When My Mate Left Me for the Omega Neighbor

The rain pounded against my windshield as I drove back from the city, my wipers struggling to keep up with the downpour. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as I stared through the blur of water and headlights. Beside me sat a manila folder—my medical file—containing the words that would change everything: "early-stage brain tumor."

I'd been diagnosed three days ago, but today's appointment had confirmed what I'd feared most. It was real. It was growing. And I was running out of time.

"You can beat this, Mrs. Graham," Dr. Chen had said with that practiced smile doctors perfect for delivering devastating news. "But you'll need support. Family support is crucial during treatment."

Family support. The words echoed in my mind as lightning split the sky ahead. Malcolm hadn't come to a single appointment. "Pack business," he'd said, dismissively waving me off. "You handle the medical stuff. That's your contribution."

Forty years of marriage, and my contributions had become invisible. Except when they were needed.

I pulled into the parking lot of Le Chocolat Noir, the small bell above the door chiming as I stepped inside. The warm scent of cocoa enveloped me, momentarily washing away the antiseptic smell of hospitals that seemed to follow me everywhere now.

"Luna Graham!" Madame Beaumont greeted me with a slight bow. "What can I prepare for you today?"

I hesitated, then nodded toward the display case. "The Black Forest truffles. The ones with the gold leaf."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Those are our most expensive, Luna. They're made with rare Belgian chocolate and take hours to prepare."

"I know." I smiled, though it felt like my face might crack from the effort. "I need something special tonight."

She wrapped twelve truffles in a elegant black box tied with gold ribbon. As I paid, I caught my reflection in the shop's mirror—a sixty-year-old woman with tired eyes and a hospital pallor, clutching a box of chocolates like a lifeline.

The drive to the Pack House took another thirty minutes, each mile heavier than the last. By the time I pulled into our circular driveway, my shirt was damp from rain and sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead.

I stood in the foyer, dripping onto the marble floor, clutching my precious box. Voices drifted from the living room—Malcolm's deep baritone, Knox's respectful responses, and a woman's soft laugh that made my stomach clench.

"We're in here, Laurel." Malcolm called out, not bothering to look up as I entered.

The scene before me froze my blood. Malcolm sat in his leather armchair, Knox and Bonnie perched on the sofa nearby. But it was Angie Coleman who held my attention—the Omega neighbor who'd been making herself increasingly at home in our house. She was curled into the corner of the loveseat, her delicate fingers tracing patterns on Malcolm's forearm as he patted her hand.

"Alpha," she breathed, her voice trembling perfectly. "The thunder frightens me so."

I stood there, soaked and shivering, still