That world was closed to us, locked behind iron gates and whispered secrets.

I nearly died in her womb.

She told me once, with a sad smile, that she’d almost lost me more times than she could count. But she held on, stubborn and scared, because I was all she had.

Later, she secretly fled to a small town in the South, supporting us by giving massages.

We moved into a tiny apartment above a laundromat. The air always smelled like fabric softener and fried food from the diner downstairs. She worked late, her hands always tired, but she never complained.

Except for money, my mom gave me everything she could.

She made up stories at bedtime, packed my lunches with little notes, and saved every spare dollar in a chipped mug by the window. We didn’t have much, but she gave me all the love she had.

I went to school until I was fourteen, then dropped out after a fight. I was a hothead back then.

School was a battleground—kids with shiny shoes and perfect families, and then me, always on the outside. I had a temper, and it got me into trouble more than once.

After a few harsh words, a rich kid in my class pointed at me and spat:

"Your mom's a whore. Who knows how many men she's been with! She's an old slut, and you're a little slut!"

His words were sharp, each syllable slicing through me. I saw red. Everything inside me snapped. I lost it.

Furious, I bit down on his forearm and wouldn't let go, tearing off a chunk of flesh.

I didn’t care about the consequences. All I knew was that nobody talked about my mom like that. Blood spattered my shirt, and I didn’t even feel it.

That was the day I learned that acting on impulse comes with a price.

The principal called my mom in. The police came. I sat in the office, hands numb, and realized that nothing would ever be the same. The chair was cold. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

His dad brought a bunch of people over and trashed the home my mom had worked so hard to put together. Right in front of me, they humiliated her.

They barged in like they owned the place. Breaking dishes. Kicking over furniture. My mom stood her ground, but I saw the fear in her eyes.

Three alphas released their scent, pinning my mom and me in place, making it hard even to breathe.

It felt like drowning. Their presence was overwhelming—heavy, suffocating. I clung to my mom’s hand, but it didn’t help.

That was the first time I realized that up against overwhelming power, I was nothing.

I hated how powerless I felt. No matter how hard I fought, I couldn’t win against them.

After they'd vented their anger, they tossed my mom onto the cold floor like trash.

She landed with a thud, her body limp. I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone.

She had bite marks bleeding on her body. Her face was pale as she pulled the torn fabric at her chest together, trying to hold on to the last shred of dignity in front of her son.

She looked at me, eyes shining with unshed tears, and tried to smile. I’ll never forget that look. Love and shame, all tangled up.

"Jamie… Mom never stole or robbed, never broke up anyone’s home. I earned money with my body, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. You… you don’t look down on me, so I’m happy…"

Her voice trembled, but she spoke with a strength I didn’t know she had. I nodded, tears streaming down my face, wanting to believe her.

I crawled over, crying, wanting to hug her, but afraid I'd hurt her.

I reached out, fingers shaking, but stopped short. She pulled me close anyway, cradling my head against her chest.

After that, my mom switched to selling things at a roadside stand, and we became even poorer.

We set up a table on the corner, selling cheap trinkets and snacks. The winters were cold, the summers brutal, but she never complained.

I swallowed my anger and became quiet.

I learned to keep my head down. To disappear.

Other workers got twenty bucks for a hundred dishes; I only got ten. I never asked the boss why, just squeezed every second out of my day to finish the rest.

I worked after school, scrubbing plates until my hands bled. I never questioned it—just did what I had to do.

A coworker once dumped the leftovers I'd packed onto the floor and told me I had to eat it before I'd be allowed to take food home again. I dropped to my knees and ate every bite.

The humiliation burned, but hunger was worse. I ate every scrap, staring at the linoleum so I wouldn’t have to see their faces.

That's how I lived for ten years. Eventually, my mom had to give up her stand because she was too sick to work.

Her hands shook too much to count change. She slept most days, her breath rattling in her chest. I couldn’t do anything.

She lost a ton of weight in just two months, stuck in bed.

Her body shrank, her cheeks hollowed out. I watched her fade away, powerless to stop it.

Watching her sleep so peacefully, I regretted never taking her out to have fun, always saving every penny.

I’d always thought there’d be time later. Time for vacations, for treats, for laughter. But time ran out.

Just when I was pinching every cent, my biological father showed up.

Maybe he'd worn himself out chasing women in his youth, but he and his wife never managed to have a child.

He looked tired, older than I expected. There was a sadness in his eyes, but I didn’t care.

Every other child his mistresses had was sent away—except for me.

I was the mistake that slipped through the cracks, the secret he couldn’t erase.

He said he'd pay for my mom's treatment if I came back to the Whitmore family and acknowledged I was his son.

It sounded so simple—just sign your name, come home, be the son he never wanted. I agreed, because I had no choice. What else could I do?

But less than two months after returning, I was rushed into a marriage with Ethan Langley.

I barely had time to unpack before they pushed me down the aisle. Everything happened so fast. I barely remembered my own name.

On our wedding night, Ethan handed me a card with a cold expression.

