The Alpha's Unwanted True Mate's Secret

Aurora's POV:

"The number you have dialed cannot be reached. Please leave a message after the beep."

The same cold, automated voice. The stark repetition was a confirmation, not a surprise. For the tenth time, I lowered my phone and stared at the screen.

It was nine o'clock.

Our sixth wedding anniversary. Six years since the Mating Ceremony bound me to Conrad Harris, Alpha of the Blackwood Pack. Six years since I became his Luna in title only—the wolfless Omega bride he tolerated for the sake of Pack politics and his family's obsession with pure bloodlines.

The crystal glasses gleamed under the chandelier, throwing fractured rainbows across the white linen. The six-course meal, prepared by a private chef, had long gone cold on the vast oak table. The foie gras had congealed into a grey smear; the truffle risotto had skinned over.

My fingers gently traced the rim of my wine glass, the silence of the room further accentuating the questions in my head. Across from me, an empty chair seemed to mock me—that was my husband Conrad's seat. Beside it, a high chair sat neatly pushed against the table. Our six-year-old daughter, Delma, should have been there swinging her little legs, yelling to be the first to roll over.

Beside my plate, a slim, elegantly wrapped box from Patek Philippe held the watch I'd spent months sourcing for him. A symbol. A hope.

Martha Foster, our housekeeper, approached softly, her face a canvas of pity. "Mrs. Harris, shall I have the staff clear the table? The Alpha is late."

I forced a smile, the muscles in my face feeling stiff. "No, thank you, Martha. Let's wait a little longer. He's likely just held up with Pack business."

She sighed, a soft, sad sound that told me she didn't believe it any more than I did. She retreated without another word.

The mate bond—a tether I had once cherished—lay slack and silent in my chest. No frantic pulse of distress from him, no warmth. Just a hollow, dead weight. He wasn't in danger. He just didn't care.

I steadily unlocked my phone and opened the vehicle tracker app. Conrad had insisted on installing this system on both our cars—he said it was for my protection. This way, the Alpha could always keep track of his wolfless Luna's location. And now I was using this system to track his location in reverse.

A small red dot pulsed on the screen. His car. It wasn't at the Pack House. It wasn't at his downtown office.

It was parked at The Gilded Lily, an upscale restaurant in the city's most exclusive district. A place we had never been to.

The pieces clicked into place with a terrible, cold certainty. I didn't sit there wondering. I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the marble floor in the quiet dining room.

"I'm stepping out for a bit," I told Martha, my voice distant to my own ears. I grabbed my car keys from the bowl by the door, leaving the Patek Philippe box on the table beside the untouched anniversary dinner.

The night air hit me like a slap as I descended the front steps. I didn't bother with a coat. The engine of my Bentley roared to life, and I sped into the night, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, the tracker open on the phone mount beside me, the red dot holding steady at The Gilded Lily.

Twenty minutes later, I parked across the street, hidden in the shadows of an old oak tree. I killed the engine and the lights. The restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows were like a brightly lit stage, offering an unobstructed view of the tragedy inside.

And there he was.

My husband. Conrad.

He wasn't wearing the new suit I'd laid out for him. Instead, a casual black shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. His head was tilted, a soft, gentle expression on his face.

An expression I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

It was all for the woman sitting opposite him.

Jasmine Becker. His "assistant." The Pack's worst-kept secret.

She wore a beautiful white dress, her laughter echoing silently behind the glass. On the table between them sat a small, elegant birthday cake.

My breath caught. Today wasn't her birthday.

Today was our anniversary.

My gaze shifted, and a new detail froze the blood in my veins. Sitting beside Jasmine, her small face alight with joy, was my daughter. Our daughter.

Delma.

My six-year-old girl was chattering excitedly to Jasmine. Then, with Conrad's large hand guiding her small one, she picked up a knife and cut the first slice of cake. For Jasmine.

Conrad reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. He opened it.

A necklace.

My vision narrowed. I knew that necklace. The Tear of the Moon. A sapphire heirloom passed down through my family, the Marshalls, for generations. It had been in my mother's vault. How did he get it?

He leaned across the table and fastened it around Jasmine's neck. She tilted her head, a shy smile on her face, and then leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Delma clapped her little hands, beaming as if this was the most natural thing in the world. A perfect family portrait.

A wave of disgust so profound it threatened to choke me washed over me. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white, forcing the bile back down.

Reason severed the last tether of love with the precision of a scalpel. Cold clarity bloomed in the hollow where my heart used to be. The initial shock, a sharp, physical blow, began to recede. In its place, a chilling clarity bloomed. A dead, quiet cold.

I didn't storm in. I didn't scream.

I got back in my car, pulled out my phone, and aimed the camera at the window. I pressed record.

The video captured it all. Conrad raising his glass in a toast. Jasmine's radiant smile. Delma snuggling against her side.

I saved the file, my face expressionless.

Then, I sent a single text message to Conrad.

“I'm waiting for you at home.”

I started the car and pulled away from the curb, driving calmly, as if I hadn't just watched my world burn to the ground.

The rearview mirror reflected my face, pale and strikingly beautiful. My violet eyes, once full of love for him, were now as empty and cold as a winter sky.