After My Alpha Chose His Mistress Over His Mother

The intercom crackled to life, jolting me from my half-conscious state. I lifted my head, ice crystals clinging to my hair, and stumbled toward the sound.

"—just need to teach her a lesson," Alaina's voice drifted through the speaker, followed by the delicate clink of glass against glass.

I pressed my ear against the intercom panel, my skin sticking to the frozen metal.

"To Sylvia's lesson," Ryan's voice came through, cold and distant. "May she learn her place."

More clinking. They were toasting. Toasting while I froze. While his mother died.

"Ryan," I croaked into the intercom, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. "Please... I'm begging you..."

Static was my only answer for a moment. Then Alaina's laughter filtered through, high and mocking.

"Oh, is someone still talking?" she asked, her voice dripping with false concern. "How pathetic."

I pounded my fist against the panel, my knuckles splitting open. Blood froze on my skin.

"Your mother is dying!" I screamed, my voice breaking. "This isn't a game!"

"Actually," Ryan's voice came through, eerily calm, "it is a game. And you're losing."

The intercom went silent for a moment. I could hear the faint sound of music in the background—the gala continuing without me.

"When you're ready to stop throwing tantrums," Ryan finally said, his voice cutting through the silence, "you can come out. Until then..."

Another clink of glasses.

"Until then," Alaina finished for him, "enjoy your timeout, Luna."

The intercom went dead.

I slumped against the wall, my body shaking uncontrollably. My surgical hand—my right hand—felt like a block of ice, the fingers barely responsive to my commands.

"Margaret," I whispered, my teeth chattering. "Hold on..."

But even as I said it, I knew it was too late. The golden hour—that critical sixty minutes after trauma when surgical intervention could mean the difference between life and death—was slipping away.

I checked my watch through frost-covered eyelashes. The numbers blurred together, but I could make out enough: 10:47 PM. I'd been in here for nearly an hour.

"An hour," I moaned, the word barely intelligible through my chattering teeth. "One hour gone..."

Lily stirred weakly within me. "Sylvia," she whimpered, her voice fainter than I'd ever heard it. "I'm trying... but I can't reach you..."

"Don't try," I murmured internally. "Save your strength."

My muscles began to spasm, another sign of severe hypothermia. I curled into myself, trying to conserve what little body heat remained.

"Think," I told myself, forcing my foggy brain to work. "Think..."

But there was nothing to think about. I was trapped, freezing, and helpless while the woman who had once saved my life bled out on an operating table.

Tears froze on my cheeks as I began to weep—silent, bitter sobs that shook my already trembling body.

"Forgive me," I whispered to Margaret, to Lily, to myself. "I tried..."

The cold intensified around me, creeping deeper into my bones with each passing second. My vision blurred at the edges as consciousness began to slip away.

Time lost all meaning in the darkness.

Was it minutes? Hours?

I no longer knew.

All I knew was cold. Endless, merciless cold.

And then—

A sound.

Metal grinding against metal.

Light spilled into the freezer as the heavy door swung open.

I blinked against the sudden brightness, my eyes watering painfully.

"Look who's ready to rejoin the land of the living," Alaina's voice cut through my fog, sharp and mocking.

I tried to stand but my legs buckled beneath me. I collapsed onto the kitchen tiles, my body trembling violently as the warmer air hit my frozen skin.

"Ryan," I gasped, looking up at him through frost-covered lashes. "Hospital... please..."

He stared down at me, his face unreadable. Behind him, Alaina's smile was wide and satisfied.

"Can you walk?" Ryan asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

I tried to nod but my neck muscles spasmed. Instead, I began to crawl, dragging my half-frozen body across the kitchen tiles toward the exit.

"The hospital," I repeated, my voice a broken whisper. "I need to get to the OR."

Alaina's laughter echoed off the kitchen walls. "Still delusional, I see."

I ignored her, focusing on moving forward. One inch at a time. One painful, agonizing inch.

Behind me, Ryan made no move to help.

Ahead of me, the kitchen door beckoned—a promise of escape, of salvation.

If I could just reach it... if I could just make it to the hospital...

Margaret might still have a chance.

I might still have a chance.

My right hand—my surgical hand—left smears of blood on the tiles as I dragged myself forward.