My husband posted in the family chat that I was the family's disgrace.

Seventeen dollars an hour, stocking shelves at Costco, in a blue employee vest.

"Lola earns seven figures," he wrote. "You can't even cover Dylan's tuition. You still call yourself a Luna?"

My son added a vomit emoji and asked me to switch shifts so his classmates wouldn't see the vest.

I didn't explain.

Pack law says a fallen heir hides in the most ordinary human job for three full years before she can take the seat.

I chose the shelves myself.

They kept me close to the one I needed to watch—the man I'd married for love, back when he was poor and I was hidden.

One week before my succession, Lola invited me to the tearoom above my store.

She slid the bill across the table in her red-soled heels.

"You're paying, sweetie. Call it an apology for taking your husband."

My son didn't look up from his phone.

I tapped my card.

Then I set my badge on the table, face down.

The back of it wasn't a Costco logo.

It was the heir's crest of the Lunar Merchant Council.

The manager nearly sprinted over, bowing to the floor.

"Your Heirship—the Council bought this building last week."

He glanced at Lola.

"Shall I revoke her membership?"

***

"Excuse me, are there any more of these frozen pizzas in the back?" a customer asked, shoving a torn cardboard box toward my chest.

"What's on the shelf is all we have left," I said.

I adjusted the oversized blue Costco vest. Frost from the walk-in freezer clung to the cheap polyester, melting into freezing patches against my collarbone.

The customer scoffed, tossed the empty box into my cart, and shoved past me.

My phone vibrated violently against my hip. I pulled it from my apron pocket. My fingers were stiff, the joints aching from three straight hours in the sub-zero storage room.

The family group chat lit up the cracked screen. Aaron's message sat at the very top, a digital slap to the face.

"Lola makes seven figures a year, and you can't even scrape together Dylan's private school tuition. Do you even deserve to be called Luna?"

I stared at the glowing letters. Seventeen dollars an hour. That was my wage.

I rubbed my thumb over the screen, the cracked glass scratching my skin. Three months of graveyard shifts. Sorting heavy pallets until my spine felt like shattered glass. I skipped meals. I walked to work in the rain. That was how I paid the $24,000 for Dylan's tuition just last week. Aaron hadn't contributed a single dime.

Another buzz. A new message popped up beneath Aaron's.

It was from Dylan. A green vomiting emoji.

"Change your shift today. And don't wear that cheap vest when you pick me up. My friends will see."

My jaw tightened. I locked the screen and shoved the phone deep into my pocket.

Three years. Pack law dictated the reigning heir must endure a three-year hardship trial, stripped of titles, wealth, and protection. I chose this grueling retail job. I chose Aaron, a man with nothing, believing we could build a genuine life away from pack politics. I hid my identity, offering him a pure, untainted bond.

Now, he used my poverty as a weapon.

"Hey, Selene!" My manager, a balding man named Greg, yelled from the end of the aisle. "Stop checking your phone! Those frozen peas won't stock themselves. You're on the clock!"

"I'm on it," I called back, grabbing a heavy box of frozen goods and hoisting it onto the bottom shelf.

"Still taking orders from humans, Selene?" a sickly sweet voice echoed down the aisle.

I didn't need to look up. The heavy scent of expensive floral perfume cut through the sterile warehouse air, choking out the smell of cardboard and ice.

"I'm working, Lola," I said, keeping my focus on aligning the barcodes. "Customers only beyond this point."

"Oh, I am a customer. A very valued one."

A pair of glossy red-soled stilettos stepped into my line of sight, stopping just inches from my scuffed, salt-stained work boots.

"Aaron told me you were struggling," Lola said. She leaned against the metal rack, adjusting the lapel of her tailored white blazer. "He was so embarrassed this morning. Complaining about how you couldn't afford the school trip fees for Dylan. I went ahead and transferred the money to the private academy."

I dropped the box of peas. It hit the metal shelf with a loud thud, splitting open. Green spheres scattered across the concrete.

"You had no right to do that," I said, straightening my spine to face her.

Lola smirked, crossing her arms. "Someone had to step up. A real Luna takes care of her pack. And her family."

"I paid his tuition." My voice dropped, sharp and hard. "Every cent of it. I worked nights while you and Aaron drank wine on the couch I bought."

"With what? Pennies from sweeping floors?" Lola laughed, a thin, grating sound that echoed off the high warehouse ceiling. "Aaron is exhausted, Selene. He's tired of carrying the weight of a mate who drags him down."

"He doesn't carry anything," I shot back, taking a step forward. "I pay the rent. I buy the groceries. I bought the car he drives you around in."

