Chosen as the Cursed Alpha's Seventh Bride

Emilia’s POV

My mind went white. A dull roar filled my skull, drowning out the clink of cups and the murmur of the cafe around us.

Sebastian loved children.

My face went dark, and I said nothing.

"He said he wanted a daughter someday," Abigail went on, smug. "I told him I wanted a son. We fought about it constantly. He even picked out a name."

She smiled. "But I won’t tell you what it is. That name was chosen for the child he and I will have one day. You’re an outsider. You don’t get to know."

If the first half of her speech had been a knife, that last line was a sword, sliding clean between my ribs. My heart bled. But outwardly I didn’t spill a single tear. No one at that table could have guessed what it cost me to hold it in.

"Anything else?" I said flatly. "By all means, keep going."

Abigail blinked, thrown. She’d expected me to shatter. She got stillness instead.

Her silence dragged. So I rose, slow and unhurried, picked up the glass of water in front of me, and poured it over her head.

"Remember this," I said. "Don’t reach for things that were never yours."

I turned and walked out. Behind me I heard her shaking, heard her hiss under her breath, "Emilia. I’ll show you what ambition really looks like."

The moment the cafe door swung shut behind me, the mask came off. I walked with tears sliding down my face, and I couldn’t stop them. Why? Why did people keep grinding salt into a wound I’d never asked for? I’d never set out to hurt a soul. Did my pain actually bring them joy?

My feet carried me to the water’s edge. I stood there and cried at the glittering surface until my throat burned. I’d held it in so long, from the diagnosis to Richie to this. Now I was just tired. Bone-tired.

And I knew, standing there, that I had to end things with Sebastian.

Not because of Abigail. Not because she’d goaded me. It was my own conscience gnawing at me. Even if she’d never said a word, I’d have arrived here on my own. I’d always known this day would come. It was only ever a matter of time.

Enough now, Eve said softly. You’ve cried your fill. What comes next takes a spine, not tears.

I wiped my face and left the beach.

I drove to Sebastian’s company. By the time I reached his floor I’d pulled myself together, delicate and composed as a cut flower that refuses to wilt. I walked into his office and smiled.

"Hey, you off work yet?"

He looked up, genuinely startled. "Emilia. What are you doing here?"

"Checking up on you." I strolled closer. "Making sure you’re not flirting with that secretary of yours."

He laughed, caught off guard. "Which secretary? Fynn? He’s really not my type."

"Please. I know you’ve got two other secretaries, and both of them are gorgeous."

He put on a look of mock alarm. "You know about them? Guess I’ll have to watch myself from now on."

I shook a fist at him. "Cheat on me and find out what happens."

"Yes, ma’am." His mouth curved. "Whatever you say."

We looked at each other and both cracked a smile. Something in me softened despite everything. "When do you clock out? Let me buy you dinner."

"Buy me dinner?" He looked almost flattered. "What’s the occasion?"

"Actually, forget buying. I want to cook for you myself."

He raised a brow. "Yeah?"

I nodded.

He checked the clock on the wall. "Give me about an hour and I’m all yours."

"Perfect. I’ll head back and start on it. I’ll be at the beach villa. See you there."

"Hold on." He caught my wrist before I could go. "Why the beach villa?"

"Because I’m cooking for you," I said. "Only you."

I blinked at him, smiled, and walked out.

Sebastian’s POV

For the next hour I couldn’t sit still. My wife wanted to cook for me. Just me. The thought kept circling back like a dog chasing its own tail, and I caught myself grinning at a spreadsheet twice.

"She’s got you wrapped around her finger." Ryder noted, amused.

I ignored him. Barely.

The second the clock let me go, I drove to the beach villa faster than I’d care to admit to anyone. I parked, killed the engine, and sat there a moment. Then I took a breath, walked up, and reached for the doorbell.

I pressed it once. Twice. Nothing.

I glanced down. The door was already unlocked.

Still smiling, I pushed it open and stepped inside, quiet as I could manage.

I’d expected noise. Pans clattering, something sizzling, maybe her cursing at a recipe. Instead the whole house sat silent. Not a sound.

On the dining table were two plates of carbonara. Neat. Almost too neat.

She’d promised me a feast. So why just pasta?

Something felt off. I set my bag down and walked the villa room by room, until I stopped at the bedroom door.

I looked in—and there was Emilia at the dresser, fingers running through her hair.

Except her hair wasn’t the same.

Long, straight brown had turned into loose waves that spilled over her shoulders like she’d stepped out of some old painting. And her face—she’d done something to her face. A smoky sweep at her eyes, her lips painted a soft, dangerous red.

My eyes went wide. I stepped forward. "Emilia?"

For one absurd second I doubted it was even her. The dress, the hair, all of it so different.

She turned around slow. It was her, all right. And I stood there like an idiot who’d forgotten how words worked.