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

Celeste POV:

My phone buzzed against the cold marble of the kitchen countertop. 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.

I knew exactly which bastard she meant. Dorian Carlisle.

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

My heart gave a hard, painful thump against my ribs.

I walked out of the kitchen and into the vast living room, my bare feet cold against the polished floor. I tapped the remote, and the massive screen on the wall flickered to life.

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.

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

"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.

Dorian POV:

I loosened the knot of my tie, but the pressure at my throat remained. The music in the club pounded around me, loud enough to make my growing headache worse.

"What's wrong, Dorian?" Sean Kensington, the friend I'd known longer than anyone else, slapped my shoulder, his grin wide. "You just got back. Shouldn't you be happy to see your little Omega mate?"

My jaw tightened. The ice in my whiskey clinked as I took a long swallow. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Our marriage was arranged to preserve stability within the Pack, Sean. There's nothing to be happy about."

Sean and the others exchanged a look I knew well. The look that said they understood. The look that said they pitied me for being saddled with a fated mate I didn't want.

My wolf snarled in the back of my mind. He hated the lie. He hated Sean for saying it. He hated me for thinking it.

My gaze drifted past the laughing faces, out the window to the dark city. Her face swam into my vision-quiet, stubborn, with those wide, haunted eyes.

I drained my glass in one go. "I'm tired," I said, standing up. "I'm leaving."

"Don't leave the little Luna waiting too long!" one of them called out, followed by a round of laughter.

I didn't answer. I just walked out.

I sat in the driver's seat of my car for a long time, the engine off. I rubbed my temples, the headache that had been building all night finally cresting. Going back to that apartment, to her, felt more complicated than closing a billion-dollar deal.

Finally, I started the car. The engine was a low growl in the quiet garage. I drove towards the home that wasn't a home. Towards the mate who wasn't mine.

Celeste POV:

A soft click from downstairs pulled me from sleep. The sound of the front door's keypad.

My heart skipped a beat.

He was back.

I squeezed my eyes shut and forced my breathing into a slow, even rhythm, pretending to be asleep. I couldn't face him after everything that had happened tonight.

His footsteps were heavy on the stairs, unhurried. Each one was a thud of Alpha presence that vibrated through the floorboards, coming closer.

The bedroom door creaked open.

A wave of his scent washed over me-expensive whiskey, the cold night air, and that unique, sharp smell of snow and cedar that was just him. It filled my lungs, an invasion.

The mattress dipped on the other side of the bed.

He was sitting. Watching me.

I could feel his gaze on my back, a physical heat that burned through my silk pajamas. My entire body went rigid, every muscle screaming. I fought to keep my breathing steady, a slow in-and-out that felt like a lie.

Time stretched, becoming thick and heavy. He just sat there. Not moving. Not speaking.

I was about to break, to gasp for air, when the weight on the bed lifted.

He stood and walked towards the walk-in closet. The soft rustle of clothes told me he was changing.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My heart was still a frantic drum against my ribs.

A few moments later, I heard the closet door slide shut. His footsteps crossed the room instead of returning to the bed, then stopped near the floor-to-ceiling window. A moment later, the acrid smell of tobacco cut through the air.

He was smoking. In my bedroom.

He had ignored me all night, come home after midnight without a word, and now he was filling the bedroom with smoke as though I weren't even there. I couldn't keep pretending to sleep through it.

Slowly, I sat up, pulling my silk robe around my shoulders. My voice was rough with sleep when I finally spoke into the darkness. "You're back."

He turned. The red glow of the cigarette arced through the air. His face was a mask of shadows.

"I thought you were asleep." His voice was a low rumble, as cold and empty as a winter night. He sounded like he was talking to a stranger.

It was the first thing he'd said to me. After all those hours of waiting, he spoke as though I were someone he barely knew. Whatever nervous hope I had left disappeared.

I found my courage. I looked at the tall, dark silhouette against the city lights. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming back?"

