Leaving The Cold-hearted Rich Alpha

In the pack's spotlight, I'm Nia Simons, the mate of Zane Lewis, the richest alpha around.

But once the crowd clears, I'm nickel-and-diming every cent through endless red tape, waiting on my mate's sign-off like some lowly clerk.

Our first year bound together, I got hit with my cycle out of nowhere, standing at the checkout with nothing but lint in my pockets for a pack of pads. Some stranger clocked the blood soaking through my jeans from behind and covered the tab out of sheer pity.

Come the next morning, Zane hit me with that stone-cold stare and said the mess had ruined the car seats, so he'd just handed the whole ride off to the butler like it was yesterday's trash.

Year two, I dragged myself up to Xiloria Town to light a candle for him at the shrine, but the altitude knocked me flat, passed out cold and woke up in a healer's ward, fighting for air. That same night, they hit pause on the works because I couldn't pony up the fee. It took an enforcer vouching for me to pull me back from the edge.

When I finally limped home, Zane treated it like a quarterly report: why hadn't I filed the healer's notes and the bill for approval first?

By year three, my ride crapped out in a snowdrift, and I must've blown up his line a dozen times begging for cab fare. All I got was a breezy "stick to the process" before he clicked off.

Teens below zero, that bone-chilling winter wind whipping like a lash, I locked eyes on that godforsaken approval chain and hoofed it through the night to get back.

The second the door swung open, warm blood trickled down my thighs.

I'd lost the pup.

I stared at the phone ping, fifty bucks for a cab, finally greenlit-and hit the floor like a sack of bricks, my chest hollowed out, deader than a doornail.

Zane's call buzzed right then. I thumbed it on autopilot, numb as a post.

"Stylist and driver's all set on my end. Two hours to the gala-don't keep 'em waiting."

Click. No room for my two cents.

Dressed up like a mannequin-flawless makeup, the season's hottest threads from the high-end racks-they shipped me right on time into the ballroom fray.

The whole crowd jammed up around Vivian Lynn's pampered pup Snowy, toasting its one-month bash like royalty.

I watched Zane slap down a fat stack of five hundred grand in cash right by the dog bed. "That's for Snowy-full-moon gift."

Everything after that was white noise. My gaze nailed to that wad, fists balled so tight my nails carved bloody crescents into my palms.

Fifty bucks for a ride took him all damn night to rubber-stamp. Half a mil for a mutt? Not a twitch.

The little life I'd just carried in my belly worth less than this she-wolf's flea-bitten sidekick.

My hand drifted to my stomach, and a bitter laugh clawed its way