The Tyrant Lycan's Ruined Omega

“I, Scott Redwood, reject Ravenna Holloway as my mate.”

He didn’t say it quietly. He said it for the microphones.

The orchestra died mid-note. A hundred champagne glasses froze in the air. Under the crystal chandeliers of Luminara Hall, every Council member, every heir, every reporter turned to look at me.

Not with pity. With hunger.

Scott stood three feet away in a perfect black suit. Steel-blue eyes. Zero regret. He looked exactly like the future Alpha he was supposed to be. I looked like the cautionary tale they would whisper about at every ball for the next five years.

My silver dress, the one Mother had chosen because it made me look "soft and approachable," suddenly felt like a costume.

“Scott…” My voice didn’t sound like mine. Thin. Small.

He sighed like I was wasting his time. “You deserve honesty, Ravenna.”

Laughter rippled near the back, near the bar. Someone whispered loud enough for me to hear, “She actually thought he’d go through with it? After Greystone?”

He raised his voice so the front table — my father’s table — could hear every word. “You were kind. You were obedient. You tried. But you were never fit to be Luna. Not of Redwood. Not of any pack.”

My knees hit the marble before I realized I was falling. The cold shot up through my dress and into my bones. The floor had been polished for twelve hours for this engagement party. I could see my own smeared reflection in it, mascara already running.

Warm blood flooded my mouth where I’d bitten straight through my lip.

My wolf, Ciel, didn’t howl. She didn’t scream like she usually did when I was hurt. She just went silent inside my chest.

That was worse than any howl.

“I waited,” Scott continued, looking down at me. “For years, I waited for you to get stronger. To grow a spine. To stop hiding behind your sister.”

“Scott, please—”

“You never did.”

I looked for my father.

Alistair Holloway, Councilman of Silvercrest. The man who negotiated peace treaties and stared down rogue Alphas without blinking. The man who had drilled me in etiquette and debate for fifteen years just to be Scott’s perfect Luna.

He sat two tables away, a glass of red wine untouched in front of him, reflecting the chandeliers.

Our eyes met.

For one heartbeat, I thought he would stand up. That he would say, " Enough.

He looked away.

My mother, Selene, sat beside him, staring at her lap, her knuckles white around her glass. Silent. As always. She had always chosen his silence over my voice.

That’s when Freya moved.

My older sister. Silver dress that cost more than my entire wardrobe, perfect hair, champagne held like a weapon. She didn’t rush. She walked past me like I was something sticky on the marble that she refused to step in.

Then she stopped. Bent down. Fixed my necklace with cold fingers, her nails perfectly manicured.

Her lips brushed my ear, soft enough that the cameras would think she was comforting me.

“You should’ve known better than to want something that was never yours, little sister.”

She smiled — that small, satisfied smile she always wore when she won.

Freya straightened, turned to Scott, and slid her arm through his like it had been rehearsed a hundred times. Like this had been the plan all along.

Cameras flashed. A frenzy of white light.

Not for me. For them. The perfect Alpha and his perfect replacement.

Scott didn’t look back once as he walked out with my sister on his arm, leaving me on the floor.

A hand touched my shoulder. A servant, young, uncomfortable, eyes darting everywhere but at me.

“Lady Ravenna…”

He held out a small black box. Cartier The black ribbon was already half-undone, like Freya had opened it to check it first.

“Lady Freya said this needs to be delivered to Lord Beckett’s penthouse tomorrow morning. For his birthday. She said you would know where. She said it’s urgent.”

Of course. Even tonight, even on the floor of my own rejection, I was still her errand girl.

I took the box. The sharp velvet edge dug into my palm until it hurt, until I felt something other than shame.

The servant hesitated. “Should I call a car, my lady? Your father said—”

I forced myself to stand. My legs shook violently, but I made them hold. I would not be carried out.

“No. I can still walk.”

I pushed through the heavy ballroom doors into the cold night air of Luminara. Behind me, the string quartet started again, awkward and too loud — like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just been rejected in front of the entire high pack while my own father chose silence over his daughter.

Tomorrow I would deliver Freya’s gift to Xavier Beckett.

Her boyfriend.

The Lycan everyone in Vanguard called Satan in a tailored suit.

Tonight, I had to learn how to breathe again with a dead bond rotting in my chest.