Chapter 2

Jillian, my best friend from college, had always had a knack for 'fixing' things. Her interventions usually ended up with me in situations I hadn't quite planned for. She called it 'strategic happiness'. I called it 'Jillian's chaos'.

"Annette, listen to me," she'd said, her voice laced with an almost manic excitement. "Greyson Baker. The Alpha. He's perfect for you. You just need a little push."

I had laughed, a hollow sound. Greyson Baker was a planet, and I was a dust mote. He barely knew I existed. But Jillian, ever the strategist, had her ways. She was a master at orchestrating 'chance' encounters. This time, her master plan involved a community gala, a spiked drink, and a locked room.

"It's just a little something, Annette," she'd chirped, pressing a small, unmarked vial into my hand. "It'll lower your inhibitions. Make you glow. He won't be able to resist."

I stared at the clear liquid, my stomach churning. "Jillian, no. This is wrong. I can't..."

"Don't be a prude! It's harmless. Just a little courage. You'll thank me later when you're Mrs. Greyson Baker." She winked, then vanished into the bustling ballroom.

Later that night, the world swam around me. The music was too loud, the lights too bright. I felt a strange lightness, a detached euphoria. Then I saw Greyson. He was across the room, talking to a group of admirers, his charisma a palpable force. His eyes, for a fleeting moment, met mine. And something shifted. A pull, a deep, primal thrumming in my veins. My omega instincts, usually dormant, flared to life, drawn to his powerful alpha scent.

He walked towards me, his gaze intense, and I felt a blush creep up my neck. My heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He reached for my hand, his touch sending a jolt through me. He led me away from the crowd, down a quiet hallway, and into a secluded room.

The door clicked shut behind us. I heard Jillian's voice, muffled, from the other side. "Have fun, lovebirds!" Then the distinct sound of a lock turning.

A wave of panic washed over me, momentarily cutting through the drug-induced haze. "Jillian! Let me out!" I pounded on the door, but it was useless.

Greyson turned, his eyes dark with an unfamiliar intensity. "Annette," he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine.

Under the influence of the strange concoction, and the overwhelming presence of his alpha aura, my protests died on my lips. My body responded to his touch, a primal yearning I hadn't known existed. The night blurred into a haze of raw sensation, a confusing mix of pleasure and a faint, underlying unease.

The next morning, the haze had lifted, leaving behind a crushing weight of reality. Greyson was already dressed, his uniform immaculate, his face a mask of cold indifference. The primal pull from last night was gone, replaced by a chilling distance.

"I'll take responsibility," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. "We'll get married."

My heart, still foolishly hopeful, tried to interpret his coldness as a warrior's stoicism, a man of action rather than words. I told myself this was his way of showing affection, of honoring me. I clung to that fragile hope, braiding it into a future vision of love and family.

The wedding was a blur. A quick, somber ceremony, devoid of joy. As the last guest left, I overheard him talking on the phone in the study. The door was ajar, and his voice, usually so controlled, was laced with fury.

"That goddamn Omega! Trapped me, can you believe it? Used one of those infernal pheromone drugs. Disgusting. I can't stand her. She's not fit to be my mate!"

My blood ran cold. The words were like shards of ice, piercing my heart, shattering every illusion I had built. His voice was filled with such contempt, such raw hatred, it made my stomach churn. Mate. He used the word, but it was dripping with venom.

I gasped, a small, choked sound. He must have heard it, because the conversation abruptly ended. I stood frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, the truth a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. Before I could explain, before I could defend myself, he hung up, snapped the phone shut, and stormed out of the house. He didn't even glance my way.

That was the beginning. He left for his deployment shortly after, a convenient escape. Five long years, I raised Karter alone, a single mother haunted by a ghost of a husband. His alpha presence, even through our mate bond, felt distant, a faint hum that never quite reached me.

Then he returned. Not alone, but with Kennedy and Emil. They arrived like a perfect, ready-made family, slotting themselves into the life he had abandoned. My heart tightened, a knot of dread and anger.

I tried to reach him through the bond, just a whisper, a plea for him to see us, to acknowledge his real family. But it was like hitting a wall, a cold, impenetrable barrier. He had deliberately severed the connection, leaving me adrift, isolated.

He walked into the house as if he owned it, as if nothing had changed. My anger, long suppressed, threatened to boil over. But Karter was still recovering, his small body riddled with burns and the lingering cough from smoke inhalation. I had to focus on him.

"Greyson," I began, my voice trembling despite my efforts to keep it steady. "Karter is very sick. He needs you."

He barely glanced at me, his eyes already seeking out Emil, who was clinging to Kennedy's leg. "Emil needs me more," he said, his voice clipped. He bent down, ruffling Emil's hair with a soft smile. "My little warrior."

My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. The casual cruelty of his words, the public display of favoritism, was a familiar torture.

"He's running a high fever," I insisted, my voice rising a little. "He needs his father."

Greyson straightened up, his eyes meeting mine for the first time, but they were cold, devoid of warmth. "And Emil needs me more. He's fragile, Annette. Don't stress him further with your drama. Keep Karter quiet. He's disturbing Emil."

My breath hitched. Disturbing Emil? My son, his son, was fighting for his life, and he was worried about Emil's comfort? The dam broke. All the years of neglect, the silent suffering, the crushed hopes-they erupted in a torrent of fury.

"How dare you?" I spat, my voice shaking with raw emotion. "How dare you stand there and say that? Karter is your son! He almost died in that fire because you chose to save her child instead of yours!"

Greyson's expression hardened. "I was protecting the innocent, Annette. Emil is vulnerable. His father died for our country. That's a debt I have to repay." He stepped forward, his eyes blazing, and a cold wave of his alpha presence washed over me, a silent command to submit. "You are just trying to hurt Emil, aren't you? Always so petty."

But his dominance had no effect on me this time. My fury burned through it, leaving me strangely clear-headed. "Petty? My son nearly died! What about your debt to Karter? What about your duty as a father?"

He sneered. "Karter is strong. He'll be fine. Unlike Emil, who has no one else."

The connection between us, the mate bond I had cherished for so long, felt like a chain of ice. It had been stretched thin, frayed by years of neglect, but now it snapped, a sharp, painful crack. The emotional tether went cold, utterly lifeless. All that remained was a chilling void.

I stared at him, my vision blurring with unshed tears. Five years. Five years I had walked this path alone, raising our son, clinging to a ghost. And for what? For this man to return, and casually dismiss our child's suffering, to elevate another boy above his own blood.

Karter, from his bed, let out a soft whimper. "Daddy..."

The sound was a fresh stab to my already bleeding heart. My son, still yearning for a love that would never come.

I walked to my desk, my movements stiff and deliberate. I pulled out the dissolution papers, the ones I had printed months ago, but never dared to fill out. My hand trembled as I uncapped the pen.

But then I looked back at Karter, his small face etched with pain, his eyes still holding that desperate hope for his father. The pen hovered over the line. Could I really sever this, even if it meant his fleeting hope was extinguished forever? The conflict tore at me, a silent scream in my soul.