Chapter 13 CHAPTER 13
My father had been home from the hospital for two days, and even though the doctor claimed they still didn’t know what caused his sudden collapse, I could see the exhaustion in his eyes. His movements were slow, his breaths deeper than they used to be, like his lungs had to work harder to keep up.
I stayed close to him, wiping down the kitchen counters while keeping an eye on him where he sat at the table, wrapped in his old wool robe. The morning sunlight fell across him gently, but he looked smaller in it, more fragile than I was used to seeing.
“Are you sure you don’t want to lie down?” I asked quietly, placing a cup of warm tea near his hand.
He smiled at me, the same soft smile he had used my entire childhood when he didn’t want me to worry. “I’ve been lying down for two days, Ayla. Sitting here feels like a victory.”
I sat beside him, trying to smile but failing. “A victory would involve you walking without looking like you’re about to faint.”
“That’s dramatic,” he murmured, but his voice lacked strength.
I hesitated before reaching out and taking his hand. His skin felt colder than normal. “Dad… what did it feel like? Before you collapsed.”
He blinked slowly, gaze drifting toward the window. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
“It felt like something in my chest tightened,” he said finally. “Not like pain. More like… pressure. Then everything went dark.”
A chill crawled up my back. “Did it feel like a shift? Like your wolf reacting?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head once. “That’s what worried me most. I didn’t feel the wolf. Not before I fell. Not after I woke up.”
His fingers curled slightly around mine. “It’s like it disappeared for a moment. Like it stepped away.”
A knot formed in my throat. Wolves didn’t just “step away.” Not unless something was terribly wrong.
I forced my voice to stay steady. “Maybe it was the medication.”
“Maybe,” he whispered, but his eyes told me he didn’t believe it.
I was about to press further when a sharp pain shot through his chest—his hand flew there instantly.
“Dad?” I leaned forward in alarm.
He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly until the tightness eased. When he opened them again, he gave me a tired smile. “Just a twinge. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I whispered.
He looked at me as if trying to memorize my face. “Ayla… don’t carry this on your shoulders. I know you. You take the world and tuck it into your chest until it feels like it’s yours to fix.”
I tried to laugh, but the sound came out thin. “I don’t do that.”
“Sweetheart, you always do that.”
He squeezed my hand gently. “You and your mother are the same in that way. You just hide it better.”
That brought a real laugh from me. “I don’t think she would appreciate being compared to me.”
“She’d pretend not to,” he said, smiling. “But she would.”
I looked at him for a long moment, memorizing the softness in his expression. Even weak, even sick, he was still trying to comfort me.
“Dad?” I asked quietly. “Are you scared?”
He held my gaze slowly, honestly. “A little.”
There was no trembling in his voice, no shame. Just sincerity. It broke something open inside me.
I leaned over, resting my forehead against his shoulder. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”
His hand came up to the back of my head, warm and familiar. “I know.”
He let go reluctantly when he heard the front door open.
My mother swept inside with her usual clipped steps, her heels hitting the floor with precision that echoed through the house. She smelled of the family business—ink, paper, polished wood, and something sharp that always reminded me of ambition.
Her coat was draped over her arm, and she didn’t bother hiding her irritation.
“Ayla,” she said, barely glancing at me before fixing her gaze on my father. “How is he?”
“Alive,” my father answered dryly.
She shot him a look that said she didn’t appreciate sarcasm right now.
“I’ve spoken to the doctor,” she said, dropping her bag on the table. “He thinks it might be stress-related.”
My father raised an eyebrow. “Did he also mention I’m not ninety?”
She sighed. “I’m just repeating what he said.”
I stood up, giving her space to approach him. “He’s still weak. The pressure in his chest hasn’t fully gone away.”
My mother’s eyes flicked to me, sharp but tired. “And you didn’t call me?”
“He didn’t want you leaving the office again,” I replied. “The beta came in this morning asking for updates.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “This family will be the death of me.”
My father gave her a small smile. “Promises, promises.”
Despite the heaviness of the moment, a tiny laugh escaped her. She touched his cheek gently—the only sign of softness she ever allowed when others were around.
“I need to lie down for a bit,” she murmured, brushing past me toward the stairs. “Wake me if anything changes.”
“Of course,” I said.
When she was gone, my father looked up at me. “Go,” he said softly.
“What?”
“You keep glancing at your phone,” he said, his voice warming. “And you’ve checked the time six times in the last ten minutes. Whoever is waiting for you can’t be kept waiting forever.”
Heat crept up my neck. “It’s not what you think.”
He gave me a look that said he absolutely knew what it was.
“You’re grown,” he said simply. “Just… be careful. Don’t break yourself trying to please someone.”
My throat tightened. “Dad…”
“I mean it,” he murmured. “You deserve more than being a secret.”
I swallowed hard, because even he didn’t know just how right he was.
He reached for my hand again. “Go get ready. I’ll be here when you get back.”
I hugged him tightly, letting myself stay there a second longer than normal. “I’ll check on you before I leave.”
“I’ll pretend to be asleep,” he whispered.
That earned a smile from me as I headed upstairs.
In my bedroom, I closed the door softly behind me and leaned back against it for a moment, letting the reality of what I was about to do sink in.
Branden had called four times.
Four.
Each call left a different feeling twisting inside me—anxious, guilty, excited, terrified. And still I reached for the dress I had hidden at the back of my closet.
Black. Soft. Barely modest.
I put it on slowly, brushing my fingers down the fabric as it shaped itself to my body. I tied my hair back, applied a small amount of makeup, and stared at my reflection.
I looked like someone making a dangerous decision.
But I didn’t stop.
By the time I slipped out of the house, my mother was asleep, my father resting on the couch, and the sky stretched in deep indigo across the horizon.
Branden waited in his car on the side of the road.
When I opened the door and slid in, his gaze swept over me, lingering, hungry and hesitant at the same time.
“You look…” His voice faltered. “Ayla.”
Just my name, and it was enough to make my skin warm.
The hotel was a blur of hands, breathless kisses, whispered promises that I didn’t even know I wanted to hear. The room door closed behind us, and everything else melted away.
Afterward, I lay on the sheets, trying to steady my breathing as Branden got up to grab water. My body still hummed with the aftershocks of what we’d done, what we’d chosen together. The guilt was a quiet monster pacing in the back of my mind, but his touch still lingered on my skin.
There was a knock.
Not loud. Not frantic. Just a firm, unmistakable knock.
Branden froze.
My stomach dropped as he walked to the door silently, pausing only to look through the peephole.
His shoulders went rigid.
“Who is it?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.
He turned his head slowly toward me. “It’s her.”
His wife.
My pulse roared in my ears as he unlocked the door and opened it. She stood there, her face pale with shock and fury.
“You’re kidding,” she breathed, looking past him, right at me in the sheets. “Ayla? I trusted you.”
Branden stepped between us. “Don’t speak to her like that.”
She stared at him like he had slapped her. “You’re defending her?”
He straightened, jaw tight. “I’m telling you the truth tonight. I want a divorce.”
Her breath shuddered out. “A divorce… because of her?”
“Because of us,” he said. “Because I’m done living a lie.”
Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall. She looked at me once more a long, wounded stare before she turned and walked away without another word.
Branden closed the door.