Elena’s POV

A sharp, insistent knock shattered the deep silence of my sleep-deprived haze. Groaning, I dragged myself from the tangle of sheets, my body protesting every movement after consecutive all-nighters at the office.

I shuffled to the door, my mind still foggy with exhaustion. Finally, a day off. I swung the door open. A man in a crisp security uniform stood rigidly in the hallway.

“Miss Elena?” His voice was impersonal, a flat statement.

I blinked, rubbing my eyes. “Yes? What is it?”

“Officer Ken. I’m here on Mr. Dalton’s orders. You are required to vacate the premises immediately.”

The words hung in the air, nonsensical. Mr. Dalton. Mark. My boyfriend.

A brittle, nervous laugh escaped my lips. “This has to be a joke. A bad one.”

“It is not a joke, ma’am.” He pulled out a paper and flashed it before my eyes. A written order, signed by Mark Dalton himself. I froze.

“This… this can’t be right,” I whispered, the words sticking in my throat. “Mark is my boyfriend. We’re… we’re fine. He wouldn’t just…”

“He said your employment with Thompson Crest Enterprise has been terminated.”

Terminated? The clinical term sliced through my confusion. “What?”

He offered no elaboration, only a stoic silence. I stood frozen in the doorway, disbelief curdling into a hot, sharp anger as I stared him down.

“There’s been a mistake!” I burst out, my voice rising. “I need to call Mark. Now.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I rushed into the bedroom, grabbed my phone, and dialed the number I knew by heart. It went straight to a cold, automated voicemail.

A cold wave of panic crested over the anger. I hurried back to the door, my earlier bravado crumbling. “I have to speak with Mr. Dalton! He can’t do this. Where am I supposed to go?”

Officer Ken glanced pointedly at his watch. “You have ten minutes to gather your personal effects, ma’am.”

“You cannot be serious!” I snapped, the fear making my tone razor-sharp. “Where is he? I demand to see him!”

“Mr. Dalton… is unavailable today,” he stated, his calmness a stark contrast to my unraveling composure. Then, dropping the words like a bomb, he added, “He is… otherwise occupied with his wedding.”

The world dropped out from under me. The air vanished from my lungs.

A flicker of something—pity? mockery?—crossed his eyes. "You truly had no idea? It's been the talk of the town for weeks."

My hands trembled violently. Weeks? I’d been buried under mountains of work, surviving on coffee and deadlines. Mark had praised my dedication, his voice warm with what I’d mistaken for genuine pride.

"You're incredible, Elena. This proposal is brilliant. Just push through these final days. I have a special reward waiting for you."

Last night, his text had promised a "surprise" for all my hard work. And today he did give me a "Surprise Bomb".

I shoved past Ken into the corridor. Across the street, a massive digital billboard, usually flashing luxury ads, was broadcasting live footage.

"Thompson-Dalton Union: The Wedding of the Decade!"

The headline screamed in shimmering gold.

Mark Dalton —my lover, my boss—was today pledging his life to another woman.

***

The taxi ride was a blur of frantic scrolling through a social media feed I never had time for. Every tap of my screen was a fresh stab.

Hashtags like #PowerCouple and #FairytaleWedding trended globally. I devoured articles with a morbid hunger, each detail a piece of a puzzle that painted a picture of breathtaking, calculated betrayal.

My boyfriend—no, my ex-boyfriend—was marrying someone else, and the entire world was celebrating.

Then, I saw her. Bella Thompson. The profile photo showed a woman of ethereal beauty, but it was her lineage that stole the breath from my lungs.

Sister to Eric Thompson, the most formidable Alpha in the Northeast, leader of the prestigious Silver Crest pack.

The pieces snapped into place with a sickening clarity. Of course. This wasn't just a marriage; it was a merger.

She offered a kingdom—connections, power, a legacy woven into the very fabric of the elite werewolf society.

What could my late-night hustle, my meticulously crafted business proposals, possibly offer compared to an entire empire?

Tears burned, but a fiercer, hotter emotion surged beneath them—a righteous, consuming anger.

So what if I was human? So what if I came from nothing? Even if this was some fated mate bond I’d heard whispered about in their world, how could he do this?

Two years. Two years of loving him, supporting him, being his confidante and his haven. And my reward was an eviction notice delivered by a stranger and his wedding to another woman as my severance package.

I needed an answer. Not a corporate statement, not a polite dismissal. I needed to look him in the eye.

The cab halted. Silver Crown Estate loomed before me, a vision of Gothic grandeur—towering spires, windows gleaming like icy jewels, gardens fit for royalty.

A sharp pang twisted in my chest. I’d once doodled "Elena Dalton" on a notepad, imagining a day like this, but for us. The irony was a physical ache.

My gaze swept over the entrance. Impeccably uniformed wolf-shifter guards stood sentinel, their postures radiating an aura of unbreachable authority. A human girl with puffy eyes and a broken heart didn't stand a chance. But then, I spotted it—a catering van idling at the service gate, its rear doors gaping open as crates of champagne were unloaded. A sliver of an opportunity.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I darted forward. In the distracted flurry of activity, I slipped inside the van’s dark interior, pressing myself flat between cold metal racks just as the doors swung shut. The engine rumbled to life.

The van jolted to a stop inside the perimeter. I waited for the drivers to move away before emerging, my simple dress starkly out of place amidst the staff’s crisp uniforms. I tried to blend in, heading purposefully toward the main hall, my mind racing.

“Excuse me, you can’t just stand there,” a sharp voice cut into my thoughts.

I blinked, looking up at a severe-looking woman clutching a clipboard and a headset. Her nametag read: Event Coordinator - G. Pierce.

