After My Mate Chose His Omega Over Me

I slide another index card across the polished mahogany table toward Arthur's water glass. The numbers are precise—territorial yield projections for the next fiscal quarter, broken down by hunting grounds and border security costs. Numbers I spent three nights calculating while he slept.

Arthur doesn't even glance at the card. He's too busy flashing that practiced smile at the Royal Territory Commission delegates, his Alpha aura filling the conference room like expensive cologne. "As you can see, gentlemen, the Aurora Pack has demonstrated exceptional growth potential. Our strategic initiatives have positioned us as ideal stewards for the northern expansion."

Our strategic initiatives. My wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin, a low growl vibrating in my chest that I suppress with practiced ease. Five years of this. Five years of being the invisible hand that built his empire while he played king.

"Impressive rhetoric, Alpha Ford," Commissioner Davies says, his weathered face skeptical. "But what are your actual revenue projections for integrating three new satellite territories?"

Arthur's smile falters for a fraction of a second. His hand reaches for the card I've positioned perfectly within reach. "Well, our projections indicate—"

The conference room door opens with a soft click. Livia enters carrying a silver tray, her Omega scent—usually mild lavender—suddenly spiking with something sweeter, headier. My Lycan senses, the ones I keep carefully dampened to maintain my Luna disguise, flare involuntarily.

She moves around the table with practiced grace, setting coffee cups before each delegate. But when she reaches Arthur, she lingers. Her hip brushes his shoulder as she leans to place his cup down. The touch is brief, casual to anyone not paying attention.

I'm always paying attention.

"Thank you, Livia," Arthur murmurs, and his hand—the same hand that marked my neck five years ago in our mating ceremony—grazes her waist.

That's when it hits me.

The mind-link slams into my consciousness like a physical blow, bypassing every mental shield I've constructed. It's not directed at me—it's a slip, an accidental broadcast from someone whose mental discipline is as weak as her loyalty.

The vision unfolds in vivid, nauseating detail:

Arthur and Livia in the pack greenhouse, surrounded by climbing roses I planted two springs ago. Her back against the potting table. His mouth on her neck. Her voice, breathy and triumphant: "Once that grant money hits your account, you can finally get rid of her. She's so frigid, always buried in paperwork. Doesn't she realize an Alpha needs a real woman?"

Arthur's laugh, low and cruel: "Patience, baby. Once we secure the Royal funding, I'll make you Luna. Taytum served her purpose—her father's connections opened doors. But you're right. A real Alpha deserves a mate who worships him."

The vision snaps off as abruptly as it appeared.

I'm still sitting in my chair, my hand frozen on my own coffee cup. The delegates are discussing something—border patrol logistics, maybe—but their voices sound like they're coming from underwater. My enhanced Lycan hearing, usually so controlled, now picks up everything with