He crushed the cigarette in a crystal dish on the windowsill and walked towards me. His Alpha presence filled the space between us, thick and suffocating. I felt my lungs tighten.

He stood by the bed, looking down at me. A cruel, mocking smile twisted his lips. "What, I need to give you advance notice? So you have time to clean up anything that doesn't belong in this apartment?"

I stared at him, completely lost. I had no idea what he thought I had done or what he expected to find.

We faced each other in the dim light. One sitting, one standing. One confused, one cold as ice.

This was our reunion.

Celeste POV:

I stared up at him, my mind racing to catch up with his words. "I don't know what you're talking about. What doesn't belong?"

A cold laugh, devoid of any humor, escaped him. He leaned down, his hand shooting out to cup my chin. His fingers were like ice, but his grip was a steel trap, forcing my head up.

His dark gray eyes, sharp as a wolf's, bored into mine. "Don't play dumb, Celeste. There's an unfamiliar scent in this house. It isn't human-but it belongs to a male."

The word "male" was a primal growl, full of raw, possessive fury.

And then, it clicked. My brain finally connected the dots, and a wave of disbelief and anger washed over me.

"You mean the cat?" I asked, my voice incredulous.

For a split second, his expression faltered. The fury in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of confusion. He dropped his hand as if my skin had burned him and straightened up, but the cold mask snapped right back into place.

"A cat?" he repeated, the word dripping with disdain.

Humiliation coiled in my gut. I swung my legs out of bed and stood up to face him, forcing my voice to stay level. "Yes, a cat. A stray I found injured in the backyard three days ago."

I hadn't brought him into the house. I had built a temporary shelter for him near the back fence and left food and fresh water there at the same times every morning and evening. I must have left the utility-room door ajar when I checked on him before bed, and he had slipped inside without me noticing.

He listened, his expression unchanged. When I finished, the sneer on his face deepened. "An Omega, building a shelter for a stray. How fitting."

The words were a slap. He was mocking my rank, my compassion, everything.

He turned away from me, heading for the bathroom. "Get it out of the house and keep it outside. I don't like things on my property that don't belong here."

The bathroom door clicked shut, a final, definitive sound.

I stood alone in the middle of the room, shaking. Not from cold, but from a rage so pure it felt like fire in my veins. It was mixed with a bitter, heartbreaking disappointment.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I wanted to pound on that door, to scream at him.

But I knew it would be useless.

Once I heard the shower running, I went downstairs. I found the cat curled up behind a basket in the utility room, carried him back outside, and settled him into the small shelter by the fence.

Dorian slept in the guest room that night. A wall of his own making stood between us, cold and impenetrable.

The next morning, I was up before the sun. When I came downstairs, he was already at the dining table, dressed in a sharp suit, reading the financial paper as if nothing had happened.

I made breakfast. Black coffee, just the way he used to like it, and simple toast with a fried egg. A peace offering. A fool's errand.

I set the plate in front of him. He didn't even look up.

I sat at the furthest end of the table, sipping my milk in silence.

Dorian took a sip of his coffee. His brow furrowed. He placed the cup down with a sharp clatter that echoed in the quiet room.

"Who made this coffee?" he asked, his voice cold.

My stomach tightened. "I did," I said quietly.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, a look of disgust on his face. "It's terrible. You're wasting your time on this, just like you're wasting it on that stray."

The blood drained from my face. He was so casually cruel, devaluing every effort, every piece of me.

Just then, a faint meow drifted in from the backyard.

Dorian's head turned sharply toward the glass doors, and his expression hardened.

He stood up, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He looked down at me, his voice a low, menacing command.

"When I get home tonight," he said in a quiet, final tone, "I don't want to see or smell any trace of it on this property."

He held my gaze. "Otherwise, I'll chase it away myself and make sure it doesn't come back."

He grabbed his jacket and walked out, the front door slamming shut behind him, sealing me in the echoing silence.

I sat alone in the vast dining room, staring at his untouched breakfast. The tears I had been holding back finally burned in my eyes.