Reborn To Ruin The Alpha

Eighteen Month Before The End

CHAPTER 1: Eighteen Months Before the End

I did not sleep that first night.

I lay in my bed and stared at that cracked ceiling and went through everything. Every single detail I could remember from the first time. Richard's schedule. The clinic layout. The names of the staff. The exact wording of the contract. Mirabel's dead eyes at the gala. The nurse who always took extra blood.

My wolf paced restlessly inside me. She was angry in a way I had never experienced from her before. Not sad, not broken. Furious.

"We go back," she growled, and it was the first full sentence she had spoken to me in what felt like a lifetime. "We go back and we end him."

I sat up in bed around 4 a.m. and walked to the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzed above my head as I gripped the edge of the sink.

The girl in the mirror was a stranger. No, that was wrong. She was the old me. The version I had forgotten existed. Thin face, hollow cheeks from not eating enough, dark circles under grey eyes. My brown hair hung limp past my shoulders. I looked like someone who had given up on life before it even started.

Foster care did that to you. Eighteen years of being passed around like an unwanted package, and then the system spits you out with nothing. No family. No money. No pack willing to claim an orphaned wolf with no bloodline to offer.

I was twenty-three in this timeline. Working two jobs, barely covering rent, eating ramen four nights a week. The perfect target for a predator like Richard.

Last time, I saw that surrogacy ad and felt desperate hope. This time, I looked at it and saw exactly what it was. Bait.

By sunrise I had a plan. Not a perfect one, but a starting point. I needed three things: evidence, allies, and Richard's heart on a string.

The evidence part was straightforward. I would record everything. Every visit, every conversation, every suspicious medical procedure. My phone had a recording app that ran in the background. I would buy a small camera for my apartment.

The allies would come later. I remembered the nurse with the kind eyes who always lingered too long during my appointments. Her name is Tina. She always looked like she wanted to say something but never did. In the first timeline I never pushed. This time, I would.

And Richard's heart. That would be the easiest part. Because I already knew exactly what he wanted to hear, exactly how to look at him, exactly when to pull away and when to lean in. I had a roadmap of his weaknesses drawn in my own heartbreak.

I got dressed in my cleanest pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror again and frowned. In the first timeline, I showed up to the clinic looking desperate. Nervous. Grateful for the opportunity.

Not this time.

I pulled my hair back, put on the one pair of earrings I owned, and practiced a calm, steady expression. Confident, but not threatening. Interesting, but not suspicious.

My wolf hummed with approval.

I pulled up the ad on my phone again. Crestwood Fertility Clinic. Seeking qualified surrogate candidates. Comprehensive compensation package. Discreet, professional environment.

The number at the bottom was burned into my memory. I had called it in a panic last time, terrified they would fill the spot before I could get there.

This time I dialed slowly. Each number pressed with purpose.

"Crestwood Fertility Clinic, how may I direct your call?" A bored female voice answered.

"I'm calling about the surrogate position," I said. My voice was steady. No shake, no nerves.

"One moment please."

Hold music. Classical. Elegant. Everything about that clinic was designed to look perfect on the surface.

"Thank you for your interest. Can I get your name?"

"Evelyn." I paused. Let the silence stretch one beat longer than comfortable. "When is the earliest consultation available?"

"We have an opening Thursday at 10 a.m. Would that work?"

Thursday…Three days. In the first timeline, I begged for anything sooner. They gave me Friday.

"Thursday works." I hung up before she could ask anything else.

Three days. Three days to prepare, to think, to make sure my armor was airtight.

I spent those three days like a soldier getting ready for war. I bought a pocket-sized recording device from an electronics store downtown. I researched surrogacy law until my eyes burned. I mapped out the clinic's public records, staff listings, and ownership documents.

The ownership trail was buried under layers of shell companies. But one name kept surfacing at the very bottom. Sylvia Cross. The clinic director.

In my first life, Sylvia had been just a name on paperwork. A stern woman in a white coat who handed me forms and told me where to sign. I never thought twice about her.

Now her name sat in my notebook, circled three times.

Thursday morning came fast. I stood outside Crestwood Fertility Clinic at 9:45 a.m. and looked up at the building. Three stories of grey stone and tinted windows. Perfectly landscaped hedges lining the entrance. Money dripping from every surface.

My wolf pressed forward, her senses sharpening mine. I could smell antiseptic and something else underneath. Something floral and artificial meant to cover whatever they did not want visitors to notice.

I pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the lobby. White marble floors. Soft piano music. A reception desk manned by a blonde woman who barely looked up.

"Evelyn?" she asked without interest. "Take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."

I sat in one of the leather chairs and crossed my legs. My recording device was already running in my bag.

The lobby was empty except for one other person. A woman in the far corner, flipping through a magazine. She had auburn hair pinned neatly at her neck, a cashmere cardigan draped over slim shoulders. Everything about her screamed money and breeding.

She looked up, and our eyes met.

Mirabel.

I recognized her instantly, even though in this timeline we had never met. My chest tightened at the sight of her. In the first life, I hated this woman. I thought she was the cold, heartless Luna that Richard described. The woman standing between us.

But now I looked at her differently. I noticed the way her fingers gripped the magazine too tightly. The slight tremor in her jaw. The long sleeves in warm weather.

She gave me a polite, empty smile and looked back down at her magazine.

A door opened behind the reception desk, and a voice called my name.

I stood, smoothed my shirt, and walked forward. As I passed through the doorway, I let my eyes drift to the security camera mounted in the ceiling corner. Its red light blinked steadily.

Somewhere in this building, someone was watching.