Rejected by My Fated Alpha

The day before the marking ceremony, I received intimate photos of my mate with another female. Dylan Rivera, the Delta heir to the Rivera Pack who always carried himself with aloof dignity, lay in bed enveloping someone else, captured in a tender moment. As I reviewed the photos of the two of them, their closeness unmistakable, I calmly asked Dylan for a rejection.

Bianca Morrison, a Delta photographer at Dylan’s studio, called me, her voice quaking as she begged me not to be upset. "Amira, Dylan and I took these photos for work; don’t get the wrong idea."

Meanwhile, Dylan murmured soft reassurances to someone else on the line. "Don’t worry, everything she has is because of the Rivera Pack. She has no right to be angry."

I said nothing in response. I placed the rejection papers on the table and walked out without a backward glance.

When Dylan entered the den, our eyes met just as I was leaving, suitcase in hand. He paused for a moment, a displeased expression flickering across his face as he held a picture frame.

"Amira, are you really making a fuss over a photograph, leaving the pack?"

He sounded completely exasperated. "Here's the marking ceremony photo you wanted. Such a big deal over nothing."

The 30-inch photo fit perfectly atop the bedside table. Until today, I had looked forward to getting it. After all, Dylan was a photographer, yet he disliked being photographed himself. Our photos together were rare. I had coaxed him into taking those marking ceremony photos with me.

However, upon seeing those intimate photos today, I realized it wasn't taking photos he disliked; it was taking them with me. I left the photo untouched and instead gestured to the rejection agreement on the table.

"Great timing. I’ve already signed it. Let’s find a time to finalize the paperwork."

As I finished speaking, Dylan slammed the photo onto the table, ignoring the agreement entirely.

"Amira, really? I took those photos with Bianca for the sake of her work."

"She felt so guilty she canceled all her photography assignments because you mentioned rejection."

Bianca, a Delta photographer at Dylan’s studio, was passionate, artistically gifted, beautiful, and matched Dylan’s creative outlook.

Seeing my silence, Dylan frustratedly rubbed his temple before grabbing the rejection papers and tearing them to shreds, letting them fall into the nearby trash can.

"They’re just photos. You don’t understand art; you’re being so narrow-minded."

Just photos? After all the years together, Dylan and I had barely shared much intimacy. I had thought it was a sign of his respect for me. I hadn’t imagined he could pose so closely with a packmate, naturally and without awkwardness, his expression full of affection.

But I didn’t care anymore, nor did I want to. I only felt a fleeting sense of relief. I finally didn’t have to deceive myself.

"I definitely don’t understand this kind of scantily clad art. Feel free to take all the photos you want."

I shrugged as I