Ila POV:

Blaise's face was a canvas of panic. His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted from my disheveled form to the heavy candlestick lying on the floor. A flicker of guilt, quickly suppressed, crossed his features.

I blinked, letting my eyes slowly adjust to the light. I put on my best performance of a frightened, confused victim.

"Blaise?" My voice was a weak, raspy whisper. "What... what am I doing here? The ceremony..."

He rushed forward, his movements jerky and unnatural. "There was an accident, Ila. You felt unwell. We brought you here to rest." He grabbed my arm, his grip too tight, and pulled me to my feet. "Don't worry. It's all over now."

A clumsy lie, I thought, a cold sneer forming in my mind. But outwardly, I sagged against him, playing the part of the weak, trusting woman who believed his every word. I let my full weight lean on him, forcing him to support me.

He glanced nervously down the hallway. He knew he had to get me out of sight, and fast.

"Keep your mouths shut," he hissed at the two terrified maids, Holly and Ivy. "Take her to... to the Alpha Apparent's wing. Tell anyone who asks that she got lost."

The Alpha Apparent. Amos.

So, the charade was to continue. I was to be quietly shuffled off to the dying man's bedside. I let my head loll against Blaise's shoulder, feigning a near-faint.

He practically dragged me through the silent corridors of the manor. We moved through back hallways and servant's passages, avoiding the main areas where guests might still be lingering. The scent of victory clung to him, a sickeningly sweet mixture of expensive cologne and Asha's triumphant perfume. It made my stomach churn. I fought back the urge to gag.

We finally stopped before a set of imposing oak doors at the end of a secluded wing. This part of the manor was eerily quiet, isolated from the life and warmth of the main house. It felt like a tomb.

Blaise pushed the door open and shoved me inside. He didn't let go until I was fully in the room.

"Stay here tonight," he commanded, his voice low and urgent. "I'll explain everything to Father in the morning. Trust me, this is for the best."

He didn't wait for a reply. The heavy door clicked shut, the sound of the bolt sliding home echoing in the cavernous room. I was locked in.

The moment I was alone, the weakness vanished. I stood up straight, my back rigid. I took a moment to survey my new prison. The room was vast and opulent, decorated in dark woods and rich, heavy fabrics. A fire lay dead in the massive stone fireplace. The air was still and cold, thick with the silence of a place untouched by life.

My gaze was drawn to the center of the room, to the enormous four-poster bed that dominated the space.

And to the man lying in it.

Amos Greer.

He was as still as the marble statues I'd seen in the main hall. His face, even in the dim light, was strikingly handsome, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. But it was a face devoid of color, pale and waxy, like a sculpture carved from alabaster. His chest rose and fell in breaths so shallow they were almost imperceptible.

I walked to the bedside, my surgeon's instincts taking over. I leaned closer, observing him. His breathing was faint, but regular. I gently placed my fingers on the side of his neck, searching for his carotid artery.

The pulse was there. Thready, weak, but steady. It didn't feel like the pulse of a man whose soul was "fading."

I carefully lifted one of his eyelids. His pupil was fixed and dilated, showing no reaction to the change in light. A deep, unresponsive coma.

A strange conflict churned within me. I needed him to live. I couldn't survive here as a widow. But a life shackled to a man trapped in a vegetative state was its own kind of death sentence.

I pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. The silence was suffocating.

"Hello, Amos," I said, my voice sounding loud in the quiet room. It felt less like I was talking to him and more to myself. "I'm Ila. Your new, hand-me-down mate. It's a joke, isn't it?"

The words started to pour out of me then, a calm, clinical recounting of the evening's events.But as I finished, my voice cracked. A single tremor of the fear and loneliness I'd been suppressing.

"They all say you're going to die," I whispered, my gaze fixed on his still face. "They're just waiting for it to happen."

I reached out and took his hand. It was cool to the touch, his skin smooth and dry.

"But I don't believe them." My voice grew stronger, the doctor in me resurfacing with a vengeance. My grip on his hand tightened. "I'm a surgeon. People don't just die on my watch. Not without a fight."

As the last word left my lips, I felt it.

A flicker.

A tiny, almost imperceptible pulse of warmth that bloomed from his palm into mine, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Was it my imagination? A trick of my own overwrought nerves?

I squeezed his hand again, concentrating, searching for that spark of life.

Nothing. His hand remained cool and inert.

But I knew what I had felt. It wasn't a hallucination. It might have been a simple muscle spasm, a deep, involuntary reflex. But to me, it was a sign. A spark of nerve activity in a body the world had given up on.

He wasn't an empty shell.

My heart, which had been a cold, heavy stone in my chest, began to hammer against my ribs. A wild, fierce hope ignited within me.

I leaned close to his ear, my voice a low, intense promise. "I will not let you die, Amos Greer. And you are not allowed to give up. Do you hear me?"

