Unwanted By The Alpha: His Hidden Genius Mate

Andrea POV:

Through the gap in the heavy silk curtain, I saw everything.

On the manicured lawn, my husband, Braxton, was sitting on a picnic blanket, his long legs stretched out before him, the picture of relaxed contentment. Our five-year-old daughter, Bonnie, was perched happily on his lap. And across from them, smiling beautifully, was Danika Galloway.

She was holding a small, exquisite cake. A single candle flickered in its center.

It was a chocolate lavender cake. From the French patisserie.

My favorite.

"Make a wish, Auntie Danika!" Bonnie clapped her little hands, her voice filled with pure joy. "Daddy said all your wishes will come true!"

Braxton was looking at Danika. His gaze was soft, focused. It was a look I had never, not once, received from him. A look of profound tenderness.

They looked like a family. A perfect, complete family. And I, the mistress of this house, had become nothing more than an outsider looking in.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. My fingers went numb.

The glass slipped from my hand.

It shattered on the marble floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent house.

The laughter outside stopped instantly.

Only an hour before, I had been gripping the steering wheel, a quiet hope humming in my chest.

Today was my thirtieth birthday. I had left work early, a rare indulgence. The evening sun had filtered through the leaves, painting shifting patterns on the asphalt. In the rearview mirror, I had seen the box on the back seat--a limited-edition Star-Hopper spaceship for Bonnie, her latest obsession. A small, genuine smile had touched my lips.

On the drive, I had passed my favorite French patisserie. The warm lights, the scent of butter and sugar drifting even into the car. They made a divine chocolate lavender cake. My favorite.

My foot had eased off the accelerator. I could just stop, buy it for myself. A small, solitary celebration.

But I had pressed my foot back down on the gas.

No. Braxton was my mate. He would remember. He had to. This year would be different.

The tiny cake in the patisserie window--what was that, compared to what surely waited for me at home? I had convinced myself there would be something bigger. A surprise party, perhaps. A grand gesture. A cake far larger than anything I could buy for myself. That was what I was driving toward. Not a pastry in a paper box, but proof. Proof that I mattered.

The massive iron gates had swung open silently. I had pulled into the garage and felt a sliver of disappointment pierce through my hope. Only Braxton's black sedan was there. I had secretly hoped for a small party. Maybe a few friends. Something. Anything.

I unlocked the front door. The grand foyer was dark. Silent.

"Braxton?" I called out. My voice sounded small in the cavernous space. "Bonnie?"

Only the echo of my own voice answered.

I had walked through that silent, immaculate house with my heart still foolishly full, calling out names that nobody answered. How ridiculous I must have looked. How pathetic.

Then I heard it. A peal of bright, clear laughter from the back terrace. Bonnie. My heart leaped into my throat. I had walked, glass of water in hand, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

And now I stood behind the curtain, watching my husband celebrate another woman's birthday with my cake, my daughter, and a tenderness he had never shown me.

Braxton's head snapped around, his Alpha senses on high alert. He stared directly at the house.

I shrank back into the shadows, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn't breathe.

"Wait here," I heard him murmur.

His footsteps crunched on the gravel path, growing louder, closer. I held my breath, pressing my back against the cold wall.

The glass door slid open. Braxton stepped inside, his eyes scanning the living room. His gaze landed on the shards of broken glass on the floor. A frown creased his brow.

Not concern. Not curiosity about who might have dropped it. Not a flicker of thought for his wife, his mate, who should have been home by now.

Annoyance.

That was all. A mess on his floor. An inconvenience.

The thought never crossed his mind--not even for a second--that the shattered glass might mean I was here. That I might be standing just out of sight. That I might be hurt. His mate. His wife of eight years. And he saw nothing but a mess to be cleaned.

He pulled out his phone. "Mrs. Sullivan, there's a mess in the living room. Broken glass. Have it cleaned up when you come in tomorrow."

He hung up.

Without a second glance, he turned and walked back outside, sliding the door shut behind him.

The happy chatter started up again. Their celebration, their perfect little family moment, drifted through the thick glass.

Slowly, I stepped out from behind the curtain.

I looked down at the shattered glass. It glittered on the floor like a thousand tiny, broken promises.

I turned away, my face a blank mask. I walked up the sweeping staircase, each step heavy and deliberate.

The last flicker of light in my eyes had finally, completely, gone out.