"Are you sure you want him to know it's you?" the proxy asked over the encrypted line.

I didn't answer. I tapped the red icon, severing the connection, and dropped the phone onto the scratched linoleum counter.

The screen immediately lit up again. The caller ID flashed Desmond's name.

I swiped the green button and put him on speaker.

"What do you want, Desmond?" I asked.

"Just making sure you saw the broadcast," his smug voice echoed through the empty kitchen. "I want to ensure you understand your place now."

"I saw the draft."

"Lola looked incredible on camera, didn't she? The network loved her. They already want to do a special segment on how she shaped Caleb's defensive reads."

"She doesn't know a blitz package from a screen pass," I replied, my voice flat.

"It doesn't matter," Desmond laughed, a harsh, scraping sound. "She looks the part. You just looked tired. Do us all a favor and stay away from the facility tomorrow."

"I have no reason to visit your facility."

"Good. Caleb doesn't need his mother showing up in cheap clothes asking for a handout. We earned this."

A rustling sound came through the speaker.

"Here, Lola wants to speak with you," Desmond said.

"Maren?" Lola's voice laced with fake sympathy filled the room. "I hope you aren't too upset about the broadcast."

"I am perfectly fine, Lola."

"Good. Caleb is just so stressed right now. He needs a united front. He needs parents who understand the business."

"You don't understand the business," I told her.

"I understand enough to get him drafted number one," she chuckled. "Look, Desmond mentioned the medical waiver. I know it hurts to give up your last little connection to him, but it is for the best. I am handling his diet and recovery now."

"You cannot handle his recovery."

"I hired the best physical therapists in the country, Maren. We do not need your bone broth anymore."

"It isn't bone broth."

"Whatever it is, keep it. Caleb is moving on. I just wanted to personally thank you for stepping aside. It makes this transition so much easier for our family."

"Our family," I repeated, my tone icy.

"Yes. Mine and Desmond's. Have a good night, Maren."

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen. My jaw tightened, the muscles ticking along my cheek. I reached into my canvas tote bag and pulled out the heavy, leather-bound notebook.

Training log number three hundred and twelve.

I flipped past the endless pages of five-in-the-morning explosive power drills. Eighteen years of meticulous records. I stopped at the very last entry. Yesterday. The night before the draft.

0500 hours: Sprints.

0600 hours: Weights.

2100 hours: Caleb drank the broth.

My finger traced my own cramped handwriting.

"It tastes like copper tonight," Caleb had complained yesterday, leaning against my kitchen island.

"Drink every drop," I had ordered, pushing the heavy ceramic mug against his chest.

"Lola bought me a nutritionist," he argued, staring at the dark liquid. "She said I do not need your weird home remedies anymore."

"Lola doesn't know what your body needs."

"She knows football, Mom. She knows the scouts. What do you know? How to boil water?"

"I know how to keep your hamstring from snapping in half," I fired back.

He rolled his eyes and downed the mug in three gulps. "Fine. But this is the last time. I am a professional now."

I closed the logbook. The leather cover slapped against the table. He drank it. He always drank it.

The phone vibrated against the counter, spinning slightly on the slick surface. A text from Caleb.

Did you sign the PDF Dad sent?

I didn't type a reply.

The device rang. Caleb's face appeared on the screen.

"Mom," he demanded the second I answered. "Did you sign it?"

"I am not signing it, Caleb."

"Are you kidding me? Lola is trying to set up my physical for tomorrow morning. She needs the proxy."

"Lola cannot provide the calming source for your bloodline."

"Stop talking about my bloodline!" he shouted through the speaker. "You sound crazy. Lola got me a hyperbaric chamber. She got me a massage therapist. She actually spends money on my recovery."

"Money doesn't heal a wolfblood anomaly."

"There is no anomaly! It is just soup! You boil bones and vegetables! Stop acting like you have some secret formula. You are embarrassing me."

"I am embarrassing you?"

"Yes! The reporters asked about you today. I had to change the subject. Lola is getting me endorsement deals. What are you doing? Living in a dump?"

"I am securing your future," I said softly.

"Lola secured my future," he snapped. "Do not show up tomorrow. Do not call the team. Just sign the paper and leave us alone."

Click.

I set the phone down. A sharp notification chime broke the silence a second later.

BREAKING: Number One Pick Caleb Holt Reports to New Team Tomorrow.

I read the headline twice. My son. Reporting to a franchise I now owned, crediting a woman who didn't share a single drop of his genetics.

I walked into the cramped bathroom and flipped the switch. The overhead fluorescent bulb buzzed, casting a sickly yellow glare over the cracked mirror.

I opened the rusted medicine cabinet.

I pulled out the old porcelain bowl. The rim was chipped from years of use, the white glaze faded to a dull gray. I set it on the edge of the sink.

Next, I reached for the small silver paring knife.

