After the divorce, she became a female billionaire

The sound of something shattering sounds through the room.

“I will not do it!”

The girl’s voice trembled, sharp and desperate, as tears falls down her face.

“I would rather die than be sent to that monster!”

Her mother did not flinch rather she sighed—cold, tired, and utterly unmoved.

“Lower your voice,” she said. “Do you want the guards to hear you?”

“I don’t care!” the girl cried, holding her dress. “Every girl who goes there comes back broken! Or worse—doesn’t come back at all!”

Silence fell.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Then her mother spoke again… quieter this time.

“There is another option.”

The girl froze.

“What… do you mean?”

Her mother’s gaze moved towards the doorway.

"Elian." 

The name dropped like a curse.

“He is an omega,” the woman continued, her voice filled with quiet disdain. “And a male at that. What use is he to this pack?”

The girl’s eyes widened… then slowly, something cruel bloomed within them.

“Yes…” she whispered.

A slow smile followed.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Her gaze sharpened as she turned toward the door.

“Why should I suffer… when he can take my place?”

Before another word could be spoken—

Knock. Knock.

The door swung open.

Two guards stepped inside, their expressions grim.

“The meeting has begun,” one of them announced. “The elder requests your father's presence in the hall.”

"He will be right there, the mother responded." 

******************************

The council hall of the Silvermist Pack loomed like a cavern of shadows, its stone walls pressing in on the gathered wolves as if the very air gathered to choke them. Flickering torchlight danced across faces, casting long, jagged silhouettes that twisted with every uneasy breath.

 Dozens of pack members stood rigid in the dim glow, their eyes locked on the semicircle of elders at the hall's heart, where grizzled figures hunched over ancient carvings, their brows furrowed like storm clouds.

  Everyone knew the reason for this midnight summons that had dragged them from their dens and hearths. The full moon draws closer with each passing night, And with that moon came him. The Enigma. A name that crawl through whispers like poison, evoking shudders from even the hardiest alphas.

  Elder Maltheus rose slowly from his carved oak throne, his robes whispering against the floor like dry leaves in a gale. Age had etched deep lines into his face, but his voice still boomed with the authority of decades. "The lottery has spoken," he said, his gaze sweeping the crowd with unyielding steel. "Elara's family has been chosen. It falls to them to offer the next bride to His Majesty, King Kael Draven of Moonveil Citadel."

  A low murmur spreads outward, wolves shifting on their feet, exchanging glances filled with dread. At the room's center, Elara's father walked forward, his broad shoulders squared against the weight of every stare. His face drained of color, yet his jaw clenched with the fire of a cornered wolf. "No," he growled, the word exploding from him. "My daughter will not be sacrificed to that... that thing."

  Gasps echoed through the hall. Elder Maltheus's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening on the arm of his chair until the wood creaked in protest. "To defy the crown's ancient decree is to court treason," he warned, his tone low and laced with the chill of finality. "The pact binds us all—our survival hinges on it."

  The father did not flinch. He stood his ground, his voice rising like thunder rolling over the peaks. "Treason? I'd sooner face the elders' judgment than send Elara into the jaws of a monster. Every bride who crosses those cursed gates comes back shattered—eyes hollow, spirit flayed. Or worse, she doesn't come back at all. I've heard the tales from the survivors' lips, seen the scars that no healer can mend. King Kael is no ruler; he's the Devil incarnate, his wolf a curse that devours all it touches."

  His words stayed heavy as chains in the air, pulling nods from shadowed corners of the crowd. The truth stayed with them all, undeniable and raw. For generations, under each full moon's merciless gaze, a bride had been dispatched to Moonveil Citadel—a desperate offering to sate the king's feral rage, to bind the beast that tore through his veins. And each time, the citadel spat back tragedy. Girls returned as ghosts, trembling in the night, their minds fractured by horrors unspoken. Others vanished into the fortress's depths, their fates sealed in screams that echoed across the miles. The rumors festered like open wounds: the king's eyes burned with unholy fire, driving victims to madness; his touch ignited a curse that twisted flesh and soul alike.

  The elders spoke in hushed tones, their faces darkening like the sky before a storm. Maltheus leaned forward, his voice slicing the murmurs. "If Elara's family refuses this duty, another must step forth. The moon waits for no one—the Enigma demands his tribute."

  The crowd stirred, boots scuffing against the flagstones, but silence swallowed their unease. Eyes darted, avoiding the elders' scrutiny; no family rushed to claim the burden. The air grew thicker, charged with the cowardice of self-preservation.

