When the Alpha Betrayed His Mate

The Commission

My hands were raw from scrubbing clay, the abrasive cleaner biting into my skin as I rinsed away the day's work. After a double shift at the food truck, all I wanted was to collapse into bed, but my small studio needed cleaning before tomorrow's clients. The scent of wet clay and turpentine filled my nostrils as I wiped down my tools, my reflection in the window showing dark circles under my eyes.

The bell above my door chimed, startling me. The Pack Beta stood in my doorway, his tall frame blocking most of the light. His lip curled slightly as he surveyed my modest workspace.

"Omega Carter," he said, his voice clipped and formal. "I have a commission for you."

I straightened immediately, drying my hands on my apron. "Yes, Beta. What can I do for you?"

"The Alpha Succession Ceremony is approaching," he announced, stepping inside and leaving muddy footprints on my clean floor. "We need a ceremonial statue of the returning heir, Alpha Blaze."

My heart skipped a beat. A commission from the Pack House was rare—most high-ranking wolves wouldn't even speak to an Omega like me.

"I'll need it completed within two weeks," he continued, handing me a thick dossier. "It must be hyper-realistic. The Alpha expects perfection."

"Two weeks?" I swallowed hard. "That's very rushed for a ceremonial piece."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you refusing?"

"No! Of course not." I took the folder with trembling hands. "I'll make it happen."

He nodded curtly. "There are reference photos inside. Study them carefully."

After he left, I opened the dossier with shaking fingers. Inside were glossy, high-resolution photos of a shirtless man with broad shoulders and intense eyes. My breath caught as I stared at the image.

The scar on his shoulder—a distinctive crescent shape with two smaller marks beside it—was identical to the one on Zen's shoulder. The one he'd told me came from a rogue attack years ago.

But it wasn't just the scar. The jawline, the slight dimple in his right cheek, even the way his hair fell across his forehead...

"Impossible," I whispered, my fingers tracing the image. "It can't be..."

The Shattering Truth

I left my studio in a daze, locking the door behind me. Rain had started to fall, but I barely noticed as I ran the five blocks to the apartment I paid for with my three jobs. My mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.

The sound of laughter reached me before I even reached the door—female giggles and a deeper chuckle I knew too well. My key stuck in the lock as my hands shook violently.

"Sloane?" Zen's voice called out, but it sounded different—stronger, confident.

I pushed the door open and froze. The scent of sex hit me like a physical blow—vanilla and musk and something primal that made my stomach turn.

In my bedroom—the one I'd decorated with handmade quilts and photos of us together—Zen sat up in bed. But it