For eighteen years, I performed this exact ritual. Every single night, I stood in front of a mirror just like this one.

Lola spent the last six years posing for the cameras. She wore the glittering jewelry paid for by Desmond. She stood on the sidelines, smiled for the sports networks, and claimed she built a champion.

She had no idea what it actually took. She didn't know about the blood.

I held the knife in my right hand. The metal felt cold and heavy against my palm. I pressed the sharp steel edge against the pad of my left index finger.

I sliced the skin.

A sharp sting flared through my hand. I didn't flinch. I was used to the pain. It grounded me.

A bead of dark, thick blood welled up at the cut.

I positioned my hand over the chipped porcelain bowl. I waited for the drop to fall, just like it had every night since Caleb was born.

"I just wanted to personally thank you for stepping aside," Lola's voice echoed in my head.

"She did the heavy lifting," Caleb had announced to the world.

I stared at my own pale reflection in the glass.

I shoved the porcelain dish across the counter. It scraped against the cheap tile, sliding out of reach.

For the first time in eighteen years, I didn't finish the process.

My fingertip hovered over the empty sink.

The heavy crimson bead swelled, suspended in mid-air, refusing to drop.

Four hours before the press conference, the top-floor glass conference room sat empty.

I pushed open the heavy oak double doors. The morning sun glared through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, sharp shadows across the massive mahogany table. Twelve leather chairs lined the sides.

I ignored them all.

I walked straight to the single, high-backed chair positioned dead center at the head of the table. The seat reserved for the majority owner.

I pulled it out and sat down.

The stadium was quiet up here, miles above the artificial turf where my son would soon parade his new jersey. I set my worn canvas tote on the polished wood and smoothed the front of my plain gray sweater.

The brass handle on the door turned.

"Security flagged a breach at the private elevator bank," a crisp male voice announced.

A tall man strode into the room. He wore a tailored navy suit and held a silver tablet tucked against his ribs. His dark eyes swept the empty side chairs before landing squarely on me.

He stopped.

His right foot planted firmly into the carpet. For exactly half a second, absolute silence stretched between us. His gaze flicked from my canvas bag to my face. I watched the calculation happen behind his eyes. He recognized the cadence of my breathing, the unbothered way I occupied the most powerful seat in the building.

"Architect," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

"Maren Holt," I corrected.

He inclined his head, a smooth, respectful dip of his chin. "Adrian Cole. Co-president of operations. And your medical committee advisor."

"You run a tight ship, Mr. Cole. Your security guards almost didn't let me past the lobby."

"My apologies, Ms. Holt. They were expecting a phantom billionaire, not a woman carrying a canvas tote bag." Adrian stepped fully into the room, letting the heavy doors shut behind him. "You are early."

"I prefer to watch the board members arrive," I told him. "It gives me an advantage."

"They will be sweating through their expensive suits when they see you sitting there," Adrian noted, pulling out the chair to my immediate right. He didn't sit. He simply rested his hands on the leather backrest. "The minority owners have been calling my phone since six this morning, demanding to know who bought them out."

"Let them keep calling."

"Your ex-husband is already downstairs," Adrian said, his tone shifting to pure business. "He showed up thirty minutes ago with an entire entourage."

I leaned back in the chair. "Is he enjoying the VIP treatment?"

"He demanded the barista replace all the dairy in the lounge with a specific brand of oat milk for his partner."

"Lola has a sensitive stomach," I replied flatly.

"He also requested we drape a fifty-foot banner of Caleb's face over the main entrance." Adrian tapped his tablet screen. "He claims it will set the right tone for the media."

"Did you order the banner?"

"I told the marketing department to stall. It seemed excessive."

"Print it," I ordered.

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "You want to indulge him?"

"I want him to feel like he owns the city," I said, folding my hands on the table. "Print the banner. Give him the oat milk. Give him the microphone. The higher he climbs today, the harder the concrete will feel when he hits the ground."

A faint smirk touched the corner of Adrian's mouth. "Understood."

He picked up a sleek leather briefcase from the floor and set it on the table. The metallic clasps snapped open with a sharp crack.

"We have a more pressing issue than Desmond's catering requests," Adrian said.

He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a thick file enclosed in a bright red envelope. He slid it across the mahogany surface. It stopped exactly one inch from my fingertips.

I stared at the cover.

Caleb Holt.

Next to my son's typed name, a glaring red warning symbol stamped the thick paper.

"The team doctors ran Caleb's mandatory preliminary labs at dawn," Adrian explained, his voice losing its previous amusement. "They panicked."

"Cellular degradation?" I asked.

"Accelerating faster than anything they have ever seen," Adrian confirmed. "His muscle tissue is micro-tearing just from walking. The head physician wanted to bench him immediately and void the contract."

"Why didn't he?"