  Then, from the back, a voice came out—sharp, laced with venom. "Well, if no one's volunteering," sneered a young alpha, his muscular frame leaning against a pillar with mocking ease, "why not him?" His finger points accusingly toward the hall's entrance, where a figure lingered near the hall entrance.

  Heads turns around, the movement a wave of predatory interest. Elian Silvermist stood rooted, twisting tthe edge of his worn cloak till his knuckles turned white. The weight of dozens of eyes pinned him like prey under fangs, heat flooding his cheeks as the young alpha's grin widened, all teeth and cruelty.

  "Aren't you ashamed to skulk there, omega?" the alpha pressed, his voice dripping scorn as he moved closer. "Your father was Orion Silvermist—the pack's fiercest warrior, a legend who felled armies with a single howl. His name still echoes in our songs of glory."

  Murmurs of agreement followed, mixed with pitying glances. Orion's legacy loomed large, a shadow that dwarfed his son: the unbreakable alpha who had charged into battles that redrew pack borders, his strength a beacon for all. But Elian... Elian carried the mark of shame, his omega nature a cruel twist of fate, whispered about in dens as a dilution of that mighty bloodline.

  The alpha circled now, his eyes gleaming with mocking delight. "And yet, the great Orion sires a male omega. Hiding in the skirts of she-wolves, too soft to hunt, too weak to fight. If even a drop of your father's fire burned in you, you'd offer yourself up without a whimper. Prove you're more than a disappointment—be the bride."

  Laughter bubbled up, cruel and jagged, slicing through Elian like icy rain. His fingers dug deeper into the fabric, nails biting into his palms as the jeers clawed at old wounds. All his life, those words had haunted him: Useless. A warrior's shame. What good is an omega boy? The pack's expectations crushed him daily.

  Beside him, Lyra's hand holds onto his arm, her nails pressing urgently through his sleeve. "Ignore the filth," she hissed, her voice a fierce whisper, eyes blazing with protective fury. "They're beasts without honor."

  But Elian's gaze lifted upward, tracing the elders' stern faces, the crowd's avid hunger, the alpha's triumphant smirk. His pulse thundered in his ears, a wild drumbeat urging him forward. The weight of his father's ghost, the pack's disdain—it all converged in that moment, forging something unyielding in his chest.

  Before doubt could coil around him, he stepped into the light.

  "I'll go." The words came out from him, steady despite the quake in his limbs, crashing into the hall like a thunderclap.

  The laughter died. Shock rippled outward, faces turned in disbelief. "What?" someone asked, the crowd leaning in as if pulled by an invisible thread.

  Lyra whirled, her grip turning desperate. "Elian, no—think of what you're saying! We can fight this, find another path!"

  He shook his head gently, already moving toward the center, each step a battle against the tremor in his knees. The stone floor chilled his soles through thin boots, but he pressed on until he stood exposed under the torchlight, chin lifted against the onslaught of stares.

  "I will go," he said, his voice quiet yet resolute, carrying to every corner. "To Moonveil Citadel. To King Kael Draven. If this is the pack's need, then I'll answer it—as the bride."

  Elder Maltheus's eyes widened fractionally, the first crack in his composure. "You grasp the peril, boy? The Devil's lair is no place for the living. His full-moon rages have claimed stronger souls than yours."

  Elian swallowed hard the lump in his throat, but he met the elder's gaze. "I do. But a Silvermist doesn't cower."

  The hall plunged into a profound hush, broken only by Lyra's choked sob. Tears falls down her cheeks, her hand reaching out as if to pull him back. "Please, my son... there must be another way. You're all I have left of him—of Orion. Don't throw yourself to the wolves."

  Elian turned to her, offering a faint, heartbreaking smile that didn't reach his eyes. "This is my choice, Mother. For the pack. For our name."

  Maltheus exhaled slowly, the weight of tradition settling over him like a shroud. He nodded once, the motion final as a grave's seal. "So it is decreed. Elian Silvermist, male omega of the Silvermist line, shall be offered to His Majesty as tribute. Prepare him for the journey—the moon rises soon."

  A shiver raced down Elian's spine, cold as the citadel's rumored winds. Far beyond the mist-shrouded forests and jagged peaks, Moonveil's black spires clawed at the sky, a fortress forged in nightmare. Brides entered its gates with hope's fragile thread; few emerged whole.

  As the crowd dispersed in stunned whispers, Elian's mind reeled. The rumors clawed at him now, vivid and unrelenting: the king's cursed wolf, eyes like molten gold that stripped sanity away; touches that burned with forbidden hunger, leaving marks no cloth could hide. What if the tales were no exaggeration? What if Kael Draven truly embodied the Devil— a beast whose app

etites devoured body and soul?

  And what if, in offering himself, Elian unleashed something he could never contain?