Not Just His Old Lady

Chloe POV:

The deep, guttural roar of a dozen Harleys echoes through the valley, a familiar symphony that signals the return of the Iron Legion. My heart gives a familiar leap. Jasper is back.

I stand on the wide porch of the clubhouse, smoothing down the fabric of my simple sundress, a nervous energy thrumming through me. The other members milling in the yard, mostly Prospects and some patched members doing menial tasks, start to whoop and cheer.

The pack, led by Jasper's signature black Dyna, thunders into the compound. He's at the front, his leather Cut bearing the President patch looking worn and dusty from the long ride. My man.

But my welcoming smile freezes on my face.

There's someone on the back of his bike. A woman, her cheap blonde hair whipping in the wind, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

That's my seat.

A knot of ice forms in my stomach, cold and sharp. The cheers around me falter as other members notice. Whispers start to ripple through the crowd like a foul wind, and I feel dozens of pairs of eyes shift from the incoming riders to me.

Jasper kills the engine and dismounts. Instead of walking to me, his Old Lady, he turns and helps the strange woman off his bike. He does it with a gentleness I haven't seen from him in months, his hands steady on her waist as he lifts her down.

She looks fragile, her large blue eyes wide and scared. Behind them, a chase car pulls up, and two small children, a boy and a girl, peer out from the back window.

Jasper finally looks at me, his handsome face grim, his jaw tight. There's no warmth in his gaze, only a hard, unyielding resolve. "Chloe," he says, his voice flat. It's not a greeting. It's a warning.

The woman, Brandy, shrinks behind him, clutching his arm. "Hawk, maybe this isn't a good idea..." she whispers, her voice trembling just enough to be heard by those closest. A perfect performance.

"It's done," Jasper cuts her off, his eyes still locked on me. He doesn't need to explain. The public display is the explanation. It's a declaration.

His sister, Alyson Weeks, saunters over, a malicious smirk playing on her lips. She's the club's self-proclaimed princess, spoiled and venomous. "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Looks like the family is expanding, Chloe."

I ignore Alyson, my entire being focused on the man whose name is tattooed over my heart, as he stands with another woman's arms linked through his.

The crowd of bikers parts as Jasper leads Brandy and her two children towards the main entrance of the clubhouse, right towards me.

He stops a few feet away. The smell of road dust, gasoline, and his familiar leather scent mixes with her cheap floral perfume. It's nauseating. My stomach churns.

"This is Brandy Cannon," he announces to everyone, though his eyes are only on me. "Her husband, Rick, died on the run. He saved my life."

The mention of a fallen brother sends a somber murmur through the club members. Duty. Loyalty. I know the code. I've lived by it for six years.

"She and her kids, Cody and Hailey, are under the club's protection now," Jasper continues, his voice leaving no room for argument.

My breath catches in my throat. Protection is one thing. This public spectacle, bringing her back on his bike, is another. It's a deliberate slight. A public stripping of my status.

I feel the weight of every stare, watching, waiting for my reaction. As the President's Old Lady, my reaction sets the tone for the entire club. They are waiting to see if I will accept this humiliation.

I lift my chin, forcing a mask of cool composure onto my face, even as my heart feels like it's being shredded by gravel. "The club always takes care of its own," I say, my voice steady and clear.

Jasper gives a curt nod, a flicker of something-maybe relief, maybe disappointment-in his eyes before it's gone.

Brandy looks at me, a mixture of guilt and something else, something calculating, in her gaze. "Thank you," she murmurs. "We won't be any trouble."

The boy, Cody, about eight years old, peeks out from behind her legs, staring at me with wide, curious eyes.

Jasper's mother, Marian, a woman who has always been kind to me, approaches with a worried expression, but Jasper steers Brandy away before she can speak to me.

He guides Brandy and the children past me, into the heart of the clubhouse, into the heart of my home.

He doesn't touch me. He doesn't even glance back.

The heavy oak door of the clubhouse swings shut behind them, leaving me standing alone on the porch. The cheers are long dead.

I feel my composure cracking, a single, hot tear threatening to fall. I quickly brush it away before anyone can see the weakness.

Talia, my closest friend in the club and the head bartender, comes to my side, her expression furious. "What the hell was that, Chloe?"

I can't answer. I just stare at the closed door, the place where he disappeared with her. He didn't just bring back a widow. He brought back my replacement.