Too Late Alpha, I’m Done Being Your Pet

I stood in the bedroom of the penthouse apartment and started to pack.

I had lived here for three years, but I owned almost nothing.

In the massive walk-in closet, one wall was all Kaelan.

Armani. Brioni. Tom Ford.

Each one worth a small fortune.

The other wall was lined with locked glass cabinets. They held jewelry and gowns stamped with the pack’s silver moon crest—treasures I wasn't allowed to touch. Seraphina held the only key. They were “mate accessories,” she’d explained, bought with pack funds to maintain the Alpha’s image.

Every time I attended a formal pack event, I had to request to borrow them.

"Clara, this Harry Winston diamond necklace is worth two million. Are you sure you can be trusted with it?"

"Clara, this Valentino gown is limited edition. Don't you dare get a wrinkle on it."

"Clara, remember, return this immediately after the event. This isn't your personal property. It's not like you humans could ever afford it."

The worst was six months ago, at the pack's winter gala.

I accidentally spilled a little red wine on a white Vera Wang gown.

In front of all the servants, Seraphina pointed to the laundry room.

"Get on your knees and scrub it clean. That dress costs a hundred thousand dollars. You and your dying father couldn't afford to replace it in a lifetime."

"Since you can't pay for it, you can work it off with your knees and your tears."

I knelt for three hours. My knees were bruised purple. My hands were raw from scrubbing.

The dress came clean. But my dignity was gone forever.

I opened the small corner of the closet that was mine.

A few T-shirts, washed so many times they were nearly white. A couple pairs of faded jeans.

And a Columbia University hoodie from three years ago.

The clothes I wore when I was a genius in genetic sciences. Now, they looked like a beggar's rags.

I changed into the hoodie and jeans.

The woman in the mirror was a ghost. Pale, dangerously thin, with dead eyes. So this was what it looked like to live on a pack’s charity.

I remembered my friends at school gossiping, wondering what it would be like to be with a supernatural. How you’d never have to worry about money again.

I never imagined it would be worse than just being a normal human.

I pulled out a worn-out suitcase and placed a few of my old textbooks inside.

I hadn't opened them in three years.

There was a yellowed photo of my father and me on the day of my PhD defense.

He was smiling so brightly, so proud.

"My daughter," he'd said. "She's going to cure all the genetic diseases one day."

Now he was dead.

He died right in front of me, a victim of the pack's cold financial system.

Finally, I gently placed my father's urn inside.

A simple white ceramic box. No decorations.

Seraphina had rejected my request for funeral expenses. I couldn't even afford a decent urn for him.

I closed the suitcase.

That was it.

Three years as an Alpha's mate, and this was all I had.

I dragged the suitcase downstairs.

The housekeeper, Margaret, stood at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes full of contempt.

"Running away again, Luna?" she sneered.

"The Alpha just called. He wants your cream of mushroom soup for dinner."

"He said it's the only thing you're good for—making something that costs the pack nothing and still manages to be a disappointment."

Cream of mushroom soup.

I had made it for three years.

Twice a week, without fail. Kaelan said it tasted just like his mother used to make.

I had studied countless recipes, practiced for hours, just to make him happy. Just so maybe he'd approve a little more of my father's medical bills.

Looking back, that affection was never for me.

It was for a woman who had been dead for a decade.

"He can make it himself," I said flatly.

Margaret's eyes widened. "What?"

"Or have Seraphina do it," I added. "She's so capable. I'm sure she can make soup."

"Luna, you can't talk to the Alpha that way—"

I ignored her and dragged my suitcase toward the front door.

"Luna! Come back! The Alpha will be furious!" Margaret shouted after me.

But I didn't stop.

The elevator doors opened, then closed.

I took one last look at the lobby.

Italian marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. A million-dollar painting on the wall that looked like spilled paint.

Three years ago, I thought this was paradise.

Now I knew it was a tomb.

The tomb of Clara Miller, a brilliant scientist. The tomb of a stupid girl who believed in love.

And the tomb of a pathetic creature who gave up everything for a few thousand dollars in medicine.

The main doors opened.

The New York sun hit my face, blinding me for a second.

I squinted and walked out onto the street, dragging my suitcase behind me.

The skyscraper at my back grew smaller and smaller.

I had finally escaped the tomb.