Betrayed : The Rival Alpha’s Obsession

The Grand Lycan Tower didn't glitter. It sneered. Ava Hale stood at the edge of the ballroom, holding a champagne glass she hadn't touched in twenty minutes. The liquid had gone flat and warm, like her patience. Around her, the city's predatory elite moved in their packs—diamonds flashing, fur stoles draped over shoulders that had never known real cold, laughter that sounded like coins dropping into a till. She was tall enough to see over most heads. Thin in the way that came from nerves, not discipline. Dark hair swept up in a style her mother's stylist had insisted upon, exposing a neck that felt too bare, too available. Three years. Three years she'd walked these floors on Ryan Blackwood's arm. Three years of smiling when he forgot her name at parties, of laughing when his friends called her "the Hale girl" like she was a rental property. Of smoothing his crumpled shirts and listening to his ambitions when no one else would. Tonight, she wore black silk. Simple. Safe. The dress

Ava didn't look back. She had no phone, no coat, no money. Just a ruined dress and blood drying sticky on her palms. The bus wheezed up. She climbed in, bare feet black on the metal steps. The fluorescent light made her look like a ghost—torn silk and wild hair. The other passengers stared, then looked away. Nobody sat near her. She pressed her forehead to the window, let the vibration rattle her skull. Every bump was Ryan's voice. Placeholder. Every pothole was her father's door slamming. Decorative. She dug her nails into her thigh until it hurt worse than the memory. The bus emptied out. Neighborhoods changed—glass towers to cracked concrete, BMWs to busted Neon signs. The kind of place where you settled scores with fists, not lawyers. "End of the line." The driver's voice dragged her out. She stood on wet asphalt, still barefoot. The pavement was ice and glass. She walked until she found a teenager leaning against tagged brick. "Is there a doctor around here?" The teen looke

Silas threw the boots. Ava caught them against her chest without looking up from the suture she was practicing on rubber skin. "Get ready," he said. "You’re coming with me to the pit." Ava replied "You said not to—" "I know what I said." He was already moving grabbing supplies, stuffing them into a canvas bag. "You’ll be counting bets tonight. Please try not to be bad at it. Don't steal." She set the needle down. The boots went on—tight, automatic, no wasted motion. Two weeks of scrubbing blood and counting morphine and sleeping in three-hour shifts. Her hands were rough now. Her back didn't ache anymore. She'd stopped flinching when the steel door screamed. Silas didn't wait. He walked to the steel door, pressed his palm to the scanner. The lock clicked. Ava followed. The hallway was narrow. Wet. Lit by bare bulbs that flickered when the crowd roared. The sound wasn't cheering—it was just noise. Animal. Pressed close enough to feel through the floor. Ava's boots were l

NowThe steel door closed behind Leo. Ava stood in the empty clinic. The invitation lay on the counter—heavy paper, gold seal, his scent still on it.She didn't touch it.She walked to the back room. Closed the door. Leaned against the wall and let herself shake.Not from fear. From relief.He'd taken it. The whole thing. The clothes, her performance. She pulled out the phone. Dialed."He came," she said.Silas's voice, flat: "And?""He's offering the gala. The dress. Everything." She looked at her hands. Steady now. "He thinks he's using me. Thinks I'm his weapon against Ryan.""You're sure he doesn't know?"Ava laughed. Once. Ugly. "He doesn't even know I know his name."She hung up. Stood in the dark.Day 1The first night. The room in the supply closet. Ava couldn't sleep. She pressed her palm to the wall. Cold. Concrete. The Pit roared three walls away, but she wasn't listening to the screams.She was listening to names.Silas had mentioned Leo Vane once. Casual. "The next Top A