Rejected by the Alpha for a Fake Heir

Eleanor POV:

I spent the day packing my escape bag. Fake ID. Cash.

Sarah barged into the attic.

"I need your veil," she demanded. "Liam said I could have it. A symbol of... transition."

"It's a holy object, Sarah. Woven by Blind Silk Worms."

"Give it to me, or I tell Liam you tried to poison me. Again."

I looked at her. Pathetic.

"Fine."

I pulled the veil from the chest. As I smoothed it, I crushed dried Devil's Nettle into the lace lining. A plant that causes unbearable itching and mild hallucinations in wolves.

"Here," I said. "May it bring you exactly what you deserve."

*

I watched the ceremony from the window.

Liam looked like he was at a funeral.

When the Elder asked for the vows, Sarah started twitching.

"I do," she rushed out, scratching her neck.

"You may mark her," the Elder said.

Liam leaned in. Sarah shrieked.

"It burns! Get it off!"

She tore the veil off, clawing at her face. She tripped over her dress and face-planted into the mud.

"Happy wedding day," I whispered.

The chaos was delicious.

Then the screaming changed.

"Blood!" Sarah yelled. "Save the baby!"

Warriors kicked my door in.

They marched me to the hospital. Liam was pacing, covered in mud.

"She's losing blood," he said, frantic. "Placenta detachment. She has Golden Blood. Rare."

"Like me," I said.

"You're the only match," Liam begged. "Eleanor, please. That is my child. Don't let my child die because you hate her."

If I refused, the pack would execute me on the spot.

"Fine. My blood buys my freedom."

They hooked me up. I watched my life force drain into the tube, feeding the woman who stole my husband.

When it was over, Liam handed me a ticket.

"Paris," he said, looking guilty. "One way. Sarah knows you poisoned the veil. If you stay, she'll demand your head. Go."

Exile disguised as mercy.

"Goodbye, El."

I took the car to the airport.

But I didn't board the flight to Paris.

I went to the bathroom, changed into a hoodie, and used my new passport: *Aria White*.

I boarded a budget flight to the North. Neutral territory.

Two hours later, over the intercom: *"Breaking news. Flight 815 to Paris has disappeared from radar over the Atlantic..."*

I stared out the window.

Eleanor Vance was dead.