My Alpha Chose His Ex Over Me

Chapter 3 Dinner Wars

Eva

I froze in the dining room doorway, taking in the scene before me.

A stunning blonde woman sat at our dinner table like she belonged there, her golden hair catching the evening light as she laughed at something Elias said. Martha hovered nearby with an expression I'd never seen before—pure maternal adoration.

"Eva, dear, come meet Lena properly," Martha called out, her voice warm in a way it never was for me. "Lena Thorne—surely Grayson has mentioned his dear childhood friend?"

The name hit me with a jolt of recognition. Lena Thorne.

I'd heard it before—Martha had mentioned her yesterday as a "family friend" who was coming to visit. But the way Martha said it now, with such reverence, such loaded significance, made my stomach drop. The calculating look in the woman's amber eyes, the slight smile playing at her lips as if she knew a secret I didn't.

"They were practically inseparable growing up. First loves, you know how it is." Martha turned to Lena with conspiratorial warmth. "Though I suppose some memories are too precious to share with a wife."

The words landed like barbs. First loves. This elegant, successful woman wasn't just any childhood friend—she was the ghost I'd been competing with for five years without even knowing her name.

"Well," I said, forcing a smile as I extended my hand, "I'm Eva, Grayson's wife."

I emphasized the word wife just slightly, watching for her reaction.

Lena's smile didn't waver as she shook my hand, but her grip was firm, almost challenging. "How lovely to finally meet you, Eva. I've been so curious about the woman who captured Grayson's heart."

The way she said captured made it sound temporary, like something that could be lost.

"I specialize in manuscript restoration," I continued, "Particularly medieval texts."

"How... quaint," Lena said, settling back into her chair with feline grace. "I imagine it must be quite isolating work."

Martha practically glowed as she turned to me. "Lena manages a five-hundred-billion-dollar cultural heritage fund. She's revolutionizing how we preserve endangered cultural artifacts."

"The numbers hardly matter," Lena said with false modesty, though her smile was sharp. "What's important is bringing preservation into the modern era. The old cottage industry model is so... limiting."

I watched my son—our son—completely enchanted by this woman who'd once held Grayson's heart. When was the last time Elias had looked at me with such rapt attention?

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "What kind of modern approach?"

"Oh, you know—institutional backing, cutting-edge technology, professional teams rather than individual craftspeople." She waved a manicured hand. "The old cottage industry model is charming, but it lacks the resources to truly protect our most precious heritage."

Everything clicked into place with sickening clarity. This wasn't coincidence—this was strategy. Grayson's first love hadn't just returned; she'd engineered her comeback to target exactly what I did, what gave me value in this family beyond my bloodline abilities.

"Speaking of which," she continued, leaning forward with apparent interest, "I understand you've been working on some thirteenth-century manuscripts? That's exactly the kind of work my fund specializes in."

My blood ran cold. How could she possibly know about the Blackfriars Chronicle I'd been restoring? I'd only mentioned it to Sophia yesterday.

"How did you know about that project?"

Lena's smile didn't waver. "Word travels fast in our small community of preservation specialists. I actually just acquired a collection of New England werewolf genealogies—fascinating stuff. I was hoping to find someone local to collaborate with, but..." She shrugged elegantly. "Perhaps traditional individual workshops need to evolve with the times."

The implication hit me like a physical blow. Those genealogies—they were the Whitmore Collection. I'd been negotiating to restore them for months. The client had suddenly withdrawn last week, citing "a better offer."

"That's exactly what I was saying to Grayson last night," Martha chimed in. "The pack's cultural preservation efforts could benefit from more... professional oversight."

Before I could respond, Lena reached into an expensive-looking handbag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped package. "Speaking of cultural appreciation, I brought something for you, Elias."

My son's face lit up as she handed him what looked like an antique children's book bound in leather, along with an elaborate wooden puzzle box.