Ila POV:

The knock on the door came with the first light of dawn. It was soft, hesitant, but insistent.

I had spent the night in the armchair, watching over Amos, my mind racing. At the sound, I moved quickly. I slipped off my shoes and slid into the bed beside him, pulling the heavy velvet comforter up to my chin. I turned onto my side, facing the door, and scrubbed at my eyes until they were red. I took a deep, shaky breath and composed my features into a mask of tear-stained exhaustion.

"Come in," I called out, my voice deliberately weak.

The door opened to reveal two maids in crisp, gray uniforms. The older one, with kind eyes and graying hair, carried a basin of water. The younger one held a tray with a light breakfast. They were clearly sent by the Luna.

They stopped dead just inside the room, their eyes widening in shock as they took in the scene. Me, in my ruined wedding dress, in the Alpha Apparent's bed.

I pushed myself up, letting the comforter pool around my waist. I blinked at them, my expression a carefully crafted blend of confusion and alarm.

"Who... who are you?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Where am I?"

The older maid, Zola, recovered first. She curtsied deeply. "Madam, this is the Alpha Apparent's wing. We were sent by the Luna to attend to you."

My eyes widened in feigned horror. I looked from their sympathetic faces to the still form of Amos beside me, then down at myself. I let out a small, choked cry and clutched the comforter to my chest as if to ward off a blow.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head in denial. "That's impossible. I was... I was supposed to be with Blaise. How did I get here?"

Tears, genuine this time from sheer exhaustion and stress, welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. It was the perfect touch.

The maids exchanged a look of profound pity. They bought it completely. I was the poor, innocent bride who had somehow stumbled into the wrong room on her wedding night.

"Please," I sobbed, reaching a hand out to them. "You have to help me. Please, take me to the Luna. There's been a terrible mistake."

Zola nodded, her face full of compassion. "Of course, Madam. Right away." She gestured to the younger maid, Ginger. "Stay here. I will inform the Luna."

Zola hurried from the room, leaving me under Ginger's watchful, pitying gaze. I buried my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with silent, calculated sobs.

The scene transitioned as Zola rushed through the manor to the main dining hall. There, Luna Georgina and Alpha Huston were seated at a long, polished table, a tense silence hanging between them.

Zola, breathless, recounted what she had found-the distraught new bride in the wrong bed, babbling about a "terrible mistake."

Luna Georgina's fork clattered against her plate. Her face, already strained, hardened into a mask of cold fury.

Minutes later, I was escorted into the same dining hall. I hadn't changed, my dress was still creased and smudged with dust. My hair was a mess. I looked every bit the part of a woman who had been through a waking nightmare.

The moment I saw the Luna, I fell to my knees, the worn fabric of the dress pooling around me on the marble floor.

"Luna, I beg you, you must help me!" I cried, my voice thick with unshed tears. "I don't know what happened!"

Luna Georgina's sharp, intelligent eyes scrutinized me, searching for any hint of deception. I met her gaze without flinching, my own eyes wide and swimming with a desperate, helpless plea. I was an open book of victimhood.

"You claim you went to the wrong room?" her voice was like ice.

"I... I don't remember everything clearly," I stammered, piecing together the story I had rehearsed all night. "They gave me so much wine at the reception... my head was spinning. Someone... someone pointed me down a hallway. They told me it was the right way. I thought it was Blaise's room."

I was careful not to name anyone. But the implication was clear. This wasn't an accident. I was guided. I was set up.

Luna Georgina's brow furrowed. She was a mother. She was a woman. She was beginning to see the outline of a conspiracy.

"My mating with Blaise was fated," I pressed on, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. "We... we completed the bond. And now this... this dishonor. Please, Luna, I implore you to investigate. Clear my name!"

I twisted the truth, claiming the consummated bond that Asha and Blaise now shared as my own. It made my distress more believable, the violation more profound.

I saw the shift in her eyes. The cold anger at the disruption of pack business began to melt, replaced by the warmth of maternal sympathy. She was looking at a young girl from a lesser pack, betrayed and humiliated on the one night that should have been a joyous beginning.

She rose from her chair and came to me, her movements graceful and commanding. She reached down and took my hands, her grip firm and reassuring.

"Get up, child," she said, her voice softer now. "This matter will be investigated. I give you my word."

As she helped me to my feet, I knew I had won the first, most crucial battle. I had secured the sympathy of the most powerful woman in the Stonefang Pack.

Before the day was out, the story had spread like wildfire through the servant's quarters and beyond. The tale of the tragic Omega bride, so distraught and confused on her wedding night that she'd accidentally spent it in the chamber of the comatose Alpha Apparent.

The narrative was set. I was the victim. And somewhere in the manor, I knew Asha and Blaise were hearing the whispers, their triumphant celebration turning to ash in their mouths.