Omega Luna Left, Alpha Went Crazy

My mind drifted back to six years ago, when I first met him.

I'd gone to the hospital to visit an injured friend. The emergency room smelled like antiseptic and fear. In a corner bed, I found a man with bandages wrapped around his neck, shivering despite the summer heat.

His green eyes met mine, and something in them made my heart skip.

"I'm Marcus," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was a Gamma once. My pack abandoned me when I tried to leave." He touched the bandages gingerly. "They injected me with silver poison. Said it would teach me about loyalty."

Without thinking, I unwrapped my scarf and wrapped it around his trembling shoulders. The soft wool looked ridiculous over his hospital gown, but he pulled it closer like it was made of gold.

I didn't notice the conflicted light that flickered in his eyes when he looked down at me.

For six years, we lived together in that tiny apartment. Because of his supposed condition, I took care of him constantly. His "treatments" were expensive, the doctors said. Special procedures to remove silver from his bloodstream.

So I worked four jobs.

Waitressing at dawn, data entry during lunch, tutoring after school, and cleaning offices until midnight. My hands were raw from scrubbing floors. My eyes burned from staring at computer screens. But every paycheck went toward his medical bills.

During his weakest moments, he would bite my wrist gently and whisper against my skin, "When I'm better, I'll mark you properly. Make you mine forever."

His teeth would graze my pulse point, sending shivers down my spine.

But whenever I asked about his past, about his old pack, he'd turn away and refuse to speak. "It's too painful," he'd say. "I just want to forget."

I thought I was protecting him by not pushing.

God, how naive I was.

It wasn't until I stumbled across his social media that I learned the truth. There he was in a tailored Armani suit, being interviewed at the Alpha Council summit. The headline read: "Alpha Marcus Morrison of Stormfang Pack Discusses Regional Pack Alliances."

My hands shook as I opened his old phone that he'd carelessly left behind. The photo gallery was full of pictures he'd secretly taken of me—my profile while working late into the night, my flour-dusted cheek while making soup for his "treatments," my sleeping face after I'd collapsed from exhaustion.

Every photo was captioned with "Don't work too hard, my brave little Omega."

Looking back now, how ridiculous it all was.

Marcus was the Alpha of Stormfang Pack—one of the wealthiest packs in the region. How could he possibly need money for surgery?

He just enjoyed playing games with people. I was nothing more than entertainment when he was bored.

The moment I discovered his lies, all my suppressed hurt came flooding out like a dam bursting. I went completely insane.

I smashed everything in our apartment. The coffee maker he'd claimed was too expensive. The TV I'd saved months to buy. The framed photo of us on our first anniversary.

I threw away anything that reminded me of him, stuffing six years of memories into garbage bags like they were toxic waste.

Then I sent him a message: "We're over. Don't contact me again."

That same night, he broke down my apartment door.

The sound of splintering wood made me scream. He stood in the doorway, his tie crooked, his white shirt stained with mud, and behind him were Gamma wolves carrying boxes of appliances.

"The refrigerator is the double-door one you wanted," he said, breathless. "The washing machine has the drying function you needed. And this—"

He pulled out a battered metal box filled with rings he'd made from soda can tabs during our relationship. His fingers trembled as he opened it.

"This is what's really precious."

I wanted to throw the box at his head. Instead, I turned away.

"Get out."

"Sylvia, please—"

"I said get out!"

But he didn't leave. For the next two weeks, he camped outside my building every day with takeout from my favorite restaurants. Thai curry from the place on Fifth Street. Italian gelato from the shop we'd discovered together. Pizza from our first date.

I ignored him. I had to.

Late one night while I was working overtime, the power suddenly went out. In the dim emergency lighting, he appeared wearing a faded hoodie, holding a candle-lit cake and singing an off-key birthday song.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..."

His voice cracked on the high notes. The cake was store-bought, lopsided, with "Sorry" written in shaky frosting letters.

"I lied when I said I'd take you to Paris for your birthday," he said, setting the cake down carefully. "But now I can rent out the Eiffel Tower's light show, if you'll let me."

I stared at him in the candlelight. "You think money fixes everything?"

"No." His voice was barely a whisper. "But I'll spend every penny I have trying to make it right."

One stormy evening, he showed up at my door soaking wet, clutching a cardboard box. Inside were all the memories I'd thrown away—crumpled bus tickets from our weekend trips, a ceramic figurine that had been broken and glued back together, and the notebook where he'd recorded money-saving tips during his fake poverty act.

His voice broke as he tore open his shirt, revealing a tattoo over his heart—the date we first met, inked in elegant script.

"I was afraid you only loved the Alpha of Stormfang Pack," he said, rain dripping from his hair. "But every day I hid my identity was the only time I felt truly alive."

He dropped to his knees on my doorstep, not caring about the storm or the neighbors watching.

"I'll give you everything. My wealth, my pack, my title. I'll make you my Luna. Just please... please don't leave me."

Those wet, pleading eyes were the same ones that had looked up at me in the hospital six years ago.

My heart softened despite everything.

After all, the Marcus in front of me—the one who made terrible breakfast and sang off-key in the shower—that had been real. He really did love me.

Didn't he?

So when we got back together and he begged me to agree to his mother's demand about the academy, I said yes.

"It's just temporary," he'd whispered, holding me close. "Once you're properly trained, no one will question our bond. We'll be together forever."

I'd believed him. God help me, I'd believed every word.

But now, looking at Victoria's social media posts from the past four months, I felt like my sacrifice was a complete joke.

While pack instructors were tormenting me, whipping me, shocking me, even throwing me into silver-lined cells... Marcus, who claimed he was busy planning our mating ceremony, was either watching the northern lights with Victoria or surfing with her in tropical waters.

The way he smiled with her was so carefree, so genuine.

Nothing like the careful, measured smiles he gave me.

My finger scrolled through Victoria's posts, each photo a knife stabbing into my heart. Here they were at a vineyard, sharing wine and laughter. There they were at a beach resort, her head on his shoulder as they watched the sunset.

When I found a post from six years ago—during his supposed hospitalization—I couldn't hold back anymore.

The photo showed Marcus and Victoria at some fancy restaurant, both of them glowing with happiness. The caption read: "Thank you for the most romantic dinner ever! 💕"

The timestamp was from the exact night I'd worked a double shift to pay for his "emergency surgery."

My whole body shook as tears streamed down my face.

That so-called "surgery" was nothing but a pathetic lie he'd made up so he could meet with his precious Victoria without me interfering!

And there I was, stupidly working four jobs to pay for his fake medical bills, pushing myself until I collapsed with fever but never daring to rest because he "needed" me!

I couldn't help but laugh bitterly. The sound echoed in the empty apartment like a broken record.

Marcus, what about you was ever real?

Those small moments of tenderness—the way he'd trace my scars and promise to heal them, the way he'd hold me during nightmares, the way he'd whisper that I was his everything—had been the only thing that made me believe we could last forever.

Now that foundation had crumbled completely, leaving nothing but ruins.

I stood in the empty apartment, surrounded by the wreckage of our sweet memories. The walls seemed to close in on me, suffocating me with six years of lies.

The tears and hurt I'd been holding back finally overwhelmed me. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone and typed three words that felt like swallowing glass:

"Let's break up."