After Divorce: Alpha, Kneel Before Me

Chapter 3

"Clara..." I whispered, my voice barely audible, a mix of disbelief and pain. My whole body trembled with a fury I couldn't control. I wanted to scream, to yell, to make her feel the same gut-wrenching agony I was in.

But all that came out was a strangled sob.

She looked at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, and for the first time, I saw the vulnerability in her—something raw and real, not just the confident Beta who had always stood by my side. But even that couldn’t make me forgive her. I wanted to hate her, to make her feel the same devastation that clawed at my soul.

“I never wanted this, Shamarah,” she said, her voice cracked with guilt and sorrow.

“I never wanted to hurt you. But... I couldn’t help it. Alpha Dior—he’s been distant, cold, but when he looked at me, I could feel it. He needed me. He’s wanted this for so long, and I—”

“Stop,” I snapped, holding up a hand to cut her off. I couldn't hear any more of her excuses.

The betrayal, the pain—it was too much. I turned away, stumbling back toward the house, my mind swirling with confusion. I had to get away. I had to be alone.

But before I could make it to the door, a sudden sharp sound broke the silence. The door to our room slammed open, and I froze as I saw him—Dior. His eyes met mine, cold, unfeeling, like he was staring at a stranger.

I barely registered the bottle of liquor in my hand as I looked at him, my mind numb. I wasn’t sure if I was angry, heartbroken, or just lost in the overwhelming waves of emotion. My legs shook as I stood there, staring at him, silently begging for some kind of recognition, some hint that he cared.

“Dior,” I said, my voice hoarse, broken.

“Please love me. Like I love you. I don’t care what you say. I don’t care about the heir, I don’t care about anything else. I just want you. I just want to be your wife, your mate forever. Please, I’m begging you...”

I dropped to my knees, tears streaming down my face as the liquor bottle slipped from my grip and shattered on the floor. I didn’t care. I wanted to drown in the pain, in the emptiness that I felt every time he looked at me with that detached expression.

But instead of the tenderness I had hoped for, Dior’s face twisted with annoyance. He took a step forward, his eyes hardening.

“You’re drunk,” he said, his voice low and cold. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough, Shamarah.”

I felt my heart break all over again, the shards of it cutting deeper than anything before. But what hurt the most was how indifferent he seemed. How far he had drifted from me.

“You don’t deserve to be near me,” he added, his tone laced with disgust.

“You’ve failed me, and now you’re nothing more than a liability. Don’t think I’m going to let you sleep beside me anymore.”

The words struck me like a slap to the face. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. It was like the very core of me was being ripped apart, and all I could do was watch, helpless.

“Dior, please,” I pleaded, my voice desperate, “I love you. Please don’t do this. Just... please.”

But he didn’t listen. With a harsh grip, he grabbed my arm and dragged me away from the door.

“Get out of my sight,” he ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

I fought him for a moment, but he was too strong. I was nothing to him now, just a burden he was eager to discard. The door to his room slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed in my soul.

I stood there, trembling, utterly broken. My knees buckled, and I collapsed to the floor, unable to contain the sobs that racked my body. Everything was over. He had made his decision, and I had no place in his life anymore. No place in his heart.

The room felt suffocating, the air thick with the scent of broken dreams. And as I lay there, I couldn’t help but wonder—was it even worth fighting anymore? Would anyone ever love me the way I loved him? Was he already know about Clara’s pregnancy?

The next morning sunlight pierced through the small window, its harsh light searing into my eyes, pulling me from a restless sleep. My body felt heavy, like I had been carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I pushed myself up, my head pounding, and a sharp ache twisted in my chest. I didn’t recognize my surroundings at first, the room too small, too unfamiliar. It took a moment before the reality hit me—I wasn’t in our room, the one Dior had shared with me.

The memory of last night rushed back—Dior dragging me out of the room, his cold words piercing my soul, his indifference more painful than anything he had ever said before. I had begged him. I had pleaded. But nothing changed.

I stood up, my legs shaky as I stumbled out of the room. The sounds of laughter and chatter reached my ears, and for a brief moment, I thought maybe I had imagined everything. Maybe Dior hadn’t really meant what he said. Maybe this was all just a nightmare.

But as soon as I stepped outside, the truth hit me hard.

The packhouse was alive with energy—decorations in every corner, bright banners draped from the walls, and the scent of food and alcohol filled the air. My heart sank as I realized what was happening. Dior’s birthday. How could I have forgotten?

I walked through the halls, my footsteps heavy, the sounds of the preparations mocking me, and with each step, the sinking feeling in my chest grew. I reached the main hall, the heart of the celebration. There, standing in the center, was my husband, Alpha Dior—looking every bit the king he thought he was. And beside him was Clara, my once best friend, standing too close, smiling as if they were the perfect picture of happiness.

The sight of them together twisted something deep inside me. They were laughing, talking—like nothing had ever happened, like nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Everything. They had shattered my world, and now, they stood there, flaunting their betrayal in my face.

I didn’t care that people were staring. I didn’t care about the awkward silence that settled when I walked in. I couldn’t contain the fury that bubbled inside me any longer. I marched toward them, my eyes locked onto Clara, my hands trembling with a mix of rage and hurt.

“How sweet,” I said, my voice dripping with venom. “You two are a real picture of love, aren’t you? How adorable. How insulting.”

Clara flinched, but Dior didn’t even look at me at first. He just stood there, a mask of indifference on his face. But then, finally, he turned to face me, his eyes colder than I had ever seen them.

“We’re done, Shamarah,” he said, his voice sharp, like a blade cutting through the last remnants of what we had. “This marriage is over.”

My breath hitched in my throat. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Done? I had never felt more exposed, more naked, than in that moment. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to make him see the depth of the pain he was causing me. But no words came. Instead, Dior reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper—the divorce papers.

He shoved them in front of me, his gaze unrelenting, his stance firm.

"Here," he said, voice cold as ice. "Sign them. It’s official. Our bond is broken."

I felt my knees weaken beneath me. The bond. The sacred bond that once tied us together—gone. In its place was a void, an emptiness so deep I couldn’t even comprehend it. The surrounding walls seemed to close in, and I was suffocating in the reality of it all.

“And this,” Dior continued, his words like daggers, “is your replacement.”

He motioned to Clara, who stood there, barely able to mask the smugness in her eyes. She stepped forward, and Dior’s next words hit me harder than anything he had ever said.

“Beta Clara will be your new Luna,” he announced, his voice echoing through the room like a verdict. "She is pregnant. She’s everything you couldn’t be."