Mary Ann
Several days blurred together in a haze of quiet determination and hidden hurt. Modric remained a ghost in his own home. He returned only when I was deep asleep and left before the first light of dawn touched the windows. I knew because the servants whispered and because the faint trace of his cedar scent lingered in the halls some mornings. His empty chair at every meal became a painful reminder and the center of growing gossip.
I sat through breakfasts and dinners with my head high, smiling at the children and nodding at the elders, but the vacant seat at the head of the table burned in my peripheral vision. It felt like a public declaration. The Alpha could not stand to share space with his wife.
One afternoon while walking through the gardens, I overheard two young servants
