My Alpha Chose His Assistant Over Our Baby

Mrs. Cole arrived at six o'clock, exactly as she had every Thursday for the past five years.

I heard her car in the drive, the sharp click of her heels on the stone walkway. She didn't knock. She never knocked. The Alpha residence had been hers once, and she'd never quite accepted that it wasn't anymore.

I stood at the kitchen window, watching the last of the daylight fade through the trees. My hand rested against my stomach, a habit I'd developed since seeing the ultrasound. The gesture was small enough that no one noticed. Private.

The door opened. Mrs. Cole's voice carried down the hall. "Zelda? Are you here?"

I didn't answer immediately. I let her walk through the foyer, let her heels echo on the marble I'd paid to have restored two years ago. Sera stirred in my mind, watchful.

"I'm in the kitchen," I called.

She appeared in the doorway, perfectly composed in a cream suit that probably cost more than most pack members made in a month. Her gaze swept the room with the practiced efficiency of a general inspecting troops.

"The flowers are wilting," she said, nodding toward the arrangement on the counter. "You should have replaced them yesterday."

I looked at the flowers. They were fine. Two days old at most.

"I'll make a note," I said quietly.

Mrs. Cole moved to the dining table, running her finger along the edge. Checking for dust that didn't exist. "And the menu for tomorrow's pack dinner. I assume you've coordinated with the kitchen staff?"

"It's handled."

"Handled." She turned to face me, her expression tight. "That's what you always say. But 'handled' isn't the same as 'done well,' is it?" She paused. "Jameson mentioned you've been... emotional lately. Causing disruptions at the pack house."

There it was. The real reason for tonight's visit.

I pressed my thumb against my wrist. The familiar pressure kept me steady.

"I exercised Luna authority over household operations," I said. "That's not a disruption. That's protocol."

Mrs. Cole's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Protocol. You sound like you're reading from a manual." She moved closer, her voice dropping into that tone she used when she wanted to sound concerned. Maternal. "Zelda, dear. I know it's difficult. Being Luna when you don't quite... fit. But taking out your insecurities on hardworking pack members like Lana—"

"Stop."

The word came out quiet. Controlled. But something in my voice made Mrs. Cole pause.

I turned from the window to face her fully. For the first time in five years, I didn't lower my gaze. Didn't curve my shoulders inward. Didn't perform the submission she expected.

"This table," I said, gesturing to the dining set behind her. "Imported oak. Custom-made. Eight thousand dollars. I paid for it."

Mrs. Cole blinked. "I don't see what—"

"The marble in the foyer. Fifteen thousand for materials and installation. The staff you're so concerned about? I personally negotiated their contracts and pay rates because the pack budget Jameson inherited was hemorrhaging money on inefficient labor practices." I kept my voice level. Factual. "The security upgrades on the eastern perimeter. The new training facility. The diplomatic gifts that secured our alliance with Crescent Pack last year."

I took a step forward. Mrs. Cole took a step back.

"Every single one," I continued, "funded by my personal accounts. Not pack resources. Mine."

Mrs. Cole's face had gone very still. "That's not—"

"The curtains in the Luna quarters. The ones you had me replace three times because the color 'wasn't quite right'? Four thousand dollars. Each set." I tilted my head slightly. "Would you like me to continue? I have receipts. Forty-seven pages of them, actually."

Sera was silent in my mind, but I could feel her presence. Solid. Certain.

Mrs. Cole's mouth opened. Closed. Her hand fluttered toward her throat. "I... Jameson never said..."

"Jameson doesn't know." I let the words settle. "He never asked where the money came from. He just assumed the pack could afford it. That you could afford it." I paused. "You couldn't."

The color had drained from her face. She looked around the kitchen—at the renovated cabinets, the new appliances, the tile work—as if seeing it all for the first time.

"You have no idea who I am," I said quietly. "You've spent five years calling me weak-blooded. Inadequate. Not good enough for your son." I smiled, and it felt strange on my face. Cold. "You've been living in a house I built. Eating off plates I bought. Judging me with a superiority you never earned."

Mrs. Cole's hand was still at her throat. She tried to speak twice before words came out. "This is... I need to talk to Jameson."

"Do that," I said.

She turned and walked toward the door. Her heels didn't click with the same confidence they'd had twenty minutes ago. She paused in the doorway, her back to me.

"You're not yourself," she said. Her voice shook slightly. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but this... this isn't appropriate."

I didn't respond. I just watched her leave.

The car started in the driveway. Pulled away. Disappeared into the trees.

I stood in the kitchen, surrounded by furniture I'd paid for, in a house I'd restored, wearing the title of Luna like a costume I was finally ready to take off.

Sera stirred. *That felt good.*

It did. For the first time in five years, speaking the truth felt better than swallowing it.

I walked to the bedroom and unlocked the drawer. The ultrasound sat beside my journal. I pulled out a leather folder I'd placed there this morning and opened it.

Formal rejection documents. Written in Old Lycan script. The language of my father's court. The language Jameson couldn't read.

I'd spent three days drafting them. Consulting legal frameworks within the Lycan Court through contacts I'd maintained in secret. Every clause was ironclad. Every word was deliberate.

Beneath the documents sat the financial ledger. Forty-seven pages. Every receipt. Every transaction. Every dollar I'd poured into Shadowvale Pack, itemized with dates and descriptions.

I closed the folder and locked the drawer again.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mrs. Cole to Jameson, forwarded by accident to the pack-wide message thread: *Your mate has lost her mind. Call me immediately.*

I deleted the notification and set the phone down.

Two more days. That's all I needed.

Two more days to finish what I'd started.