The White Wolf Heiress: Reborn To Rule

Alea POV:

The morning my fiancé, Kirt Bradford, brought his mistress into my home, I already knew exactly what he would say.

He was already in the foyer below me, one arm wrapped protectively around Candida Cervantes, wearing that wounded, noble expression he had practiced so well. In another moment, he would tell me the Moon Goddess had chosen her for him. He would ask me, Alea White, heir of the White Pack, to accept his affair as fate and welcome Candida as his second mate.

My stepmother, Elois Mercado, and my stepsister, Katy Mercado, stood nearby, pretending to be horrified by the scandal while their eyes glittered with anticipation.

In my first life, this was the moment that had broken me. I had thought the worst thing Kirt could do was humiliate me in my own home, in front of my family and servants.

I had been wrong.

Seeing him hold Candida in my family's foyer no longer gutted me. It only dragged me back to the ending I knew.

Because in my last life, Kirt and Candida had not stopped at betrayal. Kirt had fed the White Pack's patrol routes and weak points to our enemies, waited until my people were being slaughtered from within, and then came for me. The foyer, the marble floor, the watching faces all vanished, and I was dragged back into that final, suffocating end of my previous life: smoke choking the room, flames crawling up the walls, the smell of my own burning flesh filling my nose as I clawed at a door that would not open.

Beyond that door, Candida laughed softly. Kirt's voice came after it, calm and merciless.

"She carried the White name, so she thought the Pack belonged to her. She should have stepped aside when I told her to."

By then, the White Pack was already dying around us. I had lost my home, my people. I had burned to death in that room. The memory was simple, brutal, and impossible to breathe through.

Then the memory loosened its grip. The foyer sharpened around me again, bright and cold and unbearably real.

My fingers tightened around the polished banister. Smooth skin stretched over my knuckles. Whole. Untouched by fire. Not the charred, agonizing ruin from the memory.

By the time Kirt arrived with Candida, I had already touched my unscarred face, found the ballerina music box from my mother, Clara White, sitting intact on my nightstand, and seen the date marked on the calendar.

It was the day.

The betrayal. The humiliation.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. The sharp sting of pain was an anchor, grounding me in this impossible reality.

Kirt had betrayed me in front of the entire Pack and called it destiny. Candida had stolen my title, my home, and finally my life. My stepmother, Elois, had helped them bury the truth, while my stepsister, Katy, had watched my ruin with a smile.

This time, none of them would get to play innocent.

Vengeance burned in my violet eyes, a cold, clean flame.

When Candida's staged sobs drifted up from the foyer, I left my bedroom and stepped onto the second-floor landing.

I stood at the landing in a black suit. Tailored, sharp, and unforgiving.

That morning, I had ignored the rows of white and pink lace dresses I had once worn to please him, to fit the mold of the gentle, pliant Luna he wanted. My long hair was pulled back into a severe, high ponytail. The girl who had lived for his approval was gone. In her place stood a woman with eyes of ice and a spine of steel.

Below me, the grand hall had already become their little theater. Kirt had brought the mistress. Candida had brought the tears. Elois and Katy had taken their places at the edge of the scene, waiting for me to collapse on cue.

Kirt stood in the center of the hall, a picture of tailored perfection. One arm was wrapped protectively around Candida, his mistress, who was weeping delicately into his chest.

She wore a simple white dress, a vision of innocence. Her makeup was flawless, her tears perfectly timed to streak her powdered cheeks.

Elois and Katy stood to the side. Their faces were masks of feigned concern, but their eyes glittered with malicious glee.

Kirt looked up and saw me. He cleared his throat, his expression shifting into one of profound, tragic love.

"Alea, my love," he began, his voice resonating with practiced sorrow. "I know this is sudden. But Candida and I... we are Fated Mates. Chosen by the Moon Goddess herself."

Candida lifted her tear-streaked face from his chest on cue.

"Miss White," she whimpered, her voice a fragile whisper. "I... I truly didn't mean for this to happen. We can't fight destiny..."

"So, Alea, I hope you can understand," Kirt continued, his tone pleading. "According to Pack law, I am asking you to accept Candida. To welcome her as my second mate, with all the status and resources she deserves."

I heard Katy mutter to Elois, just loud enough to be an insult, "Look at her, the stupid cow. She's going to cry."

I didn't cry.

I descended the stairs, the click of my heels on the marble floor the only sound in the suddenly silent hall. Each step was a hammer blow, striking at the foundation of their little play.

I didn't look at Kirt. I didn't look at Candida.

My path took me straight to the great hearth, where the White Pack lineage was carved into the stone. My eyes lingered for a moment on the names of my father, Garrison White, and my mother, Clara. Then, they fell upon Kirt's name, listed below mine as "Betrothed."

His patience snapped. He strode forward and grabbed my wrist, his grip tight.

"Alea! I am speaking to you!"

Slowly, I turned my head. My gaze met his for the first time. The look in my eyes was as cold and vast as a frozen sea.

"Mr. Bradford," I said, my voice quiet but laced with frost. "Which hand did you just use to touch me?"

He blinked, startled by the formal address, and his hand fell away as if burned.

"You bring your mistress into my home," I stated, my voice dangerously calm. "And you demand that I, your betrothed, legitimize your affair?"

The air in the room crackled with tension. Even Candida's pathetic sobs hitched to a stop.

"What do you think the White Pack is?" I continued, my voice rising slightly, sharp as a shard of glass. "A brothel for you to house your whores?"

Kirt's face contorted, flushing a deep, ugly red.

"Alea White! You've lost your mind!" he roared, his composure finally shattering. "Don't push your luck!"

He raised his hand to strike me.

He was too slow.

My own hand moved in a blur, faster and harder than he could have ever anticipated.

SLAP.

Kirt staggered back, his hand flying to his cheek, a bright red handprint already blooming on his skin. He stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief.

I flexed my stinging fingers, the sensation exquisitely real.

"That," I said, my voice like ice, "is to teach you respect."