Elois POV:

A maid I didn't recognize helped me to my feet. Her touch was gentle, her eyes filled with a pity that felt almost as sharp as the scorn I was about to face. She helped me into a loose-fitting black silk dress, the fabric cool against my feverish skin. It did little to hide the deathly pallor of my face or the hollowed-out look in my eyes.

The car was already waiting downstairs. The driver didn't look at me, didn't speak. I leaned back in the rear seat. Every jolt sent a fresh ache through my lower abdomen, and cold sweat traced a path down my spine. I had no idea how long we drove—maybe twenty minutes, maybe more. The pain stretched time into an eternity.

The car slowed, rolling through a pair of wrought-iron gates. The silhouette of the Zimmerman family estate emerged from the darkness, blazing with light, like a beast crouching in the night. The vehicle came to a stop at the foot of the stone steps. A footman opened the door, and I gripped the frame, pulling myself up slowly, my legs still trembling beneath me.

Every step up the grand staircase of the Zimmerman pack house was a fresh wave of agony. The cramping in my abdomen had subsided to a dull, persistent ache, a constant reminder of my loss.

When I entered the opulent dining room, the conversation ceased.

Blaise's mother, Eleanora, and his younger sister, Thea, were already seated. Their eyes, the same piercing blue as Blaise's, raked over me with open contempt. The air grew thick with their hostility.

Eleanora let out a delicate, yet cutting, sniff. "Some people are such born performers," she said to Thea, her voice just loud enough for me to hear. "They'll do anything for a bit of sympathy."

Thea giggled, covering her mouth with a perfectly manicured hand. "Well, you don't get to be an Alpha's mate without a few tricks up your sleeve, Mother."

My fingernails dug into my palms. I said nothing. I walked toward the empty chair beside Blaise, my head held high, my face a carefully constructed mask of neutrality.

Blaise sat at the head of the table, a king on his throne. He hadn't even glanced up at my entrance, acting as if his mother and sister's cruel words were nothing but ambient noise. As if I were nothing but a piece of furniture.

As I went to sit, a sharp spasm seized my womb. A pained grunt escaped my lips before I could stop it, and my hand flew to my abdomen.

Eleanora's eyes narrowed. "Elois Fletcher," she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. "What is that posture? Have you no manners in front of your elders?"

My face grew even paler. I forced my hand away from my stomach and lowered myself into the chair, my back ramrod straight, each movement an exercise in excruciating control.

The dinner began. Servants moved silently, placing exquisite dishes on the table. The rich aroma of roasted meat and herbs filled the air, turning my stomach.

Blaise, in a gesture of what anyone else might mistake for care, used the serving utensils to place a thick, glistening cut of steak onto my plate. His movements were graceful, elegant, and utterly devoid of warmth.

The act only served to stoke the fire of his family's disdain.

"You're too good to her, brother," Thea said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Not like poor Daniela. I wonder how she's doing, all alone."

At the mention of her name, a flicker of genuine warmth softened Blaise's gaze. It was there for only a second, but I saw it. It was another twist of the knife in my already bleeding heart.

I stared at the steak on my plate. The sight of the rare, bloody meat made bile rise in my throat.

I picked up my knife and fork. My hands were trembling, a combination of weakness and suppressed pain. The heavy silver felt like lead in my grasp.

The fork clattered against the porcelain plate, the sound jarringly loud in the tense silence. It drew another glare from Eleanora.

"Can't even hold a fork properly," she muttered. "Is this the best the Fletcher family has to offer?"

I took a deep breath, the air shuddering in my lungs. I set the utensils down. I couldn't eat. I couldn't swallow a single bite.

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead as the ache in my belly sharpened into a piercing cramp.

I turned to Blaise, keeping my voice low, a desperate plea threading through the words. "Blaise, I need to see the doctor."

He didn't even look at me. His gaze was fixed on my untouched plate. "Eat your food."

His voice was quiet, but it carried the unmistakable weight of an Alpha's command. It wasn't the full force of his power, but it was enough. An order, not a request.

I looked at him, truly looked at him, searching for any trace of the man I thought I was mated to. I found nothing but a cold, empty void.

This wasn't a dinner. It was a punishment. A public spectacle designed to break me.

Thea, ever the opportunist, added more fuel to the fire. "What's the matter? Is the food at the Zimmerman house not good enough for your refined palate?"

My vision started to blur at the edges. The pain was a rising tide, threatening to pull me under. I reached for my water glass, my hand shaking, and took a small sip, trying to quell the nausea.

Blaise noticed. He saw the steak, still whole, and his jaw tightened.

He placed his wine glass down on the table with a loud, deliberate thud.

