Alpha Desmond

The kitchen smelled of rosemary and regret.

Genevieve Vaughn stood at the marble island, her hands dusted with flour, her eyes fixed on the lamb roasting in the oven. The clock read 6:47 PM. Forty-three minutes until her husband was due home, forty-three minutes until she would sit across from him and pretend their marriage wasn't suffocating her.

She had dismissed the nanny an hour ago and the housekeeper too. For once, she wanted to do this herself because tomorrow was their fifth anniversary, and somewhere beneath the layers of ice that had formed between them, she still believed there was warmth buried deep enough to uncover.

Five years.

The rumors had started two years ago, whispers at galas, sympathetic glances at charity events. Poor Genevieve can't give him an heir. What use is a wife who can't do the one thing she's meant to do?

She had smiled through all of it, held her head high, returned home to an empty bed and a husband who had stopped looking at her the way he used to.

Desmond had been warm once and attentive. During the first two years of their marriage, he had made her believe their forced union could blossom into something real. He brought her flowers, held her hand under the table at family dinners and whispered promises in the dark that made her heart race.

Then the tests came back and everything changed.

"Your hormone levels are concerning, Mrs. Vaughn. The likelihood of conception is... minimal."

She remembered the drive home and the silence that came with it. Desmond's jaw tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He hadn't looked at her for three days after that appointment. When he finally did, something in his eyes had dimmed.

He blames her.

The thought knifed through her chest even now. He never said it outright but she saw it in the way he pulled away from her touch. Heard it in the clipped responses, felt it in the cold distance that had grown between them like a wall of ice.

And his mother; Isabella Vaughn, had made her displeasure known in a thousand small cruelties. A sigh at the dinner table, pointed comment about a friend's new grandchild. A lingering glance at Genevieve's flat stomach that said everything words could not.

"The Vaughn name needs an heir, Genevieve. Surely you understand the gravity of that."

She understood that in Isabella's eyes, she was a failure. A wife who couldn't do the one thing wives were supposed to do.

Genevieve pressed her palm against her abdomen, willing herself not to cry. She had cried enough in the shower, in the bathroom, at parties and in the darkness of her bedroom while Desmond slept in the guest room-always the guest room now.

Tonight would be different, she would try again. She had prepared his favorite meal and worn the dress he used to compliment. Lit candles and dimmed the lights. She would remind him of who they used to be before the tests. Before became nothing more than a barren wife in a marriage of convenience.

The doorbell rang.

Genevieve glanced at the clock. 6:52 PM. Desmond wouldn't ring the bell, he had his own key. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the foyer.

A courier stood at the door, an official-looking envelope in his hand. "Delivery for Mr. Desmond Vaughn. Signature required."

"Can I sign for him?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. This is marked confidential."

Her heart stuttered. "Who sent it?"

He glanced at the label. "St. Catherine's Medical Center."

The same fertility clinic she had visited. The same clinic that had delivered the news that had shattered her world.

"I'll call my husband. Please wait."

She dialed Desmond's number, voicemail. She tried again, voicemail.

"I'm sorry. He's not answering. Can you leave it with me?"

The man hesitated. "Ma'am, I really shouldn't..."

"I'm his wife; Genevieve Vaughn. You can note that I accepted delivery on his behalf."

He studied her, then relented. "Fine. Sign here."

She signed, accepted the envelope, and closed the door.

Is he sick? Is that why he's been so distant?

She walked back to the kitchen and set the envelope on the island. Her hands were shaking. The lamb was almost ready, everything was perfect. She shouldn't open his mail. It was wrong.

She opened it anyway.

Inside was a thick medical report-prenatal charts, ultrasound images, blood test results. She flipped through the pages, confusion mounting. Why would Desmond have prenatal reports? He was a man.

Olive; the name appeared on the first page. Patient: Olive Morrison. Gestational age: 12 weeks.

The room tilted, Genevieve gripped the counter.

Olive Morrison.

She knew that name. She had seen her in the background of one of Desmond's business photos, draped across his arm, touching him. Smiling at him like she owned him.

Her husband had gotten another woman pregnant.

The irony hit her with brutal clarity. She was the one who couldn't conceive. She had endured years of shame and Isabella's cold disapproval. And all the while, Desmond had been building a family with someone else.

She thought she couldn't feel anything lower than she already had. She was wrong.

The doorbell rang again.

Genevieve forced her legs to move, opened the door. It was the same courier.