"Desmond intercepted the medical staff in the hallway," Adrian said, his jaw tightening. "He screamed at the head doctor. He claimed the abnormal bloodwork is just standard pre-draft fatigue. He insists Lola's new diet plan will clear it up by tomorrow."

"And the doctors believed him?"

"Desmond signed a liability waiver claiming full responsibility for any physical failures. He practically shoved the clipboard into the physician's chest."

I traced the edge of the red envelope. "A waiver doesn't knit torn tendons back together."

"No, it doesn't," Adrian agreed. "But the medical committee won't clear him for practice. Not with those lab results. Desmond thinks he bullied his way past the red tape, but the league requires a secondary sign-off from the medical advisor."

"You," I pointed out.

"Me," Adrian said. "And I refuse to sign it."

"Good."

"Desmond is currently telling the sports networks that Caleb will run a sub-four-second sprint for the cameras this afternoon," Adrian added. "If he attempts that sprint today, his hamstring will snap."

"He won't sprint," I said. "He won't even make it to the turf."

"Lola brought a private massage therapist to the locker room," Adrian continued. "She told the staff she has a proprietary recovery method."

A dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. "Her method is a foam roller and an ice bath. She doesn't have the bloodline."

"Which brings us to this," Adrian said, tapping the top of the red folder. "The medical committee ran a deeper genetic screen. They bypassed Desmond's waiver and checked the league's restricted registry."

I kept my eyes on the glaring red mark next to my son's name.

"They found the anomaly," Adrian stated quietly.

"Desmond paid a lot of money to keep that marker hidden during the college scouts' evaluations," I said.

"College scouts don't have access to the League Wolfblood Medical Committee's database," Adrian countered. "We do. The doctors flagged the file an hour ago. They know what he is."

I finally looked up at Adrian. "Do they know who I am?"

"They know Caleb requires a registered Maternal Calming Source," Adrian replied. "They don't know the source is currently sitting in the owner's chair."

I pulled the red envelope closer to my chest. The paper felt heavy, loaded with the weight of eighteen years of secrets. Eighteen years of bleeding into a porcelain bowl while Desmond slept.

"Desmond and Lola are going to walk into this room in exactly three hours," Adrian said, checking his silver wristwatch. "They expect to meet a faceless billionaire who will hand them the keys to the franchise. They expect to finalize the draft contract."

"They will meet me," I said.

"What do you want me to do when the head doctor demands the calming serum?"

"Tell him the serum is unavailable."

Adrian's eyes widened slightly. "If I tell him that, he will pull the plug on the press conference. Caleb's career will end before he puts on the jersey."

"Do exactly as I say, Mr. Cole."

"Understood, Ms. Holt."

Adrian gave another slight bow, turning his back and walking toward the heavy oak doors. He paused with his hand on the brass handle.

"For what it's worth," Adrian said over his shoulder. "I think you look perfectly fine for a woman who just bought a football team."

He opened the door and stepped out, leaving me alone in the sprawling glass room.

The silence rushed back in, heavy and thick.

I looked down at the red envelope resting on the polished wood. My left index finger throbbed, a phantom sting where the paring knife usually sliced the skin. I hadn't bled for him last night. I hadn't provided the serum.

I flipped the heavy red flap open.

A stack of stark white medical documents slid out. The top page displayed Caleb's biometric scans, a chaotic mess of spiking heart rates and deteriorating muscle fibers.

I scanned past the charts, my eyes locking onto a single line of bold, black text printed across the center of the page.

Stabilizing-bloodline rating: RED — Risk of feral lunar break: EXTREME.

I stared at the terrifying diagnosis, knowing I was the only legally registered calming source on the planet who could stop my son from tearing himself apart.

"EXTREME."

I pressed my index finger against the bold black letters printed across Caleb's medical file. The pad of my finger covered the warning entirely, pressing the dark ink into the heavy paper.

"The league doesn't hand out that classification lightly," Adrian said. He stepped away from the floor-to-ceiling window, crossing the room to stand beside my chair. "They only use it for active players carrying a volatile genetic marker."

"I know what the marker means, Mr. Cole."

"Then you know the consequences." Adrian pointed a silver pen at the red symbol glaring from the page. "Under league rules, a red-flagged player is a massive liability. If they fail to bind with a legally registered maternal calming source, they become a danger to themselves and the entire roster."

"How long?" I asked, keeping my hand flat on the file.

"Thirty days."

I looked up at him. "And if he doesn't secure the binding?"

"Mandatory suspension," Adrian stated, his tone completely devoid of sympathy. "The league steps in immediately. They freeze his rookie contract. They lock him out of the training facility. No practices, no games, no signing bonus. He becomes a ghost."

