My Alpha Traded Me for Her, I Took His Empire

AVIA POV:

The warm glass of milk felt heavy in my hands.

For three years, one thousand and ninety-five nights, I had performed this ritual. A glass of warm milk, a silent walk down the long, carpeted hallway to my husband Donavon Bradshaw's study. It was the one duty I was permitted, the one act of a wife he accepted.

The window at the end of the hall reflected a ghost. A woman with a pale, still face and eyes that held nothing. A statue carved from ice. That was me.

I stopped before the heavy oak door of his study. It was slightly ajar. I raised my hand to knock, my knuckles hovering just inches from the wood.

That's when I heard his voice.

It was low, a rumbling murmur I knew better than my own heartbeat. But there was a softness in it, a tenderness I had never, not once, been the recipient of.

My fingers froze in mid-air. My breath caught in my throat, a sudden, sharp blockage.

"Jena, I know you're hurting," he said. "Arthur's passing was a blow to all of us."

Jena.

The name landed like a stone in my stomach, cold and heavy. Jena Ellis. The mate of my husband's late elder brother. My sister-in-law.

"But I can't deny," Donavon's voice continued, laced with a guilt that was almost suffocating, "that his death has given me hope. A hope that I can finally protect you openly."

The silver tray in my hands trembled. The milk sloshed, its white surface rippling like a disturbed pond. My knuckles were white where I gripped the metal.

I heard another voice, a muffled sound from the phone. His Beta, probably.

"Avia?" Donavon's tone shifted, became dismissive, cold. "She's just the Luna in name. A political tool to keep the pack stable."

A tool. That was all I had ever been—an orphan sold to secure an alliance, a placeholder they could control. I had no family to run to, no pack of my own. I was the perfect puppet. And I had played my part so well that even I had begun to believe it was my true face.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

"I've never touched her," he said, and the words were a blade, clean and sharp, sliding between my ribs. "My body, my wolf, my soul... they have only ever been for you."

Three years. One thousand and ninety-five nights. He had never once come to my bed. I had told myself he was tired, that he respected me, that our marriage was built on duty, not passion. But duty did not explain the cold distance. Now I knew: he had been saving himself for her. Every night in his study, every excuse, every turned-away face—it had not been exhaustion. It had been fidelity. To her.

The final illusion of my marriage, the thin veil of duty and respect I had clung to, was shredded. The truth was laid bare, bloody and raw. This wasn't a loveless marriage. It was a lie. And I was the fool who had lived it every single day.

A chill, deeper than the winter snow blanketing the grounds outside, seeped into my bones.

I had to leave. Now.

I took a step back, my movements stiff, robotic. My heel hit something hard.

A soft clatter echoed in the silent hall. A decorative vase on a small pedestal wobbled precariously.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I had one second to decide—run, or stay and lie. I chose the lie. I always chose the lie. I forced my body to still, my breath to slow. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

The murmur from inside the study stopped.

Silence. Heavy. Accusatory.

The door was ripped open. Donavon stood there, his massive frame filling the doorway. His face was a mask of irritation and suspicion.

Then his eyes landed on me. His brow furrowed, deepening the lines of his displeasure.

"What are you doing here?"

I forced my lips into a smile. A placid, obedient smile I had perfected over three years. My muscles screamed in protest.

I held up the tray. "I brought your milk."

His gaze swept over my face, searching for something—guilt, fear, anything that might explain what I had overheard. His eyes raked over me like I was a piece of furniture that had strayed out of place. But he found nothing. The ice held. I had learned to make myself invisible. His expression settled back into its usual cool indifference.

He didn't take the milk. He just stepped aside, a silent command for me to enter. Turning back to his phone, he spoke into it. "I'll call you back."

I walked into the study, the scent of old books and his scent—pine and earth—assaulting me. I placed the glass on his desk. My eyes snagged on his phone screen before it went dark. A picture of Jena, smiling, holding a little boy in her arms.

A knock at the open door made us both turn.

Frank Hicks, the manor's head butler, stood there, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes holding a hint of something... complicated.

"Alpha," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Mrs. Ellis and young Master Kaden have arrived. I've settled them in the east wing guest suite."

The change in Donavon was instantaneous. A light I had never seen before ignited in his eyes. A raw, unguarded joy.

He didn't even look at me.

He strode past me, the wind of his passing a cold caress against my skin, and left the study without another word. His heavy footsteps faded down the hall, urgent and eager.

I was alone.

I walked to the large window behind his desk, the one overlooking the gardens. Down below, under the soft glow of the garden lamps, I saw them.

Donavon was holding Jena in a tight embrace, his head buried in her hair. Then he pulled back, knelt, and swept the little boy, Kaden, into his arms. He swung him around, and the boy's laughter, faint and sharp, drifted up through the cold night air.

I had never heard that laugh. Not once in three years. He never laughed with me. He never held me like that. He never even looked at me the way he was looking at her now—as if she were the sun and he had been living in the dark.

They looked like a family. A perfect, happy family.

And I, Avia Bradshaw, the Luna of this pack, was the intruder.

I waited for the familiar ache to come—the dull, persistent throb that had lived in my chest for three years. But this time, it didn't come. The pain had been replaced by something colder, sharper. A stillness that felt like peace. The last flicker of warmth inside me died, not in a blaze, but in a quiet, final exhale. It didn't hurt anymore. It was just... gone. Replaced by a vast, silent emptiness. A stillness that was terrifyingly calm.

I looked down at my palm—the one that had held the warm glass moments ago. The warmth was already gone. Just like everything else he had given me.

I had never asked for help. I had never admitted I needed out. But tonight, I would stop being the obedient wife. Tonight, I would start being Avia.

I pulled out my phone. My fingers were steady as I found my friend's number.

I typed a single message.

"Josie, I need your help."