Reborn As The Alpha’s Ex-Wife

Chapter 2

The torrential rain outside the glass lobby of Vance Tower does little to cool the fire burning in my chest.

I step through the grand revolving doors, pulling my black coat tightly around myself. Across the street, the flickering digital billboard advertises Vance Enterprises’ quarter-four projections.

Damon Vance: The Visionary Alpha Leading the Next Corporate Era.

I stop at the curb, watching his smug face flash across the screen in high definition. A dark, quiet laugh escapes my lips, dissolving into the wet night air.

He really thinks he is a genius. He forgot that every contract he signed, every supply chain route he secured, and every audit he passed over the last three years was drafted by my hands while he was out playing hero for his pack. He took the credit, and I took the silence.

Not anymore.

I hail a sleek black sedan, sliding into the back seat as the warm leather welcomes me.

"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asks, checking the rearview mirror.

"The Obsidian District," I say, my voice steady. "The Royal Crown Hotel."

The driver stiffens slightly—the Royal Crown is exclusive territory, managed directly by the Lycan Sovereignty, a place where standard pack Alphas like Damon have zero jurisdiction. He nods silently and pulls into traffic.

I lean my head back against the seat, pulling my phone back out. My fingers fly across the glowing interface. The offshore accounts I quietly set up in my past life using my late mother’s maiden name—Valkyrie—are fully active.

Five hundred million dollars in liquidated seed capital, untouched and untraceable.

In my previous life, I kept this money hidden out of fear, saving it as a safety net that I was too cowardly to ever use. I thought if I stayed humble, if I showed Damon I didn't care about wealth, he would love me for who I was.

What a pathetic waste of time.

I open an encrypted terminal app on the phone and type out a series of swift commands, routing $50 million through three private Swiss holding firms.

Target: Vance Enterprises’ Primary Logistics Bond.

Damon’s entire business relies on a single weakness: his company over-leveraged its debt to acquire the Northern Shipping Ports.

He assumed his Alpha status would scare off secondary creditors from ever calling in those loans early. He has no idea that the master lien agreement contains a hidden acceleration clause—a clause I intentionally drafted into the fine print two years ago as a security measure.

I hit EXECUTE.

A green confirmation text scrolls across my screen:

LIEN POSITION ACQUIRED: 35% OF TOTAL VANCE ENTERPRISES DEBT PURCHASED.

Next target: I type smoothly. Buy the remaining 65% through the secondary market by midnight.

My phone chimes immediately with an incoming text from an unlisted number:

User Valkyrie: Aggressive market entry detected in the European sector. You’re making waves. The Vance pack’s financial advisors are already panicking.

I smile, typing back: Let them panic. Tell the brokers to double the buy rate. I want his neck in a noose by sunrise.

Meanwhile, forty floors above the city street, Damon Vance stands in his dark office, staring at the empty space where I stood just twenty minutes ago.

The silence in the penthouse is deafening.

He looks down at the signed pre-nuptial and separation agreement resting on his desk. My signature is dry, sharp, and perfectly executed. There are no tear stains on the paper. No frantic, scribbled desperate notes in the margins.

It is completely clean.

Damon lets out an irritated breath, running a heavy hand through his dark hair. A strange, uncomfortable knot tightens in his stomach—a feeling he hasn't experienced since he was an unranked wolf challenging his father for the Alpha title.

Why didn't she scream? Why didn't she cry?

She was supposed to throw a fit. She was supposed to beg him to think about their history, to remind him of everything she had done for him, giving him the satisfaction of coldly rejecting her.

That was how the power dynamic worked. She was the weak, lineage-less orphan who depended on his pack for protection, and he was the benefactor who tolerated her presence.

Instead, she looked at him as if he were an annoying fly.

The heavy double doors of his office burst open, breaking his train of thought.

Chloe walks in, wearing a fitted crimson velvet dress, her blonde hair styled in pristine waves. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with victory as she struts toward the desk.

"Damon, darling!" Chloe purrs, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips against his cheek. "The board members just left the lower lounge. Is it done? Did the human finally sign it?"

Damon gently disengages from her grip, stepping back behind his desk. "Yes, Chloe. She signed it."

"Oh, thank the moon goddess!" Chloe claps her manicured hands together, a wicked glint in her eyes. "I knew she’d give up once she realized she had no leverage. Where is she? Did she pack her bags? I want to make sure she didn't steal any of the pack gifts you gave her."

"She didn't take anything," Damon says flatly, staring out at the rain. "She left in five minutes. She didn't even take her allowance card."

Chloe pauses, her smile flickering for a brief second before she recovers with a soft, condescending chuckle. "Well, she’s trying to be dramatic, obviously. She’ll come crawling back in two days when she realizes she can't even afford a decent apartment in the lower city. Humans are so predictable."

Damon doesn't reply. He looks down at his desk phone, which is suddenly flashing red with an urgent internal line from the chief financial officer.

He presses speakerphone. "What is it, Marcus? I'm busy."

"Alpha!" Marcus’s panicked voice blasts through the speaker, drowning out the ambient sound of the office. "We have a massive crisis in the market! Someone is executing an aggressive short-sell on our logistics stock!"

Damon’s eyebrows draw together in a sharp scowl. "What are you talking about? Our stock is locked until the morning bell."

"They aren't trading on the public stock exchange, sir! Someone just initiated an offshore buyout of our secondary debt bonds! They've already liquidated thirty-five percent of our northern port loans in under fifteen minutes!"

Chloe gasps, clutching her pearl necklace. "What? Who would do that? Is it a rival pack?"

"Trace the buyer," Damon commands, his voice dropping into a dangerous Alpha growl. "Block the transaction using our emergency reserve funds!"

"We can't!" Marcus stammers, sound terrified. "The buyer is using an encrypted sovereign mandate through the Royal Court’s shadow exchange. We can't identify the individual, only the institutional name—Valkyrie Holdings. Alpha, if they buy another twenty percent, they will legally hold a controlling interest in our shipping lines!"

Damon’s heart gives a sudden, violent thud against his ribs.

Valkyrie Holdings.

His mind flashes back to five minutes ago—to Lyra standing by the elevator doors, her eyes cold as ice, her soft voice echoing through the room:

'Because when I take everything you own... I won't even need to step foot in this building to do it.'

"Damon? Darling, what’s wrong?" Chloe asks, reaching out to touch his arm, her voice trembling slightly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Damon shoves her hand away, his grey eyes wide with a sudden, horrifying realization that he refuses to accept.

"No," Damon mutters to himself, shaking his head sharply. "It's impossible. She’s just a human. She doesn't have those kind of resources. She doesn't have the brains for high-level finance."

He snaps his phone off the desk, dialing his head of security. "Find Lyra Linwood. Right now. I want satellite tracking on her phone, her banking accounts, and every camera within five miles of Vance Tower."

The black sedan pulls up under the grand marble arches of the Royal Crown Hotel.

Two tall guards in tailored black suits step forward, opening my door. They are not standard werewolf enforcers—their shoulders are broad, their postures military, and their eyes burn with a faint, deep-amber hue. Royal Lycan guards. The elite military force belonging directly to the King.

"Welcome to the Sovereign Suite, Lady Valkyrie," one of the guards says, bowing his head respectfully.