Rejected By My Alpha, Claimed By The Ruthless Billionaire

The first sentence hit her in the chest like a bullet.

Lila Winstone knelt in the mud with her hands on her thighs, palms up in the traditional posture of submission, her wolf a caged animal behind her ribs. The rain had soaked through her thin dress, plastered her black hair to her scalp, and she couldn't feel any of it because the cold inside her was so much worse. Two hundred pack members ringed the clearing, umbrellas up, faces blurred by rain and distance. She stared at the mud between her fingers and waited.

Lucian stood five feet away. She could smell him even through the wet—cedar and pine and the warm musk she'd buried her face in for three years, the scent that meant home, meant safe, meant I am yours and you are mine and nothing in this world can touch us. He wasn't wearing his ceremonial jacket. Black sweater, collar soaked, no pack markings. Like he wanted to be anyone else in this moment.

"Lila Winstone," he said, and his voice cracked on the first syllable—a fracture so small she might have missed it if she hadn't known every sound he made.

She looked up. His blue eyes met hers and for one second—one terrible, hopeful, gut-wrenching second—she thought he was going to stop. She thought he was going to drop to his knees in the mud next to her and say I can't do this.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then he looked away.

"By the authority vested in me as Alpha-Heir of the Moonlight Pack... I sever the Moon Bond between us, effective immediately."

The cord inside her chest snapped.

She felt it. A wet tearing sensation behind her ribs, like a root ripped from soil, and her wolf screamed. Not howled. Screamed—a high, keening sound that tore through her throat and into the night, and she couldn't stop it, couldn't muzzle it. The pain went white at the edges of her vision and she tasted copper on her tongue.

"You are released from all claims and obligations to this pack."

She wanted to crawl to him. Wanted to wrap her arms around his ankles and beg. The only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that if she touched him, if she felt his skin against hers and knew she'd never feel it again, she would shatter into pieces too small to ever be put back together.

"From this night forward, you walk alone."

He turned. His shoulders were shaking—she saw the tremor running through the broad line of his back—and Cassandra Hale stepped forward out of the crowd, silver hair perfectly dry under a sleek umbrella, hand already reaching for his. He took it. He let her pull him away.

Lila stayed on her knees in the mud for forty-three minutes after the crowd dispersed. Her legs wouldn't work. Her wolf had gone silent, curled into a tight ball somewhere deep, and she could feel the wound bleeding through her chest, warm and wet, soaking through the fabric of her ruined dress.

She didn't cry then. The crying came later, in the three-hour bus ride to Windfall City with nothing but a duffel bag and twelve dollars in her pocket, when a stranger asked if she was okay and she opened her mouth to say yes and instead made a sound like an animal caught in a trap.

Present — 10:47 PM — The Night Before the Gala

Aurelia Chen sat on the edge of her bed, the red dress laid out beside her, and scrolled to the one photo she'd kept for three years. Her and Lucian at a pack bonfire two months before the rejection. She was laughing in the photo, head tilted back, black hair wild. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the world. His hand was on her waist. The firelight caught the gold flecks in his eyes.

Three sentences had taken all of that away.

She stared at the photo for six seconds.

Then she deleted it.

The confirmation bubble appeared. She tapped yes. It was gone.

Her wolf stirred—curious, almost affectionate—and Aurelia felt the warmth spread through her chest like sunlight breaking through clouds. She pressed her palm to her sternum and felt the familiar vibration.

I'm still here. We're still here.

She picked up the red dress. Bought it specifically for this event—backless, defiant, a dress designed to say I didn't crawl out of that mud to be small. The gala was in less than twenty-four hours. Moonlight City. Pack territory. Pedestrians and politicians and wolves who remembered exactly what she looked like on her knees.

I am not Lila Winstone anymore. Lila Winstone knelt in the mud and waited for a man to choose her.

Aurelia Chen doesn't wait for anyone.

She laid the dress over her arm and reached for her laptop to review her keynote notes. The charity was real. The cause was good. The venue was neutral ground. She could do this. She'd survived worse.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number. Three lines.

You're coming back.

I know you are.

I'll be there.

She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the block option.

She didn't block it.

Instead, she set the phone down face-up, pulled the red dress over her head, and met her own eyes in the bedroom mirror.

The rain stopped six minutes later. Aurelia Chen stood in her silent apartment, wearing a dress she'd bought to be cruel, and felt something dangerous flutter behind her ribs.

Not hope. She'd burned hope three years ago, buried its ashes in the mud of the pack clearing.

Something else. Something she didn't have a name for yet.

We'll see.

She pulled her hair into a tight ponytail and opened her laptop.

We'll fucking see.