Hannah pushed open the apothecary door, the little bell above tinkling as she entered. The familiar scent of dried herbs and crushed botanicals filled her nostrils, a strangely comforting yet anxiety-inducing aroma.

“Good morning,” the elderly man behind the counter greeted her with a warm smile. “What can I do for you today, Miss?”

Clutching a small paper sack containing one of her diet pills, and wearing a surgical mask and sunglasses to conceal her identity, Hannah approached the counter. “I was hoping you could analyze the contents of this,” she said, striving for a steady voice. “There are… concerns about what might be in it.”

The apothecary’s bushy eyebrows rose, but he offered no further questions. With a solemn nod, he took the bag and moved to his workspace. Hannah watched with bated breath as he emptied the pill onto a ceramic plate and began crushing it with a mortar and pestle.

It had been an eventful few days. She couldn’t stop thinking about her handmaid’s warning about the diet pills—that it wasn’t about weight. Yesterday, she had messaged WhiteRabbit, her usual supplier, with a simple inquiry: “What are the ingredients for those pills?”

WhiteRabbit had begun to type, then stopped abruptly. Then, their account vanished. The faceless seller, who had never failed to deliver, was gone—without a word, a block, or any explanation. Their account had been deleted.

Instantly, she knew something was amiss. Hence, her early morning visit to the apothecary.

Her heart pounded as the minutes stretched. They’re just diet pills, she repeated silently. Herbs and chemicals to suppress my appetite. But the nagging doubt persisted. What if my handmaid was right? A cascade of terrifying possibilities flooded her mind.

Finally, the apothecary returned, a small sheet of paper in his hand. “I’ve run the standard analysis,” he said, offering it to her.

Hannah’s throat constricted as she took the paper, her hand trembling. Unfolding it, she scanned the list of chemical compounds, her brow furrowing at the final entry.

“Mifepristone?” she asked, struggling with the pronunciation.

The apothecary nodded, leaning on the counter. “Mifepristone is an emergency contraceptive,” he explained. “Often used in medication abortion. Your pill contained trace amounts.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well…” The apothecary straightened, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not enough to induce an abortion on its own. But, if taken over a long period…”

“Could it kill an embryo?”

The apothecary’s jaw tightened, and he gravely nodded.

The blood drained from Hannah’s face as the realization hit her with brutal force. A toxin, a powerful contraceptive—present in the diet pills she'd taken for years. The struggles to conceive, the miscarriage… she’d believed she’d caused it through starvation. But now she knew the truth.

Someone had been poisoning her baby. Systematically dosing her with contraceptives to ensure she’d never bear a child.

But who?

The apothecary’s words were a dull buzz. She thanked him, threw money on the counter, and stumbled out, fighting nausea.

Only once down the street did she remove her mask, gasping for air, her mind reeling. Who? And why? Rage and fear boiled within her.

Her handmaid’s words echoed: “Be careful… It’s not about weight…”

With trembling hands, she checked the app she used to contact WhiteRabbit. Still gone. Just a “User not found” message. “Dammit,” she whispered.

This was a calculated attack on her fertility. WhiteRabbit was likely the culprit, though others might be involved. Even her servant seemed to have known something.

Hot tears welled as she thought of her lost child. The Moon Goddess had granted them a second chance, but the memory of that night…

Had this been the reason? Had someone poisoned her for years to prevent her, the Luna of Nightcrest Pack, from conceiving? This was treason.

A shudder wracked her body. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, drawing a shaky breath before continuing down the street.

Back in the car, she considered telling Noah. He’d be furious. But… no. He wouldn’t have been involved, would he? Would he go to such lengths to prevent her pregnancy to be with Zoe?

No. Noah wouldn’t. And if he didn’t want her pregnant, he wouldn’t have attended their monthly intimacy nights.

As the car pulled away, it struck her: their next intimacy night was only a few days off. He wouldn’t come, would he? They weren’t interested anymore—at least, she wasn't.

Knowing someone had been poisoning her baby, she felt even more wary, even of her own husband. Perhaps she couldn't trust anyone.