"You mean the used Honda?" Lola sneered. "I bought him a matte-black Porsche yesterday. He cried, Selene. He actually cried because he finally felt like a man, not some charity case tied to a poverty-stricken omega."

"I am not an omega," I said.

"Could have fooled me," Lola said. She stepped closer, invading my space. "You smell like frozen cardboard and desperation. Aaron told me you begged him to stay last night. Said you promised to pick up a second job just to buy him that watch he wanted."

I hadn't begged. I had asked him why he came home smelling like her. He had thrown a vase at the wall and told me I was crazy.

"He lied," I said flatly.

"Does it matter?" Lola smiled. "Dylan hates you. Aaron pities you. The only reason they keep you around is because you cook and clean like a good little maid. But even that is getting old. Aaron is filing the divorce papers tomorrow."

That hit me. A dull, heavy blow to the stomach.

"He wouldn't," I said.

"He already signed them," Lola whispered, her eyes shining with malicious glee. "He forged your signature on the preliminary documents last week. He's just waiting for the final stamp from the pack council. Dylan called me 'Mom' yesterday. Did Aaron mention that?"

My chest hollowed out. A sharp, undeniable pain flared behind my ribs. Dylan. My own flesh and blood. The son I ruined my body to provide for.

"He's my son," I said, my hands balling into fists at my sides.

"He's a wolf who respects power and wealth," Lola corrected, inspecting her manicured nails. "He asked me to pick him up today. He said he couldn't stand the sight of you in that hideous blue vest. You embarrass him, Selene. You embarrass both of them."

I stared at her smug face. The urge to snap her neck flared hot and fast, but I forced it down. The trial rules were absolute. Break character before the three years were up, and forfeit the alpha claim forever.

"Get out of my aisle," I said.

"Gladly." Lola checked her diamond-encrusted watch. "I have a meeting with the regional manager anyway. I'm looking to buy this entire commercial plaza. Let's see each other in the lounge later. We can catch up properly."

She turned, her red soles flashing as she took a step away.

I reached up and grabbed the zipper of my blue vest, yanking it all the way to my chin. My fingers brushed the heavy, solid shape hidden deep in my inner pocket. The pack crest. My true badge. The three-year trial ended at midnight tonight.

I pressed my thumb against the cold metal through the fabric. Just a few more hours. Soon, Aaron would learn exactly who he had been mocking. Soon, Lola would bow until her spine snapped.

I bent down to grab the empty cardboard box at my feet.

As I crouched, the fabric of my apron snagged on the sharp, jagged corner of the metal shelf.

The cheap polyester gave way with a loud rip.

The hidden pocket tore open.

The heavy silver badge slipped out.

It hit the concrete floor with a sharp, ringing smack.

It flipped over, landing face up. The intricate, unmistakable crest of the reigning Alpha bloodline gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

I slammed my work boot down, trapping the metal beneath my sole.

But Lola had already stopped.

She pivoted, her gaze dropping straight to the floor, her red-soled shoe resting just an inch from the toe of my boot.

"You dropped something," Lola said, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the sliver of silver peeking out from under my shoe. "What kind of badge... did you just drop?"

"You dropped something," Lola pressed, her red-soled shoe tapping the concrete just an inch from my toe. "What kind of badge did you just drop?"

I shifted my weight, pressing my heel firmly over the heavy silver. "Nothing that concerns you."

"Move your foot, Selene."

"It is an inventory tag," I said.

Lola took a step forward. Her expensive floral perfume clashed violently with the stale, metallic smell of the freezer aisle. "Show it to me. Now."

"I have work to do," I said.

I crouched fast, sliding my bare hand under the dirty tread of my boot. My fingers clamped over the freezing metal. I kept the intricate wolf crest pressed flat against my palm, hiding the details from her view. I stood up and shoved my fist deep into my jeans pocket.

"Warehouse inventory tag," I repeated, my voice completely flat. "Aisle seven clearance."

Lola narrowed her eyes, scanning my face for any sign of a lie. "You guard a piece of tin like it is a diamond. Pathetic."

"If you are buying the plaza, you should go. Regional managers hate waiting."

Lola scoffed. She flipped her perfectly styled hair over her shoulder. "Clean up these peas, warehouse girl. Try not to slip and break your neck."

She pivoted and walked away. I stayed perfectly still until the sound of her expensive shoes faded around the corner.

An hour later, I pushed open the peeling front door of our apartment. The hinges groaned loudly, a sound Aaron usually complained about. Today, he ignored it entirely.