I stared at my unmarked fingertip. Last night, the chipped porcelain bowl sat empty on my bathroom sink. The heavy bead of blood never fell. For eighteen years, I gave away pieces of myself in the dark. I bled into his soup while Desmond slept, keeping the monster inside my son quiet. I endured the exhaustion, the dizzy spells, the cold sneers from a husband who thought I was just a useless housewife playing with recipes.

Now, that exact same secret held the keys to Caleb's entire career.

"Desmond told the head physician that Lola's new diet plan will clear up his muscle fatigue," I said, a dry rasp scratching my throat.

Adrian scoffed. "Desmond is a fool. Lola's ice baths and protein shakes are going to kill him. The cellular degradation will accelerate every time he pushes his body on the turf. By week two, Caleb won't be able to lift his arms above his head without tearing a rotator cuff."

"He won't stop pushing," I noted. "He wants the cameras."

"If he keeps sprinting for the media, the feral lunar break will trigger by week three," Adrian warned. "His muscles will literally snap off the bone."

"Desmond thinks he can buy his way out of a genetic curse."

"Money doesn't rewrite DNA, Ms. Holt. The medical committee will enforce the freeze, and they don't care how many VIP passes Desmond demanded this morning."

The heavy silence of the boardroom shattered. A muffled sound drifted through the thick glass walls separating us from the executive corridor.

Footsteps. Heavy, rapid strides echoing against the polished marble floors outside.

"That is Garrett Shaw," Adrian noted, angling his head toward the double doors. "General Manager. He is giving the golden boy the grand tour of the executive suite."

"Is the golden boy paying attention?" I asked.

"Listen for yourself."

The voices grew louder, carrying clearly through the small gap beneath the heavy oak doors.

"You need to dial back the attitude, Caleb," a gruff, older male voice barked. Garrett Shaw sounded out of breath and entirely out of patience. "I don't care how many cameras Lola shoved in your face downstairs. Up here, you show respect."

"I am the number one overall pick, Garrett," Caleb shot back. His voice sounded thin, tight with an arrogance I didn't recognize. Or maybe I just hadn't wanted to see it before. "My dad said the new owner is just some suit who wants to win. I can win."

"The new owner bought out fifty-one percent of this franchise in cash," Garrett snapped. "They can trade you to a practice squad in Canada if they don't like your face. Be polite to the new boss. Do you understand me?"

A heavy sigh vibrated through the wood. "Yeah, fine. I will smile and shake hands. Let's just get this over with so I can get back to the VIP lounge. Lola ordered my pre-game meals and the photographer is waiting."

"Your dad is already pissing off the coaching staff," Garrett warned, his heavy shoes stopping just a few yards from the boardroom. "Tell him to back off the offensive coordinator. He doesn't call the plays."

"Dad knows what he's doing," Caleb argued. "Lola charted my whole rookie season. We have a brand to build."

"You don't have a brand until you play a snap," Garrett fired back. "And you don't play a snap until the new owner signs off on your roster spot. Fix your face."

"Lola wants field access during practice," Caleb demanded, ignoring the warning. "I told security to clear her."

"You can't clear her," Garrett growled. "She is a distraction, Caleb. This is a professional football facility, not a reality television set."

"She is my manager now. She needs to monitor my reps."

I kept my eyes on the red envelope resting on the mahogany table. I listened to my son fight for a woman who didn't share a single drop of his genetics. Eighteen years of my blood, traded for a few months of her camera-ready smiles. I didn't feel angry anymore. I just felt cold.

"He doesn't know," Adrian murmured, leaning closer to my chair.

"He only knows what Desmond told him," I replied, my voice steady. "And Desmond told him I am nothing. Just a woman in cheap clothes who boils water."

"Are you going to sign the medical waiver for him?" Adrian asked.

"No."

Adrian's jaw tightened. He didn't argue. He reached into his sleek leather briefcase again, his hands moving with quiet efficiency. He pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment paper, stamped heavily with the League Wolfblood Medical Committee's official gold seal.

He slid it across the polished mahogany table. The paper stopped right next to the red-flagged medical file.

"This is the official suspension countdown," Adrian stated, tapping the bottom corner of the page with his pen. "The thirty-day binding window doesn't start when training camp opens. It doesn't start when the season kicks off."

I looked at the timestamp printed in stark black ink at the very top of the document.

"It started the moment he signed the preliminary draft contract," Adrian finished.

"Midnight," I read aloud.

"Today at zero hundred hours," Adrian confirmed. "The clock is already ticking. Twenty-nine days and fourteen hours left. If your signature isn't on that line, he loses everything."

The brass handle on the heavy oak door clicked loudly.

"Put a smile on, kid," Garrett's voice ordered from the other side of the wood. "Showtime."

I didn't move my hands. I left the red-flagged medical file and the thirty-day countdown sitting dead center on the table, right under the bright morning sun. I sat perfectly straight in the majority owner's chair.

The heavy brass doorknob turned.