Invited to her best friend Dylan's wedding, Allison Mason stood at the edge of the bustling reception hall, her thoughts drifting to her own impending mate pairing ceremony. Dylan, a Gamma in her pack and her closest confidant, nudged her playfully. "So, when's your big day?" he asked with a grin.

"In a month," Allison replied, her voice steady but her heart fluttering with anticipation.

Her fiancé, Neil Kelly, a Delta in the pack, overheard and interjected with a dismissive tone, "Let's wait a bit longer." His words were sharp, cutting through the festive atmosphere like a cold wind.

As their voices overlapped, Neil shot Allison a look filled with accusation and irritation. "Are you really trying to rush me into this?" he demanded, his alpha tone laced with disdain.

Allison held her ground, but the weight of his words lingered. That night, under the pretense of attending a pack gathering, Neil spent hours with Fatima Ross, an Omega in the pack. Allison knew better than to confront him. Instead, she calmly picked up her phone and made a call. "The ceremony will go on as planned," she said firmly.

Fortunately, the person she intended to pair with wasn’t Neil.

---

At midnight, Allison’s phone buzzed with a video from an unknown number. Curious, she opened it.

The clip showed a dimly lit club, the air thick with energy. Neil’s fair skin stood out against the vibrant dance floor as he moved to the music, his body language carefree and unrestrained. A girl approached him, her arms wrapping around his waist. Neil didn’t push her away. Instead, he smirked, leaned in, and kissed her without hesitation.

Allison recognized the girl immediately. It was Marina Johnson, a rogue werewolf and Neil’s first love. Marina’s reappearance had been the talk of the pack, stirring up old memories of their college days when they were inseparable. Back then, Allison hadn’t given it much thought, assuming it was just young love. But now, watching the video, the last glimmer of hope within her faded.

She called Neil, but he didn’t answer. Moments later, the number’s owner sent a taunting message: "Even if you pair with him, what difference does it make? He still loves me." Allison ignored it and blocked the number, her jaw tightening with resolve.

Determined to uncover the truth, she called Robert Hill, a Delta in Neil’s pack and one of his closest friends. "Neil is with you, right? Who’s the girl?" she asked directly, her tone leaving no room for evasion.

Silence stretched on the other end before Robert mumbled, "Work stuff. Can't talk now; my phone's about to die."

"One thousand," Allison offered, her voice firm.

"No way! What do you take me for?" Robert protested.

"Five thousand. I want all the details about the girl," she countered.

"Okay… just don’t say it was me," he relented, the guilt in his voice palpable.

As soon as the call ended, Allison’s phone buzzed incessantly with links to Neil’s secret Twitter account. She had no idea it even existed. Scrolling through the posts, she found a trove of updates—meals, outings, even books he was reading. Each post was accompanied by comments from Marina.

Neil: *Made something for you, a scarf for my dear.*

Marina: *Got the scarf, a pity she’s home, I can’t swing by for it.*

Neil: *Oh well, forget it then!*

Allison’s stomach churned as she realized the pink scarf Neil had given her for her birthday last year was originally meant for Marina. It had only become hers because Marina didn’t want it.

Further down the feed, she found a post that chilled her to the core. It was from Valentine’s Day during the pandemic’s peak, when she had been stuck in a hotel and unable to celebrate with Neil. He had been angry at the time, but now she understood why. The post showed a selfie of Neil kissing Marina, a king-sized bed visible in the background.

*Ding—* A notification for a new tweet. Neil had posted an update: *Farewell to youth.*

Marina commented: *Hope she treats you well.*

Allison silently closed her phone and rubbed her temples, the weight of Neil’s betrayal pressing down on her. But she refused to let it break her. The mate pairing ceremony would go on as planned—just not with Neil.

At eleven o'clock at night, as expected, Neil's call came through.

His voice was loud on the line, tinged with a hint of excitement: "Allison, don't wait up for me tonight."

Allison didn't respond, and he added, sounding uncertain, "The Deltas in the pack know I’m about to have my mate pairing ceremony, and they’re throwing me a celebration."

This excuse was all too familiar.

Ever since the Delta Robert's ceremony, Neil had used it seven times.

Meaning he'd been out under the guise of a celebration for an entire week.

Through the receiver, the blaring music and shouting crowd cut through the stillness of the night.

When Allison didn’t reply, Neil called out again, his tone cautious, probing. "Honey, what’s wrong? Are you mad?"

He waited quietly for her response, and Allison glanced at her wristwatch.

For some reason, she blurted out, "It’s eleven."

Outsiders might not grasp the significance of this statement.

But it was part of an unspoken understanding between them.

Allison knew.

Neil knew.

It was a rule he’d set during the early days of their engagement.

Back then, he had just become a Delta in the pack, and Allison was climbing the ranks, often attending late-night pack gatherings before returning home.

One night, almost at dawn, she came back to find him curled on the sofa like a cozy wolf pup.

Upon seeing her, he drowsily approached, tentatively.

"Allison, can’t you be home before eleven?"

They hadn’t been engaged long at that point.

Initially, his personality was lively and cheerful.

But her frequent late nights had made him suspicious and sensitive.

Allison looked into his watery eyes, a trace of spiced honey cake frosting lingering at the corner of his lips.

On his birthday, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse him.

So, she agreed.

"Two weeks."

During that period, he’d call without hesitation: "Allison, it’s eleven o’clock, time to come home."

His tone was like that of a little housekeeper.

Eventually, when he said, "It’s eleven," Allison would instinctively answer, "Time to come home."

It became their unspoken game.

But unspoken games can end without you realizing it.

When did it stop?

For the first time, Allison pondered this question.

Maybe it was when he settled into his role as a Delta?

Maybe it was all his pack duties?

Or perhaps even longer.

He hadn’t said those words in ages.

As if certain she’d always make it home on time.

Yet he might have forgotten one thing.

It was a privilege she granted out of a moment of weakness.

She could withdraw it anytime she wished.