The Alpha's Forced Substitute Bride

Eugene’s POV

I scroll lazily through my phone as I sip tea in the morning. The morning is quite normal, but then suddenly I see a flashing picture and pause.

"Congratulations to Nicole Armstrong on his long-deserved promotion!" The caption is bright and cheerful, almost glowing, but the picture burns. There stands my husband smiling broadly, his champagne-glass raised, surrounded by all his colleagues. At a very lavish venue, surrounded by many unfamiliar faces. And yet, I wasn't there.

I blink, reread the post. Maybe I missed something. Maybe he mentioned it and I forgot. But I just can't seem to find a memory of him ever telling me about that party.

A chill creeps into my bones as I stare at the screen. My thumb hovers over the "Call" button. He is probably busy, I assure myself, but my stomach tightens further. I push the button anyway.

The phone rings once, twice, three times, before it reaches voicemail.

"Hey, it's me," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "Just saw the post about your promotion party. Congratulations... I didn't know you were celebrating. Call me back."

I hang up; the unease settles deeper within. Why wouldn't he tell me? I look at the clock—9:42 a.m. He should be able to answer now. My eyes fall again on the picture, and the thought hits me: Am I not supposed to know?

My chest constricts. No, Nicole wouldn't do that. He would not leave me out. Would he?

I shake my head, trying to brush it off, but it hangs on like a stubborn shadow.

I'll surprise him, I decide. He will probably have some dumb excuse, and we will laugh about it later. That's how these things go, right?

This is without question a simple but elegant outfit, one of those clothes Nicole always liked on me. I am getting my hair in order in front of a mirror while; I smooth stray strands. The reflection of my face stares back, calm and composed, but doubt bubbles beneath the surface.

By the time I get to the venue, I am already losing my confidence. This grand ballroom glows with golden light spilling outside through tall windows. Inside, laughter and clinking of glasses can be heard.

I pause at the entrance where my heart beats faster. It's ridiculous, I tell myself. Nicole is my husband. I shouldn't feel like an outsider.

Deep breath, and I'm inside.

The bustle of voices and laughter came streaming alive in the room, wrapping the space in the pulsing energy and the air carrying a current. Women twil in shining gowns, laughing like melodious symphonies of elegance; men drift in crisp, tailored suits, speaking over drinks. I've seen this scene a hundred times-glamorous polish-but it now feels strange, like visiting a foreign place where I'm unwelcome.

I continue to move through the crowd. Heels click softly on marble floors; my eyes scan the faces, searching for him. I am witnesses to all sorts of smiles, conversations, and sadly, none belong to him. My heart beats faster with each passing second, while the silence within me grows louder. Where is he?

A few pairs of eyes flicker toward my person, but the instant their gazes collide with mine, they quickly looked away, followed by whispers-low, cutting, like the blade of a knife that just misses its target: Who is she? What is she doing here?. The words are so quiet, but the sting is unmistakable. It's as if I'm not a part of this place at all, invisible yet excruciatingly noticeable.

I keep moving. My mind does not permit me to absorb their judgment. I've read somewhere that it should not matter, yet each moment adds to the tightness in my gut. 

Then I see him. 

There he is, at the bar, drink in hand. His wide, relaxed smile has graced his face so seldom, I cannot believe my eyes. For a moment, my breath hesitates in my throat. He is here. He seems to be very happy. I feel such a wave of relief that I step forward, heart racing in excitement. 

Then, I see her. 

She stands too close, fingers sweeping against his arm, her laughter the tinkling that grates on my nerves. He laughs back, a deep, genuine laugh. It is the sort that I have not heard in months, the sort I used to treasure.

Rising in my stomach is a clenching that feels cold, as if dread is washed over me by waves. Watching them, feet stuck on the floor, every second seems to stretch into an eternity for me. Why is she here? Why does he feel so...easy with her?

Before I even get the words to call him, a suited man sidesteps me, blocking my way. 

"Excuse me, miss. This area is for invited guests only." His voice is sharp, tone flat as if he'd repeated this line a thousand times.

My heart skips, and confusion washes through me. "I-I am a guest," I manage to tell him, my voice trembling just a little. 

He scrutinizes me rather like a scan through a cold, dismissing gaze. My dress, my shoes-all, he weighs as if he was measuring my worth. 

"Name?" he asks with a frown that deepens further, and I could swear I could hear the implied words: You don't belong here.

I open my mouth to answer, but my gaze shifts past him and is drawn back to Nicole. My heart skips as though he finally noticed me, but instead, I watch as he leans closer to her, lips brushing an ear. She giggles, and he smiles-a smile that makes my skin crawl.

A lump of nausea rises in my throat as the reality strikes me-he doesn't see me. Doesn't care at all.

He stood there, waiting for an answer from me while I wanted to scream for him to let me through, but I couldn't find the strength to do either. My chest feels tight because it's like the air has been vacuumed out of the room, so weak are my legs beneath me, as if the ground itself is giving way.

"Miss?" The voice of the man pulls me from my thoughts, but there is no going back now. I have decided. The sting of humiliation is just too much.

I turn away without saying another word, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The laughter from the party, the voices I don’t belong to, fills my ears like a cruel symphony.

I don’t belong here. The words echo in my mind, and I let them crash over me as I make my way toward the exit, the sounds of the celebration fading into the distance.

When I reach the door, I pause, stealing one last look behind me. Nicole is still with her, still laughing, still completely unaware that I exist. The weight of it presses down on me, but I don’t turn back. Not this time.

I step outside into the cold night air, and for the first time in a long while, I let the tears fall.

Back at home, the tears come fast and hard. I sit on the floor of our bedroom, the phone clutched in my hand. I want to call him, demand an explanation, but the words won’t come.

How did we get here? How did the man I loved turn into this st

ranger?

The worst part is, I already know the answer.

Because I let him.