After the Death of My Daugther, I Divorced the Tyrant Alpha

Nathaniel and I weren't fated mates.

We'd met at the academy, where Nathaniel had pursued me rather determinedly. Initially, I had resisted, holding fast to my belief that I should wait for my fated mate.

But Nathaniel had been persistent, and eventually, he persuaded me. He made a solemn promise that if neither of us had found our mates by seventeen, we would marry.

And so we did. For five years, we'd shared our lives, believing we'd somehow circumvented the hand of fate.

But now, hearing their words, an overwhelming realisation descended upon me.

What if Nathaniel truly had found his mate? What if that mate was indeed Yoan?

Tears threatened to spill, but I forced them back. I simply couldn't allow them to witness my anguish.

With glacial composure, I interrupted their conversation. "Is that true?"

The packmates recoiled, their whispers dissolving into panicked stammering. “Luna Angeline—we didn’t realise you were there—”

Before I could demand answers, the lounge door crashed open. A breathless voice sliced through the silence, “Beta Hazel’s collapsed—cardiac failure. They’re stabilising him now.”

***

The operating theatre was stifling, the air thick with antiseptic and dread. I leaned against the wall, numb, as Nathaniel cradled Yoan—her body racked with sobs, his hands tender on her shoulders. The scene mirrored my own torment two days prior, alone in a sterile room, absorbing the news of my daughter’s death while my husband buried himself in her bed.

Now, watching them, bitterness coiled in my throat. I forced a thin smile. No theatrics. No scenes.

As I approached, Yoan flinched. Her tear-streaked face contorted with something akin to shame, and she lurched away from Nathaniel’s hold.

“L-Luna Angeline—forgive me,” she choked. “We’ve… been close since we were children. He was only comforting me—”

Nathaniel spoke before I could.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for, Yoan.” His hand remained on her shoulder, his tone soft—too soft, the kind reserved for lovers, not friends. Not in his wife’s presence.

I exhaled sharply, my resolve hardening like frost on glass.

This wasn’t the first time his devotion to her had gouged at me. But today, amidst the pack’s murmurs and the pall of loss, it carved deeper. I heard their words—he’s grown cold toward her; their bond was never true—and still, the question gnawed, Why marry me, then? Why chain us both?

The doubt clung like a parasite. Had Nathaniel wed me as some petty retort when Yoan bonded with her husband weeks before our ceremony? I crushed the thought. Our history spanned years—long before her entanglement. Surely his proposal hadn’t been a blade aimed at her.

Or had it?

I blinked, realising the paramedics had vanished. Only we three remained in that claustrophobic corridor, the fluorescents humming their judgment.

Yoan’s voice punctured the silence. “We must uncover a treatment for Hazel. Properly this time.”

“We’ll secure specialists,” Nathaniel said, decisive. “Whatever’s required.”

The collusion stung anew. I turned sharply, heels clicking toward the exit.

“Angeline—”

I didn’t pause. The corridors blurred as I quickened my pace, then broke into a sprint. The woods swallowed me—ancient oaks and bracken offering crude solace. Shifting mid-stride, my wolf’s paws struck the mud as rain needled the canopy.

Run. Just run.

My wolf roused, her presence a balm. Steady, she murmured. You are not prey.

Yet my human heart fractured. What am I, then?

“Steady, Angie,” Sky murmured, her voice a low thrum in my skull. “Quell this rage. Nathaniel isn’t your destined bond. Remember. Your worth isn’t shackled to his gaze.”

Her counsel cooled the tempest in my chest.

“You’re right,” I panted, halting beneath a cathedral of ancient pines, my breath fogging the damp air. “If Nathaniel’s free to claim his fated mate, then so are we. We deserve that.”

“Undeniably.”

Resolve hardened like frost. I returned to the manor, scrubbed myself raw under the shower’s blistering jets, and stalked to the wardrobe. Suitcase in hand, I began folding blouses with military precision.

“Tomorrow, I depart for the Black Widow Pack,” I vowed aloud.

No more compromises. No more withering in the shadow of a man who’d mistaken my loyalty for frailty.

The door hinges whined. Nathaniel loomed in the threshold, his gaze narrowing on the half-filled suitcase.

“Explain this.” His tone was glacial, detached—the voice of an Alpha assessing a tactical blunder, not a husband confronting his wife’s abandonment.

“Tidying the wardrobe,” I lied, the suitcase’s weight a leaden anchor as I smoothed creases from a blouse I’d never wear again.

“Right. I’ll be accompanying Yoan to the Silver Fang Pack tomorrow,” Nathaniel announced, as though discussing a grocery list. “Regarding the attack.” His tone was rehearsed, lifeless. “Whilst you’re here—pack my charcoal suit. The Brioni one.”

“Of course,’” I replied, toneless. My gaze remained fixed on the silk beneath my fingers—safer than meeting the ice in his eyes.

“I’ll shower, then work late. Don’t bother with supper.” The bathroom door clicked shut.

I said nothing. Let the silence fester. Folded trousers, stacked jumpers, each movement precise. Let him work. Let him stay. Let him warm her bed until the sheets frayed. I’d long since drained my reserves of outrage.

Dawn bled through the curtains as the door groaned. Nathaniel stood silhouetted, shirt rumpled, eyes bloodshot.

“Why’s your case the only one packed?” His voice was sandpapered rough.

I blinked slowly. “My oversight. I’ll sort yours after breakfast.”

“See that you do.” He thrust a roll of notes at me. “There’s a Full English in the kitchen. Prepare lunches—two portions. Yoan’s barely eaten since Hazel’s decline.”

I pocketed the cash. “Naturally.”

“And ensure my case is ready by noon,” he called over his shoulder. “‘Critical meeting at the office.”

The door snapped shut behind him before I could muster a retort. I stared at the void where he’d stood—the man who once lavished me with devotion now reduced to a spectre in his own home.

In our first year, my silences would unravel him. He’d arrive with armfuls of peonies from Covent Garden, book spontaneous weekends in the Cotswolds, his apologies whispered against my neck. Now, even my absence went unmarked.

He’s severed himself from us, Sky observed, her voice a blade sheathed in sorrow.

“Then we owe no explanations,” I murmured, padding to the en suite. Let the scalding water purge his scent from my skin.