The Alpha Longed for My Love When I Rejected Him

Ever since Cameron and I had started dating, I’d taken up gardening as a hobby. I loved arranging bouquets from the flowers I’d grown myself, a small act of care I thought he’d appreciate. But today, when I glimpsed at the screen of his phone, I knew exactly who it was for—again. I recognized the little cartoon avatar on his screen. Kennedy’s profile picture.

The silence in the room felt thick as I absorbed the sight, but Cameron was oblivious to the tension. He looked at me expectantly, clearly waiting for my response to his unreasonable request. “Sure,” I said evenly, hiding my feelings. “Send me the picture, and I’ll head out to get what I need.”

I stood up, feeling the weight of my decision settling over me. This would be the last bouquet I’d make for him. I glanced at him one more time, thinking, After this, I'm finally done.

Before I reached the door, his voice, unexpectedly hesitant, stopped me. “Ariane… Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Without turning, I replied, “Anything else?” My tone was flat, and he hesitated, then said, “I’ll send you the money for it.”

I nodded, leaving without another word. As I rode the elevator down, I pulled out my phone, scanning through our message history. 4,596 messages I’d sent him. He’d replied to only 15.

The absurdity of it made me smirk, bitterly. Upstairs, his phone would soon buzz with the notification of a rejected $100 transfer. I imagined his hand clenching as he read it.

Later that night, around 8 p.m., my phone rang. Cameron’s name flashed on the screen.

“Where are you?” He asked, his voice holding a rare hint of concern.

I was sitting in a diner, picking at my food. “What’s up?” I sidestepped his question.

“Nothing much,” he replied softly, almost like he was second-guessing himself. “I just wanted to say… the bouquet was beautiful. As always.”

A silence fell over the line before he added, lower, “Thanks. I know it must’ve taken a lot of effort.”

Before I could respond, Kennedy’s sugary voice sounded in the background.

“Oh, Ariane!” she called, her tone annoyingly sweet. “Cameron told me you made my birthday bouquet. You’re so talented! I wish I could do that, but I’m so clumsy. Cameron’s always calling me his little dummy.”

Her words dripped with fake innocence, and before I could answer, she invited me to the party. But then Cameron’s voice cut in, firmer this time. “Actually, you don’t need to come.” Then he hung up.

Moments later, my phone buzzed again, this time with a message from him. It was a pinned location and a note: If you do stop by, grab a blueberry cheesecake for Kennedy.

I sighed, unable to help a sarcastic smile. The things I do.

When I arrived at the party and pushed open the door to the private room, my gaze immediately landed on Cameron. He was feeding Kennedy a forkful of pasta, and she looked up at him with wide, adoring eyes. As soon as he saw me, irritation flickered over his face.

“Why did you come?” He demanded, his voice low and displeased.

I met his glare steadily, saying nothing. I knew Kennedy had been the one who texted me. But I’d come anyway.

“Oh, Ariane!” Kennedy greeted with a broad smile, her voice overly sweet.

Cameron’s gaze darkened. “Didn’t I tell you not to come?”

I was about to respond, but Kennedy beat me to it, pouting. “Sorry, Cameron. I just wanted some blueberry cheesecake, so I used your phone to get her here.” She batted her lashes innocently, and he reached out to ruffle her hair, murmuring, “You little munchkin.”

As I watched, my heart clenched, and Ciara, my wolf, stirred within me, filled with a mix of hurt and anger. See how easily he dismisses us? she murmured. It hurt, but her words were true.

We deserve better, I replied silently.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled out a transfer letter from my bag, stepping forward to hand it to Cameron. “Hey, Cameron,” I said calmly. “I need you to sign this transfer request. A friend of mine wants to transfer packs because their mate is elsewhere.”

He barely glanced at it, still absorbed in Kennedy’s presence, and signed without hesitation. He didn’t even know it was my own transfer letter, that I was finally leaving him.

Just as I was about to take the letter back, his hand lingered, grabbing mine briefly. His expression flickered. “You… came here just for this?” His voice was unreadable, almost guarded.

I nodded, pulling my hand back quickly, but not before he caught sight of the faint cuts on my palm, small wounds left from handling roses with thorns. He recoiled slightly, his face hardening.

Kennedy noticed, her eyes lighting up with intrigue. “Oh, Ariane,” she said, her gaze fixating on my wrist. “Your tattoo looks exactly like the one Cameron used to have.” She laughed. “He had it removed months ago.”

I followed her gaze, taking in the tattoo of a Ariane flower on my wrist. Years ago, it had meant something to him too. I glanced at Cameron’s wrist, now bare, and felt the last bit of warmth drain from my heart.

“It’s just a tattoo. You can get it too if you want,” I said coolly, feeling a surge of anger I could barely contain.

I turned and walked out, my mind a whirl of pain and determination.

My phone rang, and when I glanced at the screen, it was my father. I picked up, keeping my voice steady.

“Ariane! How are you? How’s Cameron treating you?” he asked warmly.

My throat tightened. “I’m fine, Dad. How are you and Mom?”

He must have sensed my evasion, but he let it go. “Your mother and I miss you, sweetheart. We’ve been looking forward to your visit. When are you coming home?”

I bit back the ache in my chest. “I’ll be home in two days. I promise.”

After hanging up, I heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I saw Cameron approaching. His face was unreadable, his posture tense.

He didn’t say a word, just walked up the stairs. “Let’s crash here tonight,” he muttered.

I didn’t know why he wanted to stay, but I followed, feeling the weight of my decision looming closer.

The next morning, when I woke, Cameron was gone. I glanced at the clock—it was already past noon. Moments later, he returned, and I realized he’d made food.

“Come eat,” he said, his voice softer than usual.