He sat across from me, not touching his glass of champagne, eyes hard. The card slid across the table like a line in the sand.

"I’ve never understood these business marriages. I don’t want to spend my life with someone I barely know. But I’m sorry—I don’t have a choice right now."

His voice was steady, but I could hear the resentment beneath it. He looked as trapped as I felt. We were both trapped.

"Use the money however you want. Think of it as compensation. You can see other people, just don't get caught by the press."

He said it like it was nothing, but I could see the exhaustion in his eyes. He was tired of playing by other people’s rules.

"Give me three years. Once I'm in charge, we'll get divorced."

Three years felt like both a prison sentence and a promise of freedom.

I agreed without hesitation, thinking I could get away with it until my mom's illness was cured.

I told myself I could do this. Just three years, and then I’d be free. My mom would be healthy, and I could disappear.

But six months later, Harrison Whitmore's secretary came to see me, pretending it was just a friendly visit, asking if I still wanted my mom to get treatment.

He showed up with a polite smile. A box of expensive tea. The message was clear: play along, or else.

Under his control, I didn't even know which hospital my mom was in. To see a photo of her, I had to do as he said:

I felt like a puppet, strings pulled tight. Every move I made was watched, every word recorded.

Give the Langley and Whitmore families a child.

That was the price. My body, my future, traded for my mother’s life.

That child would probably go to the Whitmore family. After all, Harrison Whitmore would never acknowledge an illegitimate son he considered a stain.

I was a means to an end—nothing more. The baby would be their legacy, not mine.

A week later, I waited for Ethan to come home and slipped something into his food.

My hands shook as I stirred the powder into his soup. I told myself it was for my mom, but guilt ate at me all the same. I hated myself for it.

Ethan paused after two bites, then suddenly smiled at me.

He looked up, eyes a little glassy, and grinned. "Jamie, you really know how to cook. You'll have to teach me sometime—I want to cook for the one I love."

The words caught me off guard. For a moment, I almost forgot what I’d done.

I froze, staring at him in a daze, almost forgetting to breathe.

Less than an hour later, the drug kicked in.

He doubled over, sweat beading on his forehead. His scent filled the room. Sharp. Overwhelming. I backed away, but there was nowhere to go.

He lunged at me in confusion and pain, his scent surging—the bitterness of burnt sage filled the air.

It was suffocating, all-consuming. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong.

That week was pure torment.

The days blurred together—pain, fear, exhaustion. I lost track of time, lost track of myself.

As an unranked omega, I couldn't withstand Ethan's intensity. I cried and begged for mercy, but nothing could bring him back to his senses.

I screamed for help, clawed at the sheets, but it didn’t matter. I was alone. With him. With my choices.

Turns out, angering Ethan was just as terrifying as angering Harrison Whitmore.

Powerless.

Harrison Whitmore held my life in his hands; Ethan could just as easily end it.

Sometimes I wondered if either of them even saw me as a person, or just a problem to solve.

The pressure of an alpha's scent brought back memories from ten years ago, leaving me pinned to the floor, struggling to breathe.

I was a child again, helpless and afraid. The past and present blurred, and I couldn’t tell which hurt more.

In the end, Ethan didn't kick me out. He grabbed his coat and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t come home. Not for three whole months.

The silence after he left was deafening. I sat on the floor, knees hugged to my chest, and waited for the world to start spinning again.

It wasn't until I found out I was pregnant and went to the hospital that I ran into Ethan and his secretary in the outpatient lobby.

Antiseptic and fear. I kept my head down.

I'd heard of that omega before—Noah Carter.

His name came up in whispers, always paired with Ethan’s. He was the one everyone thought Ethan would end up with.

Ethan's college classmate, top of their year, from a family of professors. They'd gotten together back in college.

He was everything I wasn’t—smart, charming, beloved. Their history was written in every glance. I didn’t stand a chance.

If I hadn't appeared, they probably would've ended up together.

I felt like an intruder, a glitch in the timeline.

The beautiful omega sat in a wheelchair, looking up and smiling at Ethan.

His smile was gentle, his eyes full of trust. I envied them.

"It's just a sprain. No need to fuss."

He waved off Ethan’s concern, but there was a fondness in his voice.

Ethan immediately retorted, his gaze gentle and doting.

"It's only been half an hour and it's already this swollen. Only you would try to tough it out."

His voice was soft, teasing. I had no right to see it.

I turned to leave in a hurry, but Ethan still noticed me.

I tried to disappear, but it was too late. His eyes found me, and everything changed.

I couldn't hide my pregnancy after all.

My jacket couldn’t cover the bump anymore. I felt exposed, like everyone could see the truth written on my body. No more hiding.

In the business world, Ethan was ruthless, but now he just hung his head, listening silently as the doctor scolded him.

He looked smaller somehow, chastened. The doctor’s words echoed in the sterile room, sharp and unforgiving.

"It’s hard enough for an unranked omega to get pregnant. If he loses this baby, he might never have kids again! Without scent-soothing, omegas go through hell—psychologically and emotionally!"

