Rejected by My Ex, Claimed by the Alpha King

Ara POV:

Five years later, the glare of Hollywood was just as blinding as those headlights, but I had learned to wear sunglasses.

Five years, and I still heard it in my dreams. The blare of a horn. The screech of tires. The impact. Then nothing. I woke some nights gasping, my hand pressed to my flat stomach, reaching for the child who had been there one moment and gone the next. The crash took everything. My son. My future. The woman I used to be. She had believed in love and happy endings. A fool. I was Ara Griffin now—only Ara Griffin—and the only thing I believed in was survival.

I slid them off as I walked down the back corridor of Elysium, one of L.A.'s most exclusive clubs. The main room was packed with industry people, and I had no interest in being seen tonight. Another failed audition, another room full of faces pretending they didn't recognize me. I'd spotted the back exit earlier—a service corridor that let out onto the alley behind the club. My plan was simple: slip out, go home, and forget this day ever happened. I didn't realize I was walking straight into a trap my sister had already set.

My agent, Charlotte Price, blocked my path. Her smile was a slash of red lipstick, wide and predatory. She had the kind of manufactured warmth that set off every alarm bell in my head.

"There's a 'wonderful opportunity' for you," she said, her voice dripping with false sincerity.

I braced myself. Charlotte's 'opportunities' usually involved me serving drinks at some producer's party or being an unnamed body in a crowd scene.

"What is it, Charlotte?" I asked, my tone flat. Five years of this life had sanded away my patience.

She gestured with a perfectly manicured hand toward a heavy door at the end of the hall. A utility closet. "Seraphina is hosting a private event here tonight. She gave me very specific instructions to take good care of you."

The name hit me like a punch to the gut. A cold, familiar hatred coiled in my stomach. Seraphina Hicks was no longer just my adopted sister. She was a bona fide movie star, Evan Foster's fiancée, and the architect of my personal hell.

I turned to leave. "I'm not interested in her parties."

"Oh, I don't think you have a choice." Charlotte's smile didn't waver. Two bulky security guards materialized behind her, blocking my exit. "Miss Hicks felt you needed some time to cool off. To reflect on why you're always trying to steal her spotlight."

So that was it. Another petty act of sabotage. For five years, she had been systematically poisoning my career, ensuring I never got a role bigger than a walk-on.

Before I could protest, the guards grabbed my arms. They were rough, efficient. They shoved me toward the closet, and Charlotte pulled the door open.

"Damn it!" I cursed as the heavy door slammed shut behind me, the lock clicking with a sound of finality.

I threw my shoulder against the wood. It didn't budge. It was locked from the outside.

The small space was cluttered with cleaning supplies, boxes of cheap liquor, and discarded decorations. The air smelled of dust and bleach. I pulled out my phone. No signal. Of course.

Frustration boiled over. I kicked a stack of cardboard boxes, sending them tumbling.

A small sound from the corner of the room made me freeze.

It was a soft, sharp intake of breath, quickly suppressed.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I wasn't alone.

"Who's there?" I called out, my voice tight with alarm.

Silence. The breathing had stopped completely.

My hand trembled slightly as I fumbled with my phone, turning on the flashlight. A bright, narrow beam cut through the oppressive darkness.

I swept the light across the room, over dusty shelves and cobwebbed corners.

Then it landed on a small figure huddled behind a worn-out armchair.

It was a boy. He couldn't have been more than four or five years old. He had a mop of dark, curly hair and eyes so large and dark they seemed to swallow the light. He was dressed in expensive-looking clothes—a tiny blazer and jeans—but they were rumpled and stained. He stared at me with an expression that was a heartbreaking mix of raw fear and wide-eyed curiosity.

My anger evaporated, replaced by stunned confusion. What was a child doing locked in a storage closet?

I lowered the beam of light so it wasn't shining directly in his face. I softened my voice, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.

"Hey. Are you okay? How did you get in here?"

The boy just watched me. He didn't speak. He didn't even nod or shake his head. His small face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. I noticed he was clutching a tablet to his chest like a shield.

I took a cautious step forward. He flinched, shrinking further into the shadows, a wounded animal ready to bolt.

I stopped immediately, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

His gaze remained wary, but the terror in his eyes seemed to lessen by a fraction.

I sighed, realizing I wasn't getting out of here anytime soon. I slid down the wall opposite him, sitting on the grimy floor. It seemed we were both prisoners.

I studied the silent child. There was something about him—the intensity in his dark eyes, the stubborn set of his small jaw—that felt strangely familiar. A dull ache started in my chest, a phantom pain from a wound that never truly healed.

He reminded me of the son I never got to hold. The child I had lost five years ago in a storm of blood and betrayal.