He Chose The Rogue: The Billionaire Healer's Cold Revenge

The leader of the pack, my Alpha husband Jackson, took away my spot on the flight and gave it to his mistress.

"Amber is fragile. She needs the private jet. I've booked you a commercial flight."

He shoved an envelope into my hands. Economy class. Middle seat. Two layovers.

I stood there looking like an absolute joke, while a rogue took my seat on my Gulfstream G650.

A jet that I paid for.

Jackson severed our mind-link, took his mistress's hand, and boarded the plane.

He thought he was the boss. He thought he held all the power.

Amber thought she had bagged a rich Alpha and secured her fortune.

But they forgot one tiny detail: Jackson's name wasn't on the trust fund.

As the plane taxied away, I pulled out my phone and dialed my private banker.

"Ma'am?"

"Cancel the flight plan," I ordered. "Revoke their flight clearance. Cut off their credit lines. Cut everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything," I said, watching the jet lift into the sky. "Let's see if the Alpha can survive without my wallet."

Chapter 1

Haley's POV:

The wind on the tarmac pierced through my coat, but it was nothing compared to the ice spreading through my veins.

The engines of the Gulfstream G650 were already emitting a high-pitched whine.

It was a magnificent machine. And it should be. After all, I paid for it.

Just like I paid for the Italian wool suits our warriors wore, the thousands of gallons of fuel in the tanks, and the Alpha Summit invitation currently resting in my husband's pocket.

"Haley, step back," Jackson said. There was no mate-like warmth in his voice, only a tone of sheer impatience.

I blinked, trying to process the absolute absurdity of the situation. "Excuse me? We need to board. The summit's opening ceremony starts in four hours."

Jackson didn't even look at me. He was adjusting his cufflinks-gold, studded with diamonds. My anniversary gift to him.

"You're not flying with us," he stated flatly.

My heart skipped a beat. "What? Jackson, I'm the Luna. I'm the one who secured the Dorsey Pack a seat at the table of power. Why wouldn't I-"

"Amber is fragile," he interrupted, finally meeting my eyes. His gaze was icy, stripped of the tenderness it held five years ago. "She just came back from the wild. Her wolf is weak, and she needs the comfort of a private jet."

I looked past him. Standing at the top of the stairs, posing like a tragic heroine, was Amber Compton.

She was wearing a custom-made silk dress I had tailored for myself. It hung loosely on her frame, accentuating an overly deliberate sense of frailty.

She offered me a faint smile. The kind of smile a shark gives right before it bites.

"But there are twelve seats," I argued, fighting to keep my voice steady. "There's plenty of room."

"Haley, this isn't about space," Jackson's mother, Cornelia, chimed in.

She stood by the luggage cart, her hands tightly clutching the designer bag I bought her for Christmas last year.