Reborn: The Alpha I Called a Mistake

Chapter 11

Aurelia’s POV

And for a while, I believed it was enough.

Until the day I found the tickets.

They were in the pocket of Ryan’s coat.

Two first-class tickets to Paris.

My hands trembled as I pulled them free.

Then I saw the names.

Ryan Dravenhart.

Vespera Nightbane.

Something inside me cracked.

I stood alone in the closet, staring at those two names until they blurred through the tears gathering in my eyes.

Paris.

With her.

After everything.

Every promise he had made suddenly felt hollow.

Every kiss.

Every reassurance.

Every time he had told me that I was the only woman who mattered.

I confronted him that night.

I placed the tickets on the kitchen counter and watched his expression change the moment he saw them.

The color drained from his face.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then his carefully constructed composure began to fracture.

“It’s business,” he said.

Too quickly.

Too defensively.

“Just business, Aurelia. I swear.”

I stared at him.

“Business?”

The word tasted bitter.

“You and Vespera. Paris. First class.”

“Yes.”

He stepped toward me, raising his hands as though I were something fragile he was afraid of breaking.

“There’s a film festival. She’s the face of one of our new projects. I have to be there. It’s part of the deal.”

I looked at him.

At the man I had given a second chance.

At the man whose bed I had returned to.

At the man I had trusted enough to believe that perhaps the worst was finally behind us.

And something inside me became strangely still.

“Okay.”

The word barely escaped my lips.

I turned away before he could see the tears burning in my eyes.

This time, it wasn’t disappointment that consumed me.

It was emptiness.

A deep, frightening numbness that settled somewhere inside my chest and refused to move.

Maybe this was the moment I had been waiting for without realizing it.

The final straw.

The last thread holding me to him.

I had spent so long trying to repair something that kept breaking in my hands that I had forgotten what it felt like to simply let go.

Ryan was the person who had once filled the emptiness inside me.

He had been my home.

My comfort.

The one person I believed would make the loneliness disappear.

And yet, even with him beside me, I had never felt more alone.

Maybe that was the cruelest truth of all.

I could stay.

I could continue convincing myself that his love was enough, that his excuses were understandable, that Vespera’s cruelty was simply the price of being with a man whose world was larger than mine.

Or I could finally choose myself.

For the first time, the thought of leaving him did not terrify me.

It almost felt like relief.

Maybe I would grieve him.

Maybe I would miss him until it hurt.

Maybe there would be nights when I would reach for him out of habit and remember that he was no longer mine.

But perhaps, after all of that pain, I would finally be able to breathe.

Perhaps I would finally feel light once I cut away the dead weight I had been carrying for so long.

And maybe letting Ryan go was not the end of my world.

Maybe it was the beginning of getting myself back.

The film festival was real. I had checked.

Three days of screenings, panels, press events, and red-carpet premieres—exactly the kind of event Ryan Dravenhart would attend with a rising star.

And Vespera Nightbane was rising fast.

Her face appeared on magazine covers and entertainment blogs almost daily. The industry wanted to claim her, photograph her, and make her famous.

In Paris, Ryan would stand beside her for the cameras, whisper in her ear between flashes, and join her at glittering after-parties.

Maybe they would share late-night talks in a luxury hotel suite about business, the film, or nothing related to either.

That was the performance.

The role he had chosen.

And I chose mine.

The day before his flight, I woke before dawn.

I did not cry, confront him, or demand answers.

Instead, I made a decision.

If Ryan was going to Paris with Vespera, I would give him something to remember—something that would follow him through the cameras, flashing lights, and quiet Parisian nights.

Something that would make him think of me.

I dressed carefully.

I chose the black lace dress I had bought but never dared to wear. It hugged my figure and fell to my thighs. I slipped into heels that lengthened my legs and applied the perfume Ryan once said drove him crazy—a dark scent with a hint of vanilla.

I curled my hair into loose waves and painted my lips cherry red.

In the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

I did not look heartbroken.

Perhaps dangerous.

Then I cooked.

The apartment filled with garlic, butter, and herbs. Roasted chicken browned beside vegetables seasoned just as Ryan liked them. I prepared everything as though this were an ordinary evening between lovers.

As though tomorrow—and Paris—did not exist.

I set the table with candles and our good china, polished the crystal glasses, and opened the wine we had been saving.

It almost made me laugh.

Perhaps this was our special occasion.

Our last dinner before everything changed.

When everything was ready, I sat and waited.

Seven o’clock came.

Then the front door broke the silence.