Cheated, Betrayed, and Left to Fight Alone by My Alpha

Mireya’s POV

It took a full day before I found the strength to pull myself out of bed. Every muscle protested, heavy with exhaustion and grief, but it was the shame—the quiet, suffocating humiliation—that weighed the most. Still, I knew staying curled up in that room wouldn’t undo what had been done. If I stayed still, I would sink. I needed motion. Distraction. A reason to keep breathing that wasn’t tied to survival alone.

Before Alpha Darius. Before Deathwell Pack ever became my world.

I had worked once—quietly, steadily—as an assistant in a small clinic outside pack territory. It had been simple work, honest work. When I left five years ago, there had been promises made. A place for me, if I ever needed to return. At the time, I had never imagined I would.

Now, it was all I had.

If that promise still existed, it could be my foothold. A way to earn coin. To slowly chip away at the absurd “debt” they had dumped onto me like a curse. I didn’t need comfort. I needed a beginning.

So I called.

The voice that answered recognized my name. There was hesitation, yes—but also warmth. Familiarity. It reminded me, painfully, that not everyone recoiled at the mention of Ashbourne. I was invited to come in. When I stepped back through the clinic doors, the scent of herbs and clean linen wrapping around me, something in my chest loosened for the first time in days.

Shane saw me almost immediately.

Her eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her face before she rushed forward and wrapped me in a hug. “Mireya? By the Goddess—it’s really you. It’s been ages.” Then she pulled back, uncertainty flickering. “Or should I… should I call you Luna?”

The word sliced straight through me.

I shook my head gently, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack my face in two. “No. That title doesn’t belong to me anymore. I’m just Mireya Ashbourne.”

Pity softened her expression, but she didn’t argue. She only squeezed my hands and told me she hoped—truly hoped—we’d be working together again soon.

When I left the interview, I was almost certain the job was mine. My hands still remembered the work: grinding roots, mixing tinctures, recognizing symptoms before they were spoken. I wasn’t useless. I never had been. For the first time since everything fell apart, a fragile thread of hope took shape.

It snapped the next morning.

The message was brief. Polite. Final.

I called Shane immediately, panic spilling into my voice before I could stop it. “What happened? You said— I thought everything was fine. I don’t understand.”

She sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled. “Mireya… Marcella Thompson contacted the clinic. She made it very clear that if we hired you, Deathwell Pack would pull all funding and donations. We can’t survive that.”

The phone nearly slipped from my grasp. I pressed it hard to my chest, as if that could keep me upright. Marcella. Again. She had taken my mate. My home. My future. And now—this. The last small chance I had at rebuilding something of my own.

A laugh burst from my throat, sharp and unhinged. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but it still escaped, echoing ugly and broken in the quiet room. How pathetic I must have looked—ruined, cast out, and still not allowed peace.

When the sound faded, my hands were shaking.

I didn’t think. I just dialed.

Theo.

My brother.

Three years ago, after a silence that had stretched unbearably long, he had found me again. Since then, we had spoken regularly, carefully rebuilding something neither of us thought we still deserved. He was the last piece of my family. The only one who truly understood what it meant to carry the Ashbourne name.

I told him everything.

He didn’t interrupt. His breathing was the only sound on the line until he finally spoke, his voice low and edged with fury. “Three days, Eve. Just hold on for three days. I’m coming.”

The certainty in his words anchored me. I wasn’t completely alone. Not yet.

But before I could leave, there was something I had to do.

I went to the hospital.

The place where my world had cracked open. Where they told me my child was gone. The healers had preserved what remained, waiting for my decision. I couldn’t walk away without them. I wouldn’t. My baby deserved more than abandonment.

The hallways smelled sterile—antiseptic, wolfsbane, grief. Each step tightened my chest as I gripped the claim papers, bracing myself to collect the only part of my child I still had.

That was when I saw them.

Darius. And Marcella.

They stood near the healer’s ward, too close, too comfortable. I stopped short, breath locking in my lungs as Marcella laughed softly and rested a hand against her stomach.

Then Darius spoke.

“This child,” he said casually, “will replace what I lost with Mireya.”

The word hit me like a physical blow.

Replace.

Marcella smiled, radiant and cruel. She leaned into him, her voice sweet enough to rot. “And I’ll give you the heir you should have had.”

A sound tore out of me before I could stop it. I stumbled back, the room spinning violently. They turned at the noise—but I didn’t stay to see their faces.

I ran.

The papers crumpled in my fist as I bolted down the corridor. My lungs burned. My wolf screamed inside me, raw and broken. I shoved through the hospital doors, blinded by tears—

And slammed straight into someone.

My bag slid from my shoulder, its contents scattering across the floor. “I—I’m sorry,” I muttered, dropping down to gather everything with trembling hands.

The stranger knelt beside me, movements careful, deliberate. He helped pick up my things, and when his fingers brushed mine—

It happened again.

The green light flared beneath my skin, brighter this time, pulsing along my wrist. My breath caught sharply as I looked up.

Blue eyes met mine. Intense. Focused. As if he saw something no one else ever had.

For one suspended heartbeat, something stirred—recognition, maybe. My wolf reacted instantly, a sharp, startled pulse echoing through me.

Then it vanished.

The glow faded. His gaze dropped. The moment dissolved.

“Here,” he said quietly, handing me the last item before standing.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice rough.

He was already walking away, disappearing into the crowd of the hospital—leaving me kneeling on the floor, wondering why my heart was still racing.