My Alpha’s Rejection-Replaced by His Mistress

The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the kitchen, but it did nothing to warm the hollow space inside my chest. My fingers trembled as I shaped dough, the fever still clinging to my bones like a second skin. It had worsened since dawn, turning my limbs sluggish, my thoughts hazy.

But there was no time to rest.

I pressed forward, kneading until my hands ached, pushing past the exhaustion weighing me down. The grand hall would be filled with guests in a few days, and everything had to be perfect.

Not that it would matter.

The feast, the decorations, the effort—I could already hear the pack whispering about how Celeste was the true Luna, how she would have done it all with more grace, more beauty.

Celeste, who walked through the halls like she had been born to rule them.

Celeste, who had taken everything from me.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and continued my work, my movements methodical, precise. At least in this kitchen, I still had a purpose.

Until even that was taken from me.

The sound of approaching footsteps made me tense, and when the door swung open, my stomach twisted.

Two she-wolves entered, their hushed whispers trailing behind them like a breeze. I recognized them immediately—Camille and Lorna, two of the higher-ranked warriors' mates. They didn’t bother lowering their voices when they saw me.

They never did.

"Celeste looked stunning last night, didn’t she?" Camille sighed, her voice sickly sweet.

"Of course," Lorna agreed. "She is our Luna."

The words sent a sharp pang through my chest, but I forced myself to keep kneading, pretending I didn’t hear them.

"But poor Maya," Camille went on, tilting her head in mock pity. "Still lurking in the kitchens, still pretending she has a place here."

Lorna laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. "I heard Alpha Ryker finally admitted it last night."

My hands stilled.

"What do you mean?" Camille asked, her voice laced with eager curiosity.

Lorna smirked. "During the warriors’ meeting. He called Celeste his true Luna."

The room seemed to shrink around me, the words pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

True Luna.

I gripped the edge of the counter, willing my body to stay upright, to not let them see the way their words cut through me like a blade.

Camille let out a delighted gasp. "Oh, that must have been so romantic! He’s finally acknowledging her openly."

Lorna hummed in agreement. "It’s about time. Celeste has done more for this pack in a few months than Maya has in years. It’s embarrassing, really."

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

More for the pack?

Celeste had done nothing but prance around in silks and soak in the attention Ryker showered on her. She had never trained beside the warriors, never tended to the sick or helped with the wounded. She had never sacrificed, never endured.

I had.

I had given my youth, my love, my soul to this pack.

And yet, I was nothing to them.

The two she-wolves continued to chatter, their voices grating against my ears, until finally, they left, their laughter echoing down the hallway.

Only then did I allow myself to exhale.

My hands trembled as I reached for the flour, forcing myself to focus, to not let their words burrow too deeply into my already fragile heart.

I told myself that I was staying for Adrian. That none of this mattered because he mattered.

But the truth had become impossible to ignore.

He didn’t need me.

He barely even liked me.

I had seen the way he looked at me now—the way he flinched when I reached for him, the way he brushed off my attempts at affection.

The way he worshipped Celeste like she had given birth to him instead of me.

A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down, pushing through the ache like I always did.

I had no choice.

A gust of wind rattled the kitchen windows, and I glanced outside. Dark clouds gathered in the distance, creeping closer, their heavy presence casting a shadow over the treetops.

A storm was coming.

I turned back to my work, focusing on the rhythm of kneading, of shaping, of pretending.

Pretending that I wasn’t breaking.

Pretending that I hadn’t already been replaced.