The Billionaire's Affair Bk.4 A Poor Man's Heart

Salome’s POV

"You look like you're drowning in paperwork, Barnabas," I said, my voice as smooth as the polished mahogany of his desk.

I didn't wait for an invitation. I just walked in. The door clicked shut, sealing us in the quiet of the Alpha’s office. I kept my face neutral, a perfect mask of the dutiful Luna, while my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. In my hand, the folder felt heavy, like it was made of lead instead of paper.

Barnabas didn't look up at first. His focus stayed locked on his laptop, his brow furrowed in that way that used to make me want to smooth the lines with my thumb. Now, it just made me feel cold.

"I am," he muttered, his voice gravelly and low. He finally leaned back, his gray eyes lifting to meet mine. There was no spark there. No warmth. Just the flat, dull exhaustion of a man who had spent two weeks running a global conference in London. Or perhaps the exhaustion of a man keeping too many secrets.

I laid the folder on the desk, flipping it open to the pages I’d marked with small neon tabs. "I just need a few signatures on these administrative filings. The council is pushing for the quarterly updates."

He didn't even reach for the folder to read the text. He just grabbed his fountain pen, the silver casing catching the light. "Callume. Let's get it over with."

I watched his hand move. He signed with a bold, aggressive flourish, the same way he did everything. Page one. Page two. He didn't see hthe fine print. He didn't see the words Dissolution of Marriage buried under the boring headers of pack asset management.

He looked terrible. There were dark bruises under his eyes, and his usual sharp scent of cedar and rain was buried under something else. Something cloying.

He smells like her, Vesper, my wolf, snarled in the back of my mind. Her claws scraped at my consciousness, restless and grieving. The scent is all over his skin.

I forced myself to breathe. I couldn't let my scent sour with bitterness. Not yet. I needed those signatures more than I needed an apology.

When he finished, he slid the pen across the desk and pushed the folder back toward me.

"Thanks," I said, tucking the documents away. I lingered for a second, my fingers gripping the edge of the leather folder. "Will you be home for dinner? I asked the kitchen to make that roast you like."

Barnabas shook his head, already turning back to his screen. "I have a mountain of logistics to clear after being away. Don't wait up for me, Salome."

"Got it," I replied. I forced a tiny, obedient smile. "See you around, Alpha."

I turned and walked out before the salt in my eyes could spill over. My heels hit the hardwood in a steady, rhythmic beat. I was almost to the main lobby when a scent hit me, stopping me dead in my tracks. It was vanilla. Not the warm, baking kind, but a cheap, synthetic perfume that made the back of my throat itch.

I looked toward the annex lounge. The door was ajar. On the low glass table, a box of expensive pastries sat open, half-eaten. Beside it, a coffee cup stained with pink lipstick. And there, tucked near the leg of a plush velvet chair, was a single black high-heeled shoe.

The disrespect was a physical blow. He hadn't just brought his mistress back to the territory. He had brought her into our professional sanctuary. He was letting her lounge in the very heart of the Richardson Pack's power while I played the role of the quiet, invisible wife.

I didn't go back into his office to scream. I didn't throw the shoe. I just walked faster, my vision blurring until I reached the privacy of my own office. I slammed the door and sank into my chair, the silence of the room wrapping around me like a shroud.

I pulled the divorce papers out of the folder. Barnabas’s signature stared back at me, firm and permanent. He had signed his freedom away without even knowing it.

A year ago, I would have died for this man. I remembered our mating ceremony, the way he held my face and swore to the moon that I was his beginning and his end. I had been such a naive girl. I should have listened to his mother, Margot.

“Don’t be a fool, Salome,” she had told me once over tea, her voice like ice water. “Alphas are driven by hunger. One woman is rarely enough to satisfy a man with that much power.”

I reached for my phone, my hands finally starting to shake. I took a clear, high-resolution photo of the signature page and opened a new message.

To: Margot Richardson Subject:

Message: The documents are signed. Everything is handled as we discussed.

I hit send.

Margot had made the offer last week. A quiet exit. No scandal, no public dragging of the Richardson name through the mud, and in exchange, a hundred and fifty million dollars would be moved into a private account in my name. To the world, we would just be a couple that grew apart. To me, it was the price of my silence and my dignity.

A soft knock at the door startled me. I shoved the papers into a drawer just as Gideon, Barnabas’s Beta, stepped inside. He was carrying a blue velvet box, his expression tight and uncomfortable.

"Luna," he said, clearing his throat. "The Alpha asked me to give this to you. He picked it out in London."

He set the box on my desk. I opened it. Inside was a diamond necklace and matching earrings. They were beautiful, sparkling with a cold, hard light. But I had seen them before. I had seen them in a social media post from a London boutique, draped over the neck of the blonde woman Barnabas had been seen with at the conference.

He hadn't bought them for me. He had bought two sets. Or worse, he’d bought one for her, and this was the consolation prize for the wife.

"How lovely," I said, my voice dripping with a sarcasm so sharp it could have drawn blood. "He’s so thoughtful, even when he’s so busy."

Gideon winced. He knew. He was the Beta; he saw everything. "I’ll leave you to it, then."

He backed out of the room quickly, the door shutting with a soft thud.

I didn't even try the jewelry on. I took a photo of the set and sent it to a luxury broker I knew.

Me: Pick this up. Sell it and donate every cent to the pack orphanage. Do it anonymously.

I felt a little lighter as I grabbed my coat and headed for the parking lot. The sun was dipping low, casting long, bloody shadows across the pavement. I just wanted to get home, pack a bag, and start counting down the thirty days until the filing became public.

As I reached my SUV, a sleek black sedan pulled out of the executive garage. It was Barnabas’s car.

The windows weren't tinted enough. Through the glass, I saw Barnabas in the back seat. He wasn't looking at work. He was leaning toward the blonde woman sitting next to him. She was laughing, her hand resting familiarly on his arm.

Gideon was driving. When his eyes met mine through the windshield, he hit the brakes so hard the car jerked to a violent stop.

The world seemed to go silent. I stood my ground, my hand gripping my car keys so hard the metal bit into my palm. I stared directly through the rear window, locking eyes with my husband.

"Going somewhere important, Barnabas?" I whispered to the empty air.