Aaron stood in the center of the cramped living room, adjusting the lapels of a charcoal-gray suit. The fabric hugged his shoulders flawlessly. It looked custom-made.

"Do not step on the rug," Aaron said. His eyes remained locked on his own reflection in the cracked floor-length mirror. "Your boots track in mud."

I kicked off my work boots by the door. My socks were damp with melted frost. "Where did you get the suit, Aaron?"

"Lola," he answered. He smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on his sleeve. "She knows I have that pack networking event tomorrow. I cannot show up looking like a rogue."

"You let her buy you clothes now."

"She has taste, Selene." He finally turned around. His gaze swept over my stained blue uniform, and disgust curled his upper lip. "Someone has to make sure I look presentable."

I dropped my keys on the counter. The metal clattered sharply against the cheap laminate. "I worked a double shift today. My back is killing me."

"Did you get paid?" he asked, completely ignoring my exhaustion.

"Yes."

"Good. Send me the money for Dylan's advanced combat tutoring. The instructor needs the deposit by eight tonight."

He did not ask how my back felt. He did not ask if I had eaten anything. He just held out his hand like I owed him.

"How much?" I asked, my voice dropping low.

"Eight hundred," Aaron said. He turned back to the mirror and adjusted his silk tie. "And add another two hundred. I need new dress shoes to match this cut."

My entire paycheck. Two weeks of lifting frozen boxes, shivering in a sub-zero freezer, and enduring Lola's taunts.

"I need groceries," I said, stepping closer to him. "The fridge is completely empty. We have nothing for dinner."

"Eat at work," Aaron snapped. "You work at a wholesale club. Steal a pizza."

"You want me to risk my job so you can buy shoes?"

Aaron spun around, his jaw rigid. "I want you to support your family! Dylan is falling behind the other pups. Do you want your son to be a failure?"

"I want my mate to contribute," I shot back. I stepped further into the living room, closing the distance between us. "When was the last time you brought home a paycheck? When was the last time you paid the rent?"

"I am building connections," Aaron said, his tone heavy with condescension. "Pack politics require finesse. You have to spend money to make money. You would not understand. You stack boxes for a living."

My chest tightened. Three years ago, I walked away from the Alpha estate. The elders demanded a grueling hardship trial to prove I could lead from the bottom. I chose this brutal, penniless existence. I chose Aaron, a low-ranking wolf with absolutely no prospects, believing a bond forged in poverty would be pure. I wanted a man who loved me, not the reigning heir.

Now, I saw the exact truth. He did not just hate my poverty. He hated me.

"Send the money, Selene," Aaron ordered. "Now."

I pulled out my phone. The screen was still spider-webbed with cracks from when Dylan threw it against the wall last month. I opened my banking app. Available balance: One thousand and forty-two dollars.

I typed in the transfer amount. One thousand.

My thumb hovered over the memo line. A dozen bitter words fought their way up my throat. I wanted to type blood money. I wanted to ask him if Lola's perfume washed out of his new suit. I wanted to scream that I was the only reason he had a roof over his head.

Instead, I typed a single word.

Tuition.

I hit send. The green checkmark flashed on the screen, draining my account down to double digits. Forty-two dollars to last me two weeks.

"Sent," I said, my voice entirely hollow.

Aaron's phone chimed on the coffee table. He did not even look at it. He just kept admiring his reflection.

"Make sure my blue shirt is ironed for tomorrow," he said. "And do not burn the collar this time."

He grabbed his keys and headed straight for the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Out," he said, not bothering to turn around. "Lola is treating Dylan and me to dinner at The Obsidian Room. Do not wait up."

The door slammed shut.

Silence filled the tiny apartment. I stood alone in the center of the faded rug, staring at the empty space where my mate had just stood.

Not a single thank you. Just a demand, a transaction, and a quick exit.

I sank onto the lumpy sofa. The broken springs dug into my thighs. My muscles ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the heavy silver badge.

The Alpha crest stared back at me. A crescent moon encircled by thorns.

Tonight was supposed to be the end. Midnight.

My phone buzzed in my lap, vibrating against the rough denim of my jeans.

I picked it up. A black notification banner stretched across the cracked glass. No sender name. Just an encrypted sequence that only the high council used.

Theo. My trial guardian.

I tapped the message, watching the text decrypt line by line into a final, undeniable order.

"The succession ceremony is set for next Monday, leaving exactly seven days on your trial."

"Seven days."

I stared at the encrypted text from Theo. The harsh glare of my cracked phone screen illuminated the cramped interior of my beat-up sedan.

Seven more days of this trial.

My thumb brushed against the cheap plastic name tag pinned to my left chest pocket. The harsh fluorescent lights of the warehouse still seemed to cling to the blue polyester.

