Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by the King

On our seventh anniversary as mates, Alpha Gianni Marshall took me to a secluded mountain resort nestled deep within pack territory. The hot springs were said to be blessed by the Moon Goddess herself. I woke in the middle of the night to find the bed beside me empty. Meanwhile, Maeve Sanchez—his Delta secretary—posted an update on Instagram, tagged at the resort location: “Got picked up by a handsome Alpha.” The photo showed Maeve with her wet hair wrapped in a white towel, and a large, muscular hand gently drying her hair—the hand was unmistakably Gianni’s.

A wave of nausea hit me as I commented beneath the post, “Casting a wide net these days, aren’t you? Don’t wear yourself out.”

The entire night passed without Gianni returning, not even a mind link. I descended the mountain alone and returned to our pack estate—only to find it just as empty. By evening, as Gianni walked through the door, I was on the balcony consulting a pack lawyer. The pungent scent of Maeve’s overpowering perfume clung to him; she’d been steeped in that suffocating fragrance all day. I shut off my screen without turning to face him.

“You could at least say something when you come home!” he barked, his Alpha tone sharp and commanding. “You left the resort without a word. If you didn’t want to be there, just say so!”

His voice was filled with anger as he growled from behind me. I stood up and turned to him, my gaze involuntarily falling on the scar above his brow. Once, it was a reminder of love and sympathy; now it felt like an insult. I looked at him coldly and spoke, “Where did you go?”

Gianni’s eyes darted, his voice rising in an effort to assert dominance. “What do you mean? The bed was uncomfortable, so I changed rooms.”

“Ha, changed rooms? More like changed women!” I shot back, disgusted at the Alpha in front of me.

He faltered, then insisted, “Cleo, what nonsense are you spouting? Maeve didn’t have a place to stay, so I helped her get a room!”

Maeve. He addressed her so intimately, yet he always called me Cleo, creating a distance between us. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Maeve was his Luna.

“Did you get her a room and help her dry her hair the whole night?” I questioned, seeking evidence from Maeve’s Instagram post, but found nothing—the post had been deleted or hidden.

Gianni saw me searching fruitlessly on my phone and regained some composure. “Don’t start making wild accusations just because of something you saw or heard! You sound like a nagging old she-wolf!”

With that, Gianni stormed upstairs, slamming the door so forcefully that the echoes reverberated through the empty estate. Ever since his business took off, all I’ve seen is his retreating figure. We haven’t had a proper conversation in ages; every attempt ends in an argument after just two sentences. He, however, speaks gently to Maeve, as if