After My Alpha Replaced Me with My Sister, I Burned Everything

The metallic rasp of the belt buckle undoing was the loudest sound in the universe. I lay paralyzed on the cot, my limbs heavy with the sedatives Dr. Reeves had pumped into my veins, unable to lift a finger to defend myself. The largest guard loomed over me, his breath reeking of stale tobacco and cruelty. His hand, rough and calloused, brushed against my thigh, and my soul screamed in silent, impotent horror.

I closed my eyes, praying for the Moon Goddess to just let me die. I didn't want to be here for this. I didn't want to feel this.

*Thwip. Thwip.*

Two soft, compressed sounds cut through the tension, followed immediately by the heavy thud of bodies hitting the floor. The hand on my leg went limp and slid away.

My eyes fluttered open, fighting the drug-induced haze. The three guards were on the ground, motionless. Standing over them were two figures clad in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by masks. They moved with a precision that was terrifyingly efficient.

One of them holstered a silenced pistol and approached the cot. "Target secured. She's alive."

"Grab her," the other commanded, his voice distorted by a modulator. "We have ninety seconds before the gas lines blow."

I was lifted effortlessly, my head lolling against the hard ceramic of a tactical vest. The world dissolved into a blur of motion—the sterile white hallway rushing by, the jarring impact of boots hitting the floor, the sudden rush of cold, biting night air.

They shoved me into the back of an idling SUV just as the earth shook.

A deafening roar shattered the night. Through the rear window, I watched as the wing of the Blackwood Psychiatric Institute erupted into a fireball. Orange and red flames licked the sky, devouring the room I had just been lying in. The heat radiated through the glass, a phantom touch on my skin.

"Go," the operative shouted to the driver.

As the car sped away into the darkness of the woods, I stared at the inferno. Indigo had meant for me to die there. The assault was just the appetizer; the fire was the main course. She wanted to erase me completely.

I didn't remember falling asleep, but when I woke, the smell of bleach was gone, replaced by the scent of old paper and expensive mahogany. I was in a bed—a real bed with silk sheets.

"Wren?"

I turned my head. Sitting in a wingback chair by the window was Grandpa Harlan. He looked older than I remembered, the lines on his face etched deep with sorrow. He held a cane in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

"Grandpa?" My voice was a cracked whisper. "Am I... am I dead?"

" To the world, yes," Harlan said softly. He set the water down and leaned forward, his eyes fierce and protective. "The explosion destroyed the east wing. Dental records were faked. As far as the Evans pack, the Hayes family, and Holden are concerned, Wren Evans perished in the fire."

A sob caught in my throat. "Holden... does he know?"

"He knows you're gone," Harlan said, his voice hardening. "And he will have to live with that. But you, my dear, have a choice."

He placed a thick leather folder on the duvet. "Inside this folder is a new birth certificate, a passport, and access to a trust fund I set up years ago. One billion dollars. It is yours, Wren. But there is a condition. You must leave. You must disappear."

I stared at the folder. One billion dollars. A fortune. Freedom.

"I can't go back," I whispered, the realization settling over me like a cold shroud. "They broke me, Grandpa. They killed my mother's memory, and they tried to kill me."

"Then don't go back as Wren," Harlan said, gripping my hand. "Go to Seattle. Heal. Learn. Become someone they can't hurt. Become someone who can crush them."

I looked at his hand covering mine—the only hand that had offered me kindness in years. Slowly, I pulled my hand away and placed it on the folder. The trembling in my fingers stopped.

"Wren Evans is dead," I said, my voice gaining a sliver of steel. "She died in that fire."

Harlan nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. "Then who are you?"

I opened the folder. The name on the passport stared back at me, bold and unfamiliar.

"Alena," I read. "Alena Bryant."

***

Seattle was nothing like New York. It was gray, wet, and relentlessly efficient. It was perfect.

For the first six months, I didn't leave the penthouse apartment Harlan had secured for me. I spent my days with a team of therapists and physical trainers he had vetted. I had to purge the drugs from my system, heal the bruises on my ribs, and, harder still, silence the whimpering wolf in my head.

My wolf wanted her mate. She cried for Holden, aching for the bond that still tethered us despite the distance. I learned to hate her cries. Every time she whined for him, I forced myself to remember Indigo’s smirk. I forced myself to remember the sound of my mother’s ashes washing down the drain.

*Shut up,* I would tell my wolf, staring into the mirror as I did push-ups until my arms shook. *He doesn't want us. He wants her.*

Slowly, the crying stopped. My wolf went dormant, retreating into the deepest recesses of my mind, buried under layers of ice and concrete.

The next year was a blur of textbooks and boardrooms. I devoured knowledge with a hunger that scared even my tutors. Economics, corporate law, strategic management. I learned how to wield money like a weapon. I learned that a boardroom could be just as bloody as a battlefield, only the knives were made of words and contracts.

I cut my hair. The long, soft waves that Holden used to tangle his fingers in were gone, replaced by a sharp, asymmetrical bob that framed my face in severe lines. I traded my floral dresses for tailored power suits in black, charcoal, and navy.

Two years after the fire, I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of my office in downtown Seattle. My reflection ghosted over the city skyline. The woman staring back at me wasn't the gentle, broken Luna who had begged for scraps of affection. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and empty of fear.

Wren Hayes was a victim. She was weak. She was dead.

I adjusted the lapel of my blazer and checked my watch. I had a flight to catch. New York was waiting. Holden was waiting, though he didn't know it yet.

"Ms. Bryant?" My assistant buzzed over the intercom. "The car is ready for the airport."

"I'm coming," I replied, my voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

I wasn't going back to visit. I was going back to collect a debt. And I would make sure the Evans and Hayes families paid it in full.