I shoved the phone away and killed the engine.

Outside the windshield, the wrought-iron gates of Oakridge Academy stood open.

Dylan waited by the stone courtyard fountain. My ten-year-old son threw his head back, laughing loudly at a joke made by a boy wearing a three-hundred-dollar uniform sweater.

I stepped out of the car. The cold afternoon wind hit my face.

"Dylan," I called out.

His laughter vanished. He snapped his head toward me. His eyes darted from my scuffed work boots to the bright blue vest screaming my retail status to the entire courtyard.

The other boy smirked, nudging Dylan's shoulder. "Is that your maid?"

"No," Dylan muttered, his face flushing dark red. "Just... my ride."

He marched toward me, his jaw set hard. He offered no greeting. Instead, he swung his heavy leather backpack off his shoulder and shoved it directly into my chest.

The metal buckles bit into my collarbone.

"Put it in the trunk," he ordered, keeping his voice low.

"Dylan, look at me," I said. I reached out and caught his wrist.

"Don't touch me!" He yanked his arm free as if my skin burned him. "Get in the car before anyone else sees you."

"I am your mother," I said, my tone firm.

"You are an embarrassment!" he hissed.

He spun around, yanked open the passenger door, and threw himself onto the seat.

My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket. I pulled it out.

A text from Dylan lit up the screen.

Please don't wear this. You look like trash.

I stared at the glowing letters. My hands gripped the heavy straps of his backpack. Just three months ago, I dragged pallets of frozen meat until my spine felt permanently bruised. I worked ninety consecutive night shifts. I skipped lunches to save every spare dollar to pay the $24,000 tuition required to keep him standing in that elite courtyard.

I popped the trunk, tossed the bag inside, and slammed the lid shut.

The drive home passed in suffocating silence.

When I pushed open the apartment door, Aaron was already sitting at the cramped kitchen table. He wore the new charcoal-gray suit Lola had bought him.

Dylan pushed past me, entirely ignoring his father, and locked himself in his bedroom.

"You are late," Aaron said. He kept his eyes locked on his phone screen.

"Traffic," I replied. I unzipped my blue vest and draped it over the back of a chair.

"Pack a bag for him," Aaron commanded. "Just enough for the weekend."

I paused, my hand still resting on the rough polyester. "Why?"

Aaron finally looked up, his expression dripping with open disdain. "Dylan and I are spending the weekend at Lola's estate."

My fingers tightened on the chair. "You are taking my son to your mistress's house?"

"She is not my mistress, Selene. She is my sponsor," Aaron said smoothly. "She has a private pool. A chef. A tennis court. Dylan needs to expand his horizons. He needs to see how successful wolves live."

"He lives here," I said, stepping closer to the table. "With his family."

"He lives in a dump," Aaron shot back. He slammed his hand flat against the laminate wood. "Look around! Peeling wallpaper. Leaking faucets. You work at a wholesale club, Selene. What kind of future can you offer an ambitious pup?"

"I paid his tuition." My voice dropped to a sharp whisper. "I kept him in that school."

"Money you scraped together from sweeping floors," Aaron sneered. "Lola is introducing him to the alpha of the eastern sector tomorrow. Can you do that? Can you get him a seat at a high-council table?"

I stared at the man I chose three years ago. The man I thought would love me for me, completely separated from my pack title.

"You have no idea what I can do," I said.

"I know exactly what you can do," Aaron said, standing up. "You can iron my shirts and stay out of my way."

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick, heavy envelope. He tossed it onto the kitchen table.

It landed with a solid thud, sliding across the cheap laminate until it stopped inches from my hand.

"Make sure my dress shoes are polished by tomorrow night," Aaron said, adjusting his cuffs. "Lola is hosting a banquet. It is strictly high-society."

"A banquet," I repeated.

"Yes. The kind of event they would never let you into, even to serve the drinks." He picked up his car keys. "Do not wait up. I need to take Dylan shopping for a tuxedo."

Aaron turned and walked out the front door, letting it slam shut behind him.

The silence rushed back into the tiny apartment.

I looked down at the table.

The invitation was made of thick, cream-colored cardstock. Gold foil lined the edges, catching the dim overhead light.

I reached out and flipped the heavy card open.

Elegant, sweeping calligraphy spelled out Lola's name as the guest of honor.

But my eyes locked onto the header.

Hosted by the Brandt Family.

My thumb traced the raised gold lettering spelling out Brandt—the exact exiled bloodline that had waged a bloody war against my mother for the alpha throne ten years ago.