"Sorry, I..." I quickly swiped at my eyes, forcing a shaky smile. "I'm with the groom's family. Just arrived from out of town. A bit lost. Could you point me to him? I need to give him something before the ceremony."

Her eyes scanned me, lingering on my lack of a visible guest pass. But the mention of "family" and the desperate hope in my eyes seemed to satisfy her. She gestured impatiently toward a secluded wing of the estate.

"The groom's preparation suite. Across the courtyard, the ivy-covered building. Room 25. But be quick, the procession starts in twenty."

"Thank you," I whispered, the words barely audible over the deafening roar of my own heart.

I must admit a grim pride in my minor talent for infiltration. Slipping past the distracted perimeter guards and into the groom's preparation suite felt like a final, desperate act of a ghost haunting its own past life.

And there he was.

Mark stood before a full-length mirror, admiring his reflection. Clad in immaculate black tails, he was the picture of polished perfection, exactly as I’d once dreamed he would be on our day. His eyes met mine in the glass. Surprise flickered for a millisecond, quickly smothered by a familiar, languid smirk that now felt like a brand.

“You actually made it here?” he drawled, not bothering to fully turn around. “I was wondering how long it would take for the penny to drop.”

My fingers clenched around the strap of my purse until the leather bit into my palm.

“What… is all this, Mark?” My voice was tight, a thin wire about to snap.

He finally pivoted, his gaze sweeping over me from my disheveled hair to my off-the-rack dress—a look that lingered with palpable distaste. Then, with a casual wave of his hand, he gestured to the opulent suite, the waiting bouquet of calla lilies, the glittering cufflinks on the velvet tray.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m getting married.” His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, utterly devoid of remorse.

My heart plummeted, but I forced the words out. “Why, Mark? We were—”

“There is no ‘we’ anymore,” he cut in sharply, adjusting his already perfect tie. “I’m marrying Bella. I can’t afford to be associated with… distractions from my past. A girl from nowhere, with nothing.”

I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, the sting a counterpoint to the humiliation burning through me. “You said you didn’t care about any of that…”

A cold, derisive laugh escaped him. “Elena, please. Don’t tell me you actually believed the sweet nothings men whisper to get what they want?”

He shook his head, a patronizing tilt to it. “You were a pleasant diversion. Convenient, admiring, always there. But let’s be real. You were holding out like some Victorian relic. Frankly, you should be grateful I kept you around as long as I did.”

The tears came then, hot and unrestrained, each one a scalding testament to my own naivete. This wasn't just heartbreak; it was annihilation, the systematic dismantling of every cherished memory, every whispered promise.

Mark’s expression remained carved from ice. He turned back to the mirror, a final dismissal. “Leave, Elena. You’re only embarrassing yourself. You’ve served your purpose. I have no further use for you.”

A white-hot fury erupted, incinerating the last of my pain. My eyes darted around the room, landing on a half-full flute of champagne resting on a side table—a prop for his pre-ceremony toast, no doubt.

I didn’t think. I simply acted.

In one swift motion, I snatched the flute and flung the contents directly at him. The golden liquid arced through the air, catching the light before it splashed across his meticulously styled hair and the pristine shoulder of his jacket.

“Have you lost your mind, you wretched girl?!” he shrieked, recoiling as the champagne dripped, ruining the perfect picture. A savage, fleeting satisfaction pierced through my rage.

“Did you think I would just watch you discard me and politely wish you well?” My voice was low, trembling with a kind of wild, liberated madness.

I met his horrified gaze in the mirror.

“Look at you now. Your perfect hair is ruined. Do you think you’ll make it to the altar on time? Or should I pay a visit to your blushing bride first? I have so many stories to share about the real Mark Dalton.”

Panic and fury warred on his face. He lunged for a towel, frantically dabbing at the sticky mess, his composure shattered.

“Guards!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with rage as he strode towards the door and wrenched it open. “Get this hysterical woman out of here! Now! Throw her out!”

A guard seized my arm in a vise-like grip, and another was wrenching my purse from my shoulder. My screams were raw, ragged things, lost in the opulent hallway as they dragged me, kicking and clawing, toward the elevator. With a final, contemptuous shove, they hurled me inside. My purse landed beside me with a thud as the doors hissed shut, sealing me in a silent, descending tomb of metal.

I collapsed onto the cold floor, tremors wracking my body—a volatile cocktail of shattered heartbreak and unspent fury. Drawing my knees to my chest, I clutched my bag like a lifeline. Hot, silent tears carved paths through the remnants of my dignity.

Everything hurt. My pride, my heart, the very blueprint of the future I’d so foolishly believed in. The will to even stand up had deserted me. What was the point?

The elevator chimed, a soft, polite sound absurdly at odds with my internal ruin. The doors slid open. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t.

Until a pair of impeccably polished black Oxfords stepped into the periphery of my blurred vision, halting directly before me.

The air in the small cabin shifted, grew heavier, charged with a presence that was impossible to ignore.

“Elena Grey?”

I froze. My breath hitched in my throat. Slowly, painfully, I lifted my gaze.

The man standing before me was, without contest, the most devastatingly handsome man I had ever seen.

Tall, with a build that spoke of controlled power rather than brute bulk, he was elegance personified in a tailored charcoal suit that likely cost more than my annual salary.

Dark hair swept back from a commanding brow, and his eyes… His eyes were a penetrating, storm-cloud grey, holding an intensity that seemed to see right through the wreckage I presented.

This was Alpha Eric Thompson.

CEO of Thompson Crest Enterprises.

The most powerful Alpha of the Silver Crest pack.

And he was staring down at me with a gaze that was not one of pity or disdain, but of a deep, smoldering, and dark carnal heat.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stuttered to a dead halt before galloping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Why him? Why now?