Rejected by the Alpha’s Choice

I couldn't sleep. It was one of those nights where my body was tired but my brain wouldn't shut off. I lay on my side, staring at the thin line of light under the bedroom door. Dillon was breathing slow and heavy next to me, dead to the world. His phone sat on the nightstand between us, screen down. It buzzed once. Then again. I didn't think much of it. People get late texts. But then it buzzed a third time, and a fourth, rapid little pulses like a heartbeat, and something in my chest tightened.

The night Lauren ended things with me, the comments swarming my vision went wild. [Mess with her now, regret it forever! Karma’s coming for the male lead!] [Our Lauren’s all tough shell with a soft center—she’s obviously crazy about you!] [Shh, classic plot. How’s the guy supposed to grow without a major screw-up? Just wait till he’s begging on his knees to win her back.] I watched the glass shards slice across the back of my hand, blood dripping onto the carpet. “Anthony, are you quite finished?” Lauren’s voice was cold. “Is all this really necessary over some… misunderstanding?” I looked at her, then at the smug man behind her—her junior, Ralph. A misunderstanding? I’d heard it myself: her laughing with a friend about how I was a free servant you could summon at will, treated worse than a dog. And only moments ago, to defend Ralph, she’d hurled this very glass at me. In that instant, my heart simply stopped. Softly, I said, “Lauren. We’re done.” … Lauren and I had been together for five years. Five years. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days. I’d transformed from a rebellious rich kid into a nameless shadow by her side. For her, I cut ties with my family, turned down offers from prestigious universities abroad, squeezed into a Beijing rental smaller than forty square meters, and took over every part of her life. Groceries, cooking, laundry, cleaning—handling all her trivialities, even fending off her nagging editors. And she was Lauren: the rising literary star, the genius writer. “Anthony, where’s my coffee? Hand-ground, three parts sugar, seven parts milk, under eighty degrees—how many times do I have to tell you!” At six in the morning, Lauren’s irritated voice carried from the bedroom. I immediately set down the breakfast I was preparing and went to wait on Her Highness. [Mornings turn Lauren into a cute, grumpy kitten.] [The male lead is so devoted! This is love—giving up everything to cook for your soulmate.] Right on cue, the streaming comments scrolled past my vision, trying to sugarcoat this suffocating daily grind. Three years ago, these bizarre comments had suddenly appeared before my eyes. Only I could see them. They analyzed my relationship with Lauren endlessly, and their core message never changed: Lauren loved me deeply, and everything she did was an expression of that love. At first, I believed it. When she impatiently shoved away the hot water I offered, the comments would say, [Lauren’s just under a lot of writing pressure—she does care inside.] When she acted oblivious to everything I did, they claimed, [Real love is shown through actions, not words. She just isn’t good at expressing it.] Guided by their “interpretations,” I forgave her again and again, inventing excuses for her coldness each time. I thought I was the one person in the world who truly understood her. Until I became a spineless yes-man, orbiting her and nothing else. “Anthony, what’s wrong with this sweet and sour pork today?” At the table, Lauren took one bite and slammed her chopsticks down. “The meat’s too tough, the sauce is off—are you trying to sabotage my creative inspiration?” I rushed to apologize. “Sorry—maybe the heat was off today. Should I make you something else?” “Don’t bother. I’ve lost my appetite.” She shot me an icy look. “Have you been getting more careless lately? If you can’t even handle something as simple as cooking, what are you even good for?” [Aha, she’s jealous! Lauren must have seen him chatting with the girl at the convenience store yesterday. This is her way of marking her territory!] [A bestselling author staking her claim! We love to see it.] I looked at the comments, then at her utterly unapologetic face, and felt a cold wave tighten my chest. What was I good for? I could queue at five a.m. to buy the soy milk she loved from that old shop. I could drive three hundred kilometers overnight to a mountain in the next city because she “wanted to see snow,” nearly losing my fingers to frostbite. I could recite the best passages from her books, offer ideas when she was stuck—and yet my name was forever absent from her acknowledgments. I abandoned my major, my friends, my family, everything—just to be the man behind her success. And in the end, all I earned was: “What are you even good for?” Deep inside, something finally, quietly broke.

