I Rejected My Ruthless Alpha, Now He Begs for Me Back

Celeste POV:

"The 'Wolf of Wall Street,' Dorian Carlisle, has made a high-profile return to the West Coast," the anchor's voice buzzed with excitement from the massive screen on the wall. "Does this signal a shift in Apex Holdings' strategy back toward Carlisle Pack territory..."

I stood in the vast living room, my bare feet cold against the polished floor, staring at the television. There he was. Dorian Carlisle.

His face, impossibly handsome and sharp as broken glass, filled the screen. He was stepping out of a private jet, a perfectly tailored suit clinging to his broad shoulders. A lazy, careless smile played on his lips.

He was the Alpha of the Carlisle Pack, the CEO of Apex Holdings, my fated mate, and my husband.

My heart gave a hard, painful thump against my ribs. The entire country got the news of my husband's return before I did.

My phone suddenly buzzed against the cold marble of the kitchen countertop. I walked over, and the screen lit up: "Blake."

I wiped my hands on my apron and answered.

"Honey! Are you watching the financial news? That bastard is back!" Blake Cantu's voice was a familiar, welcome storm in the silence of my apartment. She was my best friend, the closest thing I had to a pack of my own.

"The son of a bitch is back, and he didn't even tell you?" Blake swore through the phone. "His fated mate? You're his Luna, for goddess' sake!"

I watched the man on the screen, a man I was bound to but did not know. "He never tells me his schedule, Blake. You know that." My voice was a calm, flat line, but my fingertips were digging into the smooth case of my phone.

Blake ranted on, listing all the ways Dorian was a terrible mate. I listened, my eyes fixed on the television.

I hung up the phone.

The scent of roasted salmon and rosemary still filled the kitchen. It was a good smell, a warm smell. A smell meant for a home filled with people.

But the only person here was me.

The asparagus spears were carefully arranged beside the perfectly cooked fish, a mirror image on two separate plates. A dinner for two, prepared by one. It was a ritual I performed every time he was supposed to come home.

I finished plating the dessert, a chocolate lava cake that had taken me an hour to perfect. My movements were precise and automatic. I had done this often enough to know every step by heart.

I placed the two meals at opposite ends of the enormous dining table. The distance between the plates felt like a canyon. It was the exact distance between us.

I sat in my usual spot. I didn't pick up my fork.

I just waited.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, daylight faded and the city lights came on one by one. My reflection remained in the glass: one woman sitting alone at a table set for two.

The food on the table went from warm to cold. The rosemary scent faded, leaving nothing behind.

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. The front door remained silent.

My phone lit up again. A social media notification.

I tapped it open. A photo, crisp and clear. Dorian, slouched in a booth at some high-end club. His Alpha friend, Sean Kensington, the heir to the Kensington Pack, was laughing, a drink raised in the air.

Dorian's tie was loose, his posture lazy. He was surrounded by people, by noise and celebration, but there was no real smile on his face. His eyes were distant, cold.

I stared at the picture for a long time, trying to see past the pixels, into the man.

Slowly, I put the phone down.

I stood up. I didn't look at the cold dinner.

I walked to the kitchen, my steps even. I pulled a black trash bag from the cabinet.

Methodically, I scraped everything into it. The salmon, the asparagus, the perfect, untouched lava cakes. Each item fell into the darkness of the bag, a soft, final thud.

I had spent the entire afternoon cooking because some part of me still believed he might come home. Looking at the untouched food now made that belief feel foolish.

I tied the bag, a neat, final knot, and placed it by the door.

I went upstairs to the master bedroom. The room carried only my scent—wild rose and vanilla. His side of the bed was untouched, the sheets still smooth. We had never spent a single night in this room together.

I changed into my pajamas and slipped into my side of the cold bed, my back to his empty space.

I closed my eyes, but the two images kept returning: Dorian stepping off the jet, then sitting in that club as if coming home to me had never crossed his mind.

The apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator.

My fingers found the moonstone pendant around my neck. It was the only thing I had left of my parents. Its cool, smooth surface was a familiar comfort against my skin. It was a reminder that I had been alone before, and I had survived.

"So be it," I whispered into the darkness.