Ex-Alpha's Regret: Siren's Comeback novel Chapter 8

POV: Seraphina

The humiliation was a physical thing, a block of ice forming in my chest, so cold it burned. For a long moment, I stood frozen, the echo of their footsteps fading down the hall. In the past, this kind of public, callous dismissal would have shattered me, sent me running to my room to choke on silent, helpless sobs.

But something inside me had fundamentally changed in the last few days. The tears wouldn't come. The heartbroken wife was gone, and in her place was someone cold and sharp and dangerously clear-headed. Crying was a luxury I couldn't afford. My family was in danger, and their Alpha, my mate, was my enemy.

I turned and walked, my steps steady and deliberate, not to my lonely bedroom, but back to the library. Not to weep, but to work.

Deep in a forgotten leather trunk under a window seat were my old research journals. Before I was Damian's Luna, I was Seraphina Thorne, a student of economics and inter-pack trade. My father had always said I had a sharper mind for strategy than any of his warriors. I had spent years mapping out supply chains, analyzing pack economies, and drafting potential treaties. I had loved it. I had been good at it.

Then I had married Damian and packed it all away, believing my only role was to be his mate, his support, the beautiful, quiet Luna at his side. What a naive fool I had been.

My fingers, smudged with dust, flew through the pages, the familiar scent of old paper and ink a strange comfort. The notes were filled with my old, confident handwriting, detailing trade alliances, resource scarcities, and transport logistics. And there, tucked into a back pocket of the final journal, was a map I had been working on in secret just before my engagement. A map of the gray lands.

I powered on an old, encrypted laptop I hadn't touched since my wedding. I created a new, anonymous identity—a shell corporation, "North Star Logistics," seeking to expand its reach. My fingers flew across the keyboard, composing a message. It was professional, concise, and detached. I requested a full security and risk assessment report for trade routes through the northern gray lands, citing specific coordinates from my old map. And I offered to pay double his reported rate in untraceable crypto, a sign of seriousness.

I stared at the screen for a long time, at the name at the top of the email. Killian Vance. A stranger. A ghost. My last and only hope.

My finger hovered over the mouse, the faint click echoing in the silent library as I sent my message out into the darkness.