So my Alpha Fiancee left me for my substitute,Oops I'm alive

That night, I returned home alone. As I stepped onto the porch, the motion-sensor light flickered to life. Inside, the house felt like a haunted mausoleum. Every room was veiled in a hazy fog. Nothing except for the guest room at the end of the second-floor hallway. That room held a tangible presence, a lingering scent of Alice . Even after she'd moved out, my mother would often say, "We should keep it ready for when Alice comes back." Three days later, as the sun began to set, the doorbell shattered the eerie silence. Frankson stood under the porch light. Behind him, Alice cowered, clad in a cream-colored trench coat. As Alice lifted her eyes, droplets clinging to her lashes. The last time I'd seen her before my coma, she'd clutched the velvet hairpin Frankson gave me, her voice sickly sweet: "Olivia, this color suits you so well." "She just got discharged. There's trouble in her neighboring mansion," Frankson pulled Alice protectively behind him. My gaze locked onto the pale pink scar on her knuckles-a relic from the museum collapse three years ago. I remember how Alice had swung that fire axe, the blade narrowly missing her ankle as it buried itself in the rubble. Her crescent-shaped scar pulsed beneath my stare, a mocking reminder of the bond they'd forged in my absence.​ My mother offered Alice a pair of slippers-my size. "She has no family," my father's sigh was a death knell. The dining room table groaned under the weight of Mexican chili burritos, Buffalo wings drowning in spicy sauce. The pungent aroma of cayenne and habanero slammed into me like a physical blow, triggering a violent coughing fit. My sensitive wolf stomach churned, memories of Frankson hovering over the stove, carefully preparing mild pasta dishes for me-now replaced by the sight of him deftly slicing a juicy ribeye for Alice.​ "Easy, love. No one's going to steal your meal," he cooed. Blood-red juices oozed from the steak. My mother piled avocado salad onto Alice's plate, her voice brimming with affection: "I asked the cook to spend hours perfecting that smoky paprika dressing you adore." She even forgot my chili allergy.​ When Alice choked on a piece of steak, Frankson dropped to one knee behind her, massaging her back. As his wrist flashed, I caught a glimpse of the silver bracelet I'd given him before my coma, the delicate engraving of "O.L." glinting mockingly. The way he held the glass of water to Alice's lips, his thumb gently tilting her chin-it was an exact replica of the countless nights he'd nursed me back to health.​ I set my fork down. The burning sensation of capsaicin seared my throat. In the ornate floor - length mirror at the stairwell corner, the silhouettes of three figures huddled around Alice, their forms a grotesque mockery of a loving family. Three years ago, trapped in the rubble of the collapsed museum basement, the crackling static of the walkie - talkie had been louder than Frankson's labored breaths. It was Alice who had been the first to breach the cordon, her claws shredded and her fingertips raw as she frantically pulled at the twisted steel bars. Friends later told me that in his delirious state, Frankson had clung to Alice's hand, calling out my name with each ragged breath. But when she pressed his blood - stained palm against her cheek, his eyelashes had fluttered, and a single drop of blood had landed on the crescent - shaped scar on her leg.