The morning starts like any other lie I'm living.

Coffee from the break room that tastes like corporate despair. Emails about discovery deadlines and depositions. The comfortable rhythm of pretending my life isn't a house of cards one strong wind away from total collapse.

Then my inbox pings with a forwarded email from Rosalie.

Subject: FW: Emergency Contact Forms - Blackwood Triplets

My blood turns to ice.

The email was meant for someone else—probably the school secretary—but Rosalie's been helping me coordinate everything from Portland while I'm stuck in Seattle. She must have hit reply-all or forward without thinking, sending the triplets' emergency contact forms straight through the firm's network.

I open it with hands that won't stop shaking. There they are in brutal digital clarity: three names, three birthdates, three sets of information that connect directly to me.

Mother: Thalia Blackwood. Father: Not Listed. Three times.

The firm's IT system logs everything. Every email, every attachment, every goddamn keystroke.

If anyone with access decides to look—

My desk phone rings. Internal line.

"Ms. Blackwood, Mr. Lysander Fenris requests your presence in his office. Immediately."

The assistant's tone says this isn't a request.

Fuck.

I grab my phone to text Rosalie a warning but there's no time. No damage control, no excuse prepared, no way to spin this that doesn't end in disaster.

I walk to the executive floor on legs that feel disconnected from my body. Every step is a countdown to detonation.

His assistant waves me through without a word. The door closes behind me with a click that sounds like a cell locking.

Lysander sits behind his massive desk. The emergency contact forms are spread out in front of him like evidence at a crime scene.

"Sit." His voice is deceptively soft. Dangerous.

I stay standing. "If this is about the Silverton case—"

"Sit. Down."

I sit.

He picks up one of the forms. Studies it with that predatory focus that makes my pulse spike. "Interesting email that came across our network this morning."

My mouth goes dry. "That was a mistake. Personal correspondence that—"

"Three children." He cuts me off, eyes locking on mine. "All age seven. All with you listed as single mother."

His fingers trace the paper where 'Father: Not Listed' appears three times. "So. The wolfless girl who ran away came back with three cubs."

The way he says it—like I'm a fascinating specimen he's dissecting. "Tell me about him."

I force my voice to stay level. "That's not appropriate workplace conversation."

"Fuck appropriate." He stands, moves around the desk with that liquid grace that reminds me he's a predator. "Tell me about the father of your children, Thalia."

I stay silent. Every word is a potential trap.