On the first anniversary of our reconciliation, I thought my tech mogul husband and I had finally turned a corner. Then I discovered our entire marriage was a spectator sport. It was a cruel, year-long revenge game orchestrated by him and his lover, and I was the punchline. For their amusement, I was poisoned with food contaminated with dog feces, publicly humiliated with a twenty-million-dollar auction scam, and beaten until my ribs broke by his family's private security. I endured it all, playing the part of the clueless, loving wife while they laughed about it in a group chat called "The Jillian Andrews Comedy Hour." But their grand finale was a step too far. I overheard him calmly planning to leave me to die in a remote cabin during a blizzard, a "tragic accident" that would finally set him free to be with his mistress. He thought he was writing the final chapter of my life. He didn't know I was about to use his murder plot as my own perfect escape. I faked my death, vanished into thin air, and left him to explain to the world how his beloved wife disappeared off the face of the earth.

Victor Stone was my first love—until he vanished without a word. I spent years rebuilding my life with Julian Cross, a man who offered the safety Victor destroyed. Then Victor returned. Colder, richer, and determined to own me. He crushed my husband’s business and offered a devil’s bargain: play his girlfriend for three months, and he’ll save us. I signed the contract thinking I could survive anything for for days. I didn't expect the lines to blur. I didn't expect to become the villain in my own marriage. Now, I’m holding a newborn baby with two men at my side. One gave me stability; the other set my world on fire. But the real betrayal isn't the paternity test—it's the secret they’ve kept hidden. They aren't rivals. They're brothers. And I was just the weapon they used to destroy each other.

Having spent three years with Walker Reed without an official status, he suddenly announced he had good news to share at the company. Recalling the flower order I saw on his phone earlier, I thought my patience had finally paid off. That night, I flew to a neighboring country, determined to create the most beautiful Victorian-style dress just for the occasion. But when I rushed back to the company the next day, I stumbled upon the scene I least expected: Walker with his arm around another woman, boldly announcing, “I’m getting married. To put an end to anyone thinking they have a chance with me, I've brought Tessa here to meet you all.” Amidst everyone's congratulations, the girl shyly nestled into his embrace. Across the crowd, I caught his gaze with a smile, then turned away without hesitation. I had just stepped into the revolving doors, holding the hem of my dress, when Walker's authoritative voice hit my ears, halting my smile in its tracks. I looked up at the stage where Walker stood. He wore the suit I had thoughtfully chosen and ironed for him the previous night. The bouquet in his arms matched the order details I had seen.

I was seven months pregnant with our third child when I discovered my perfect, rising-star husband couldn't afford a private prenatal clinic. Why? Because he had just spent $84,720 tipping a live-stream cam girl. While I was doubled over the toilet with severe morning sickness, Daniel was in the next room, directing another woman to take off her silk robe. But I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I stayed in the dark, opened my phone, and started taking screenshots. As I meticulously build a paper trail to destroy him and take everything, Daniel realizes his obedient wife is slipping from his control. The man who promised to protect me suddenly drops his mask, revealing a desperate monster willing to use his own children, hidden offshore accounts, and physical threats to silence me. Enter Cole Avery. A twenty-two-year-old college student with dark amber eyes, a beat-up Honda, and a habit of showing up exactly when my world is crashing down. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't offer empty pity. He just stands between me and the wreckage, handing me the spare key to his apartment and whispering, "Hold the line, Mara." Daniel thought he was the only one who knew how to hide things in the dark. He’s about to find out his pregnant wife is the master of the game. And this time, I’m not playing to survive. I’m playing to ruin him.