Rejected by the Alpha: Carrying His Secret Heir

Arla POV:

The wind cut across the private tarmac, sharp and cold against my cheeks. I pulled the cashmere coat tighter around myself, my eyes fixed on the dark expanse of the evening sky. Any second now, a pinpoint of light would appear. My mate Bryce's jet.

My hand rested instinctively on my stomach. It was still flat, but hidden inside was a three-week-old secret. A baby. The pack healer had once informed me that my constitution made conception difficult. This baby was a miracle. This could be my one and only shot at motherhood.

A warmth spread through my chest, a stark contrast to the biting November air. I couldn't wait to tell him in person, to see the look on his face.

Three years of marriage. Three years of polite distance and carefully measured conversations. He was the perfect business partner, the perfect Alpha of Blackwood Pack, the impeccable head of the Holden empire, but never truly my husband. I had always believed that with enough time, enough patience, I could melt the ice around his heart. This baby, our baby, would be the thaw.

I glanced at my phone. The screen glowed with the PDF of the pregnancy test results from this afternoon. I pictured his surprise, maybe even a flicker of the warmth I so desperately craved.

The distant hum grew into a roar. The pinpoint of light resolved into the landing lights of the Gulfstream. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm of anticipation.

I pulled out my phone again, my thumb hovering over his contact. I wanted to tell him I was here, waiting to surprise him.

The call connected. The line rang, a steady, lonely pulse in my ear. Beep... beep...

No answer.

A knot of unease tightened in my gut. Maybe he was busy gathering his things. Maybe the signal was bad. I told myself these things, but the tendril of anxiety had already taken root.

The jet taxied to a smooth stop on the tarmac. The ramp lowered with a soft hiss. I watched, expecting to see his tall, commanding figure fill the doorway. But the entrance remained empty.

My fingers, now cold and stiff, dialed his number again. I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white.

It rang three times, then clicked.

"Bryce," I breathed, a wave of relief washing over me.

But the voice that answered was not my husband's familiar, low baritone. It was light, feminine, with a slightly upward lilt, almost playful.

"Hello?"

I froze. The voice was somewhat familiar, but I couldn't place it.

The woman's voice came again, sweet and laced with a hint of confusion. "Hello? Bryce went to the restroom, left his phone with me. Is there something I can help you with? I'll be sure to pass it along."

For a moment, I felt as though I couldn't hear a thing.

Who was she? Why was she with him? He had come back early, so why hadn't he told me?

These questions swarmed my mind, venomous and biting.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. I said nothing and hung up.

My heart was pounding. I took a deep breath and tried to reassure myself that he was probably just with his friends. Yes, friends. It had to be that.

I wanted to be sure. I stared at the screen and called again.

"What is it. I'm on my way home." This time, it was Bryce's voice. The background wasn't quiet—it certainly wasn't his SUV. It sounded like some kind of party. He was lying.

"You..."

I was about to tell him that I was waiting on the tarmac, that I wanted to ask who that woman was, but he cut me off.

"Wait for me at home. We need to talk."

He hung up, leaving me alone on the tarmac in the cold wind, enveloped by a vast unease.