"He's already showing signs of miscarriage! Do you think the Omega Protection Law is just for show?!"

The doctor’s anger was real, her concern genuine. I felt like a child being scolded, but I couldn’t argue.

I kept my head down, clutching the ultrasound photo like a thief caught in the act.

I stared at the grainy image, willing myself not to cry. This was my proof—my secret, my burden.

Ethan hadn't marked me, not even after being drugged.

After he left, someone brought me birth control pills and watched me take them before leaving.

They stood in the doorway, arms crossed, waiting. I pretended to swallow, then spat them out as soon as they turned away.

I wasn’t going to let them take this from me—not after everything I’d done.

Thinking of all this, I told Ethan:

"This is my fault… You really don't have to worry about me. You can be with Noah if you want."

The words tasted bitter, but I forced them out. I wanted him to be happy, even if it meant letting go.

Ethan looked at me for a long moment, his face pale as he shook his head.

He didn’t say anything, just shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t find the words. Neither could I.

I knew his mother had died on the operating table after catching his father cheating during her second pregnancy.

People whispered about it, but nobody ever talked to Ethan about it directly. I wondered how much of himself he saw in me—how much he hated it.

Once again, Ethan lost to his sense of responsibility.

Duty was a chain around his neck, and he wore it like armor.

That night, he stared at a photo of himself and Noah in the study and didn't sleep at all.

I watched the light under the door flicker on and off. In the morning, his eyes were red, but he didn’t say a word.

Ethan was a devoted father.

He threw himself into parenthood with the kind of focus most people reserved for work. It was almost endearing.

At first, he was awkward and tense around me, but blood ties are strange things. The moment he felt the baby kick, he seemed like a new person.

He pressed his hand to my stomach, eyes wide with wonder. For a moment, all the walls between us disappeared. Just for a moment.

After work, he'd read to my belly, and every little movement from the baby would make him nearly cry with joy.

He’d sit cross-legged on the floor, reading picture books in funny voices, his face lighting up every time the baby kicked.

He'd come home with bags of baby clothes and toys, always thinking it wasn't enough.

The nursery filled with soft blankets and tiny socks. He’d agonize over which crib to buy, which mobile would make the baby happiest.

The apartment changed. Black, white, and gray gave way to toys and children’s books. The wrecked kitchen was repaired and stocked with fresh produce. I moved from the guest room into the master bedroom, and the old room became the nursery, overflowing with tiny clothes.

It felt like living in someone else’s life—a life where things were bright and hopeful, where the future felt possible.

One day, Ethan leaned against my belly and asked,

"Little one, do you think this place is too small? Should we move somewhere bigger?"

He spoke to my stomach like it could answer him, voice soft and playful.

A tiny foot pressed against my stomach, leaving a little bump.

He laughed, delighted, as if the baby had really answered him.

Ethan grinned, as if he'd gotten his answer.

He looked up at me, eyes shining. “Guess that’s a yes, huh?”

"So, a bigger place, huh?"

He ruffled my hair, already making plans in his head.

"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?"

He was genuinely curious, his excitement infectious.

"Have you thought of any names?"

He waited, hopeful, but I just shook my head.

For a moment, I almost believed we were just a loving, ordinary couple.

But how could that be?

Between us stood my status as an illegitimate child, lies and compromises, and those unknown contacts that would always be in Ethan's phone.

There were too many secrets, too many ghosts between us. I couldn’t compete with the past.

He cooked me healthy meals, bought me all kinds of clothes and shoes, met every request I had—but he never called my name in his sleep, never gave me a bouquet or a ring.

He did all the right things, but never crossed the line into love. I was grateful, but it wasn’t enough.

He called me "little one’s dad."

It was always about the baby—never about me.

Time and again, I wished Ethan would just keep ignoring me. Then maybe I could leave cleanly.

If he never saw me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much to go.

But I kept sinking, painfully aware.

Every kindness felt like a hook, pulling me deeper. I couldn’t help wanting more.

Other than my mother, no one had ever cared about what I liked to eat, whether I was warm enough, what books I liked, if I wanted to make friends, or had any hobbies.

I’d spent my whole life being invisible. Ethan saw me, even if just a little, and it was intoxicating.

Ethan cared for me because he cared for our child, and I drowned in it, unable to let go.

I told myself it didn’t matter, but it did. I wanted to matter to him, too.

The only thing I could do was keep my distance.

So I built walls, even as I longed for him to break them down.

"Whatever."

I kept my answers short, my tone cold. It was the only way I knew to protect myself.

"I don't know."

I shrugged, avoiding his gaze.

"You decide."

I pushed every decision back on him, refusing to let myself hope.

No matter how half-hearted my answers, Ethan never got angry. He'd just gently hold me, let his scent calm me, and make me feel as safe as if I were in my mother's arms.

He was patient, always. He never pushed, never demanded. Sometimes I hated him for it, but mostly I was grateful. Mostly.

…