My Ex-Alpha Said He Loved Me, So He Chose My Sister As His Mistress

[Damien's POV]

Damien pressed the intercom button. "Grace. Get Isabella in here. I need the revised budget for the pack expansion."

Silence answered him.

"Grace!" he barked, slamming his palm against the mahogany desk.

The heavy oak door opened. A young woman with short brown hair hurried inside. She clutched a silver tablet to her chest, keeping her eyes firmly on the carpet.

Damien’s jaw tightened. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sarah, sir," she stammered. "The new temp."

"I didn't ask for a temp. I asked for Isabella."

Grace Morgan walked in right behind Sarah, holding a stack of mail. "Miss Isabella resigned a week ago, Alpha. Didn't you know?"

Damien stood up. His chair rolled back, hitting the credenza. "Excuse me?"

"She left the company," Grace stated calmly.

"People don't just leave, Grace," Damien snapped. "Not my Luna. Not my secretary."

"She is no longer your secretary, Alpha. HR processed everything."

"Get the HR director on the phone right now."

"There is no need. You signed and approved it yourself, sir."

"That is a lie."

"I have the copy right here." Grace placed a single sheet of paper on his desk.

Damien snatched the document. His bold signature sat at the bottom of the page. The memories from last week rushed back. He had been on the phone with Olivia, planning her island vacation. He hadn't read a single line of the folder Isabella handed him.

A sharp, uncomfortable pinch hit his chest. Regret?

He shoved the feeling down and tossed the paper into the trash bin. "She's playing games. Call her cell phone."

"I already tried, Alpha. The number is disconnected."

"Then call her apartment."

"Her lease was terminated," Grace added. "She moved out five days ago."

Damien sneered. "She's throwing a tantrum because of Olivia. Give it a few days. She'll come crawling back once her bank accounts run dry."

"Her company cards were surrendered to HR," Grace noted. "And she emptied her personal pack accounts before leaving."

"She won't last a month out there alone," Damien muttered, sitting back down. "Dismissed."

***

[Isabella's POV]

The scent of linseed oil and crushed pigment filled the airy Paris studio.

I dragged the brush across the canvas, blending a streak of cobalt blue into the harsh black background. Three years. I had abandoned this for Damien. I had traded my art for pack politics and endless spreadsheets.

"You have a rare gift, Isabella."

I lowered my brush. Professor Claire Beaumont stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chic tweed jacket.

"I'm just out of practice," I replied.

"Nonsense." Claire stepped closer, scanning the violent strokes on my canvas. "You paint like someone who just broke out of a cage."

"That's exactly what happened."

"What is this piece about?" Claire asked, pointing to the dark center of the canvas.

"Betrayal," I said simply. "And the death of something that should have lived."

Claire's eyes softened. "It is heartbreaking. But your technique is flawless, and the emotion is what captures the eye. I want you in the World Art Foundation's emerging artist program."

I wiped my hands on a paint-stained rag. "I don't have a portfolio yet. Just this one piece."

"This piece is enough," Claire insisted. "The foundation's primary investor relies on my recommendations. He is looking for raw, unfiltered talent."

"Who is the investor?" I asked.

"Alexander Ravenscroft."

I shook my head. "The name means nothing to me."

"He is the youngest Lycan Duke in the European Council," Claire explained. "He has an eye for the extraordinary. And he has the wealth to turn an unknown artist into a global sensation."

"I just want to work, Professor. I don't care about titles or Lycan nobility."

"You will care when he funds your first gallery exhibition. The program starts next week. Do not miss this opportunity, Isabella."

"I'll be there," I promised.

Claire smiled and left the studio. I turned back to my easel.

I grabbed my palette knife, scraping a thick layer of crimson paint across the canvas.

"You missed a spot."

A deep, resonant voice echoed from the doorway.

I turned around. A man stood at the threshold. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His silver-gray eyes locked onto mine, carrying a heavy, commanding weight. A Lycan. The aura rolling off him was undeniable.

"Excuse me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The bottom left corner," he pointed. "It lacks the violence of the rest of the piece."

I let out a short, unexpected laugh. "I'm not finished yet."

"I look forward to seeing the end result." He took a step into the studio. "I'm Alexander Ravenscroft."

The Duke. Claire's mysterious investor.

"Isabella," I replied, not bothering to bow or show the submission his title usually demanded. "You're the one funding the emerging artist program."

"I fund talent," Alexander corrected, his gaze dropping to my paint-stained hands. "And I rarely visit the academy studios myself."

"Then why are you here?" I asked.

"I heard the scrape of your knife from the hallway. It sounded like a fight."

"It was."

"Did you win?"

"I'm still standing," I replied.

Alexander smiled. It wasn't a polite, aristocratic smile. It was genuine. "Good. Dead weight ruins good art. Keep painting, Isabella."

He turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my canvas. He didn't know I was a runaway Luna. He didn't know an Alpha on another continent was probably tearing his office apart looking for me. I didn't care. For the first time in years, I felt entirely free.

***

[Damien's POV]

Damien sat alone in his darkened office. The sun had set hours ago, casting long shadows across the walls.

He dialed Ethan Carter's number.

"Ethan," Damien growled into the receiver. "Where is Isabella?"

"I don't know, Alpha," Ethan replied, his voice tight. "She didn't tell anyone where she was going."

"She has to be somewhere!"

"She's gone, Damien. You signed her release."

Damien ended the call, throwing the phone onto the desk.

It vibrated immediately. Three new messages from Olivia. Pictures of her posing in a tiny bikini on a white sand beach.

"Having the best time, Alpha!" the text read. "Wish you were here."

Damien stared at the screen. He felt absolutely nothing. No spark of lust. No amusement. Just a hollow, echoing silence in his chest.

"Isabella," he muttered to the empty room.

It had been over a week. She hadn't called. She hadn't begged for her job back. She hadn't even shown up at the pack house to scream at him.

He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for the familiar hum of their Mate Bond. He expected to feel her anger, her jealousy, or her sadness. He pushed his senses out, grasping for the invisible thread that connected his soul to hers.

Nothing.

He pushed harder, his claws extending and digging into the leather armrests. Panic flared in his chest, hot and sharp.

The bond wasn't just quiet. It was completely, utterly gone.

Damien dropped his phone. The screen cracked against the floorboard.

"Where are you?" he whispered to the dark.