He Mocked His Costco Wife—She Owned the Whole Mall

"Seven days."

I stared at the encrypted text from Theo. The harsh glare of my cracked phone screen illuminated the cramped interior of my beat-up sedan.

Seven more days of this trial.

My thumb brushed against the cheap plastic name tag pinned to my left chest pocket. The harsh fluorescent lights of the warehouse still seemed to cling to the blue polyester.

I shoved the phone away and killed the engine.

Outside the windshield, the wrought-iron gates of Oakridge Academy stood open.

Dylan waited by the stone courtyard fountain. My ten-year-old son threw his head back, laughing loudly at a joke made by a boy wearing a three-hundred-dollar uniform sweater.

I stepped out of the car. The cold afternoon wind hit my face.

"Dylan," I called out.

His laughter vanished. He snapped his head toward me. His eyes darted from my scuffed work boots to the bright blue vest screaming my retail status to the entire courtyard.

The other boy smirked, nudging Dylan's shoulder. "Is that your maid?"

"No," Dylan muttered, his face flushing dark red. "Just... my ride."

He marched toward me, his jaw set hard. He offered no greeting. Instead, he swung his heavy leather backpack off his shoulder and shoved it directly into my chest.

The metal buckles bit into my collarbone.

"Put it in the trunk," he ordered, keeping his voice low.

"Dylan, look at me," I said. I reached out and caught his wrist.

"Don't touch me!" He yanked his arm free as if my skin burned him. "Get in the car before anyone else sees you."

"I am your mother," I said, my tone firm.

"You are an embarrassment!" he hissed.

He spun around, yanked open the passenger door, and threw himself onto the seat.

My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket. I pulled it out.

A text from Dylan lit up the screen.

Please don't wear this. You look like trash.

I stared at the glowing letters. My hands gripped the heavy straps of his backpack. Just three months ago, I dragged pallets of frozen meat until my spine felt permanently bruised. I worked ninety consecutive night shifts. I skipped lunches to save every spare dollar to pay the $24,000 tuition required to keep him standing in that elite courtyard.

I popped the trunk, tossed the bag inside, and slammed the lid shut.

The drive home passed in suffocating silence.

When I pushed open the apartment door, Aaron was already sitting at the cramped kitchen table. He wore the new charcoal-gray suit Lola had bought him.

Dylan pushed past me, entirely ignoring his father, and locked himself in his bedroom.

"You are late," Aaron said. He kept his eyes locked on his phone screen.

"Traffic," I replied. I unzipped my blue vest and draped it over the back of a chair.

"Pack a bag for him," Aaron commanded. "Just enough for the weekend."

I paused, my hand still resting on the rough polyester. "Why?"

Aaron finally looked up, his expression dripping with open disdain. "Dylan and I are spending the weekend at Lola's estate."

My fingers tightened on the chair. "You are taking my son to your mistress's house?"

"She is not my mistress, Selene. She is my sponsor," Aaron said smoothly. "She has a private pool. A chef. A tennis court. Dylan needs to expand his horizons. He needs to see how successful wolves live."

"He lives here," I said, stepping closer to the table. "With his family."

"He lives in a dump," Aaron shot back. He slammed his hand flat against the laminate wood. "Look around! Peeling wallpaper. Leaking faucets. You work at a wholesale club, Selene. What kind of future can you offer an ambitious pup?"

"I paid his tuition." My voice dropped to a sharp whisper. "I kept him in that school."

"Money you scraped together from sweeping floors," Aaron sneered. "Lola is introducing him to the alpha of the eastern sector tomorrow. Can you do that? Can you get him a seat at a high-council table?"

I stared at the man I chose three years ago. The man I thought would love me for me, completely separated from my pack title.

"You have no idea what I can do," I said.

"I know exactly what you can do," Aaron said, standing up. "You can iron my shirts and stay out of my way."

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick, heavy envelope. He tossed it onto the kitchen table.

It landed with a solid thud, sliding across the cheap laminate until it stopped inches from my hand.

"Make sure my dress shoes are polished by tomorrow night," Aaron said, adjusting his cuffs. "Lola is hosting a banquet. It is strictly high-society."

"A banquet," I repeated.

"Yes. The kind of event they would never let you into, even to serve the drinks." He picked up his car keys. "Do not wait up. I need to take Dylan shopping for a tuxedo."

Aaron turned and walked out the front door, letting it slam shut behind him.

The silence rushed back into the tiny apartment.

I looked down at the table.

The invitation was made of thick, cream-colored cardstock. Gold foil lined the edges, catching the dim overhead light.

I reached out and flipped the heavy card open.

Elegant, sweeping calligraphy spelled out Lola's name as the guest of honor.

But my eyes locked onto the header.

Hosted by the Brandt Family.

My thumb traced the raised gold lettering spelling out Brandt—the exact exiled bloodline that had waged a bloody war against my mother for the alpha throne ten years ago.