"It's a collection of ancient folklore tales," Lena explained, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "Stories passed down through generations about brave wolves and magical forests. And this puzzle box contains a special surprise—but only for very clever little wolves."

Elias gasped with delight, immediately drawn to the intricate carvings on the box. "Can you show me how it works, Aunt Lena?"

Aunt Lena. When had that happened?

"Of course, darling. I know lots of stories and tricks. Would you like me to teach you some magic later?"

"Yes, please!" Elias's enthusiasm was like a dagger to my heart. When was the last time he'd looked at me with such excitement?

I watched my son—our son—completely enchanted by this woman who'd swept into our lives like a beautiful hurricane. The way she touched his hair, the natural ease between them, the expensive gifts that made my modest efforts look pathetic by comparison.

"Eva, you look pale," Martha observed with false concern. "Perhaps you should rest more. All that close work with old books must be so... taxing."

My phone buzzed with a text from Sophia: Where are you? We need to talk about the Morrison project. Something's wrong.

"I should check on some urgent work," I said, standing abruptly. "There's something I need to verify at the workshop."

"Oh, Sophia Bell," Lena said casually. "Lovely girl. We had quite an interesting conversation yesterday about the future of independent restoration work."

I froze halfway to the door. When had Lena met Sophia? And why was my best friend talking to her about our business?

"I should go," I repeated, feeling suddenly desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

As I reached the doorway, I heard Elias ask, "Aunt Lena, will you tell me the story about the wolf prince?"

"Of course, sweetheart. I know all the best stories about wolves who were meant to be together."

The words followed me down the hallway like a promise and a threat.

Back in my workshop, I paced restlessly around my restoration table, but my hands were shaking. Sophia sat hunched over her laptop in the corner, working late to finish some urgent documentation, her usual cheerful demeanor nowhere to be found.

"Soph, what's going on with the Morrison project?"

She looked up, and for just a moment, I caught something in her expression—guilt? Fear?

"They cancelled," she said quickly, not quite meeting my eyes. "Said they found someone with better... resources."

"Let me guess. Moonrise Cultural Heritage Fund?"

Sophia's face went white. "How did you—"

"Lucky guess." I sank into my chair, pieces of a horrible puzzle clicking into place. "Sophia, how exactly did you meet Lena Thorne?"

"I..." She fumbled with her phone, which buzzed insistently. "Sorry, Eva, it's about my sister's medical bills. Can we talk about this later?"

As she stepped outside to take the call, I noticed she'd left her laptop open. The screen showed an email draft, and my heart stopped as I read the subject line: RE: Eva Cole Work Progress - Week 12.

"Sophia," I called softly when she returned, my voice barely steady. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

Her phone rang again immediately, and this time I saw the caller ID: Anonymous Investor.

She declined the call, but her face had gone ashen.

"Eva, I can explain—"

"Can you?" I stood slowly, looking at my best friend—my business partner, my confidante—with new eyes. "Because I'm starting to think I don't know you at all."

"It's not what you think," she whispered.

"Then tell me what it is."

But before she could answer, the workshop door opened and Grayson walked in, carrying that subtle pine and moonlight scent that used to comfort me. Now it just made me feel more alone.

"Eva, we need to talk about your bloodline integration sessions," he said without preamble. "They're becoming... inconsistent."

I looked at my husband—the man whose werewolf abilities I'd been stabilizing for five years—and realized that for the first time since our bonding, I had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.

"Maybe later, Grayson. I'm a little busy having my entire life fall apart."

He raised an eyebrow at my uncharacteristic sarcasm, but before he could respond, Sophia's phone rang again.

She glanced at the screen nervously. “Sorry, I really need to take this one. It’s urgent.”

She stepped outside quickly, but through the thin workshop walls, I could hear her muffled voice: “Yes, I have the updates you needed...”

Something was very wrong in our carefully constructed world. And I had the terrible feeling it was only the beginning.