Mated to The Rival Alpha: Luna's Revenge

I spent the night in the guest room, my mind racing through ten years of memories, searching for signs I'd missed, warnings I'd ignored. By morning, my shock had crystallized into something harder, colder. I showered and dressed with deliberate care, choosing a crisp white blouse and my sharpest blazer—armor for the battle ahead.

When I finally pushed open our bedroom door, Charles was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in his Alpha attire. Vivienne reclined against the pillows, wrapped in my silk robe, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. The sight of her in my clothes sent a fresh wave of rage through me.

"There you are," Charles said, his tone casual, as if I'd simply overslept. "We need to talk about what happened."

"Indeed we do." My voice sounded foreign to my own ears—calm, measured, when what I really wanted was to scream.

Vivienne's lips curved into a smug smile. "I was just telling Charles how surprised I was to see you yesterday. We thought you were away on business."

"Clearly." I moved to the foot of the bed, maintaining distance between us. "But since we're all here now, let's not pretend. I heard everything yesterday. The 'tool' comment was particularly enlightening."

Charles had the audacity to look annoyed. "You're overreacting, Sophia. It was just physical—it didn't mean anything."

"Just physical." I repeated his words slowly. "In our bed. With her."

"It's not like you've been fulfilling your duties as a mate," Vivienne interjected, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Charles has needs, after all."

"Needs I've apparently been failing to meet for ten years," I said, my gaze fixed on Charles. "Despite building your entire empire from nothing."

Charles stood, running a hand through his hair. "This isn't about the pack. This is about us. And yes, things have been... lacking between us."

"Lacking," I echoed. "Is that what you call my decade of devotion?"

"You're making this into something it's not," he insisted. "What Vivienne and I have is—"

"Relevant," Vivienne cut in. "Unlike whatever this is." She gestured dismissively between Charles and me.

I felt something snap inside me. Ten years of love, of sacrifice, of believing we were building something together—all of it reduced to this pathetic triangle.

"I want out," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

Charles blinked. "What?"

"I said I want out." I met his gaze directly. "We're done, Charles. Finished."

"You can't be serious," he scoffed. "You're just angry. We can work through this."

"There's nothing to work through." I pulled a folder from my blazer pocket and tossed it onto the bed between them. "I've already contacted our lawyers. I want an immediate division of assets."

Vivienne's smug expression faltered. "What assets? Everything is in Charles's name."

I smiled coldly. "Not everything. The northern territory property is jointly held. The investment portfolio I built is in both our names. And the business contracts I secured specifically include my name as co-signatory."

Charles's face paled. "You can't do that."

"I already have." I turned toward the door. "I'll be staying at the guest house until everything is settled. My lawyers will contact yours."

"Sophia!" Charles's voice hardened with his Alpha tone, but I was beyond its reach now.

I paused at the doorway, looking back one last time at the man I'd thought would be my mate for life. "Oh, and Charles? The sheets you're sitting on? They're mine too. Consider them my parting gift."

---

The next three days passed in a blur of legal documents and cold efficiency. I moved into the guest house, where Chloe joined me, bringing clothes and moral support in equal measure.

"You're handling this better than anyone could expect," she said as we spread financial statements across the dining table.

"I'm not handling it," I admitted quietly. "I'm just... functioning. On autopilot."

She squeezed my hand. "Well, your autopilot is kicking ass."

That was true. With methodical precision, I documented every contribution I'd made to the pack's success. The northern territory expansion? My strategy. The lucrative mining contracts? My negotiation. The investment portfolio that had tripled in value? My financial acumen.

Charles had been the face, the charm, the Alpha presence—but I had been the brain and the engine.

Now I was claiming what was rightfully mine.

On the fourth day, Marcus Thorne—Charles's loyal Beta—arrived at the guest house, his expression grim.

"Alpha Charles requests your presence at the pack house," he said formally.

"Does he now?" I folded the document I was reviewing. "And why would I oblige?"

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. "He says it's about the division of assets. He wants to negotiate."

I studied him for a moment. "Tell him I'll be there in an hour."

---

Charles was waiting in his office when I arrived, his posture rigid behind his massive desk. Vivienne was nowhere to be seen.

"You've made quite a mess," he said without preamble.

"No, Charles. You did that when you decided I was disposable." I took a seat across from him without waiting for an invitation.

He leaned forward, his expression earnest in a way that might have fooled me a week ago. "Sophia, be reasonable. The pack needs stability right now."

"The pack will have stability," I replied. "Just not with me under your roof anymore."

"You're asking for too much," he said, pushing a document across the desk. "This is a fair offer."

I glanced at it without touching the paper. "That's your idea of fair? Twenty percent of what we built together?"

"You're an Omega," he said, as if explaining something to a child. "What do you expect?"

The casual cruelty of his words stole my breath. Ten years together, and this was how he saw me.

"I expect what I've earned," I said, rising from my chair. "And I'll take it, one way or another."

As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. "Where will you go? What will you do?"

I looked back at him one last time. "That's no longer your concern."

What I didn't tell him was that I already had plans forming—plans that would ensure Charles Beaumont regretted the day he ever called me a tool he could discard.