The sound cracked through the room like a whip. All conversation stopped. Every eye turned to me. I was a prisoner in the dock, the verdict already decided.

Eleanora's lips curved into a triumphant, cruel smile.

My body swayed. The room tilted. The pain was becoming unbearable, a roaring inferno in my womb.

I looked at Blaise one last time, my voice a threadbare whisper. "I really... don't feel well."

Elois POV:

Just as the silence in the dining room stretched to a breaking point, a deep, resonant cough echoed from the doorway.

Elder Alistair Zimmerman stood there, leaning on a dark, intricately carved wooden cane. His silver hair was impeccably styled, and his eyes, a paler, wiser version of Blaise's blue, swept across the table, missing nothing.

Instantly, the venomous expressions on Eleanora and Thea's faces vanished, replaced by masks of respectful deference.

"Father," Eleanora said, rising slightly from her seat.

"Grandfather," Thea chirped.

Blaise stood as well, his posture stiff. "Grandfather."

Alistair's sharp gaze passed over them all before landing on me. He took in my ashen face, the sweat on my brow, the way I trembled in my chair. His brow furrowed into a deep, concerned frown.

He ignored everyone else and walked directly to my side. He motioned to a nearby servant. "Bring a more comfortable chair. Place it here, next to the Alpha."

"Come, child, sit here," he said to me, his voice firm but gentle. It was the first kindness I had been shown all night.

I looked up at him, surprised and overwhelmed by the unexpected wave of compassion.

Blaise's expression darkened, but he said nothing against his grandfather's command.

A servant quickly replaced my rigid dining chair with a plush, high-backed armchair. With Alistair's steadying hand on my shoulder, I moved into it.

The Elder settled himself at the table, his cane thudding decisively on the marble floor. "I'm not so old that I can't tell when someone is genuinely unwell."

His words hung in the air, a clear rebuke. I saw Eleanora and Thea exchange panicked glances, their faces flushing with color.

Alistair then turned his stern gaze on his grandson. "Blaise. Your mate is clearly in distress. Is this how you care for her?"

Blaise's jaw was a hard, unforgiving line. "It was an oversight," he ground out, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

The Elder paid him no mind. He signaled a servant, who quickly brought a bowl of warm, clear vegetable broth. Alistair took it himself and placed it gently in front of me. "Drink this. It will be good for you."

I met the old man's eyes, my own welling with unshed tears. I gave him a small, grateful nod and shakily picked up the spoon.

Under Alistair's watchful eye, the rest of the dinner passed in a thick, awkward silence. No one dared to utter another cruel word in my direction. I managed to finish half the broth, the warm liquid soothing my churning stomach and giving me a sliver of strength.

Finally, the ordeal was over. Citing his need for rest, Alistair was the first to leave, but not before pointedly instructing Blaise to "see your mate back to her room to rest properly."

The moment the Elder was out of sight, the fragile peace shattered.

Blaise's hand shot out, his fingers closing around my wrist like a manacle of steel. The force of his grip sent a jolt of pain up my arm.

"Come with me," he snarled, his voice a low growl.

He hauled me from my chair and dragged me out of the dining room, his long strides forcing me to practically run to keep up. He pulled me down a long, deserted corridor to a small, stone balcony at the far end of the pack house.

He shoved me away from him, hard.

I stumbled backward, my hip slamming into the cold, unforgiving stone railing. The impact sent a fresh, sickening wave of pain through my abdomen, and I gasped, doubling over.

Blaise advanced on me, his large frame blocking out the moonlight, casting me in his shadow. The sheer pressure of his presence was suffocating.

"You're proud of yourself, aren't you?" He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my skin, forcing my head up. "Putting on a pathetic little show for my grandfather."

"I didn't..." I whispered, my voice trembling.

"Didn't you?" he sneered, his face inches from mine. He gestured back toward the house. "That steak. I cut it for you myself. You didn't take a single bite. Is that your idea of respect?"

I stared at him, incredulous. Of all the things he could be angry about, it was the steak.

"I couldn't eat..."

"You wouldn't eat!" he roared, his control finally snapping. "You did it to defy me! To show everyone, to show my grandfather, that I can't even control my own mate!"

The accusation was so absurd, so twisted, that a hysterical laugh almost bubbled up from my chest. I was shaking, from pain, from rage, from the utter hopelessness of it all.

His eyes burned with a furious fire. In his mind, I was nothing but a conniving, manipulative schemer.

He released me abruptly, and I slid down the railing to the cold stone floor, the pain in my belly making black spots dance in my vision.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small balcony like a caged wolf. He tugged at the collar of his shirt as if it were choking him.

Just then, his phone buzzed. The sound was unnaturally loud in the tense silence of the night.