Rejected By The Man Who Broke Me, Claimed By The Alpha King

Victoria's POV "If he walked back into your life today," Bree asked gently, "what part of you would open the door first, your head or your heart?" I stared at the small crack in the ceiling above her office couch, the one shaped like a crooked lightning bolt. I've been counting it for weeks. It helps when my chest starts to feel too tight. "My heart," I whisper. The word tasted like betrayal. Bree did not flinch. She never does. She just nods, like she expected that answer. Like she's been waiting for me to finally stop lying. "That doesn't make you weak, Victoria," she said. "It makes you honest." If honesty was enough, I wouldn't be here. I curled my fingers into the fabric of my coat, nails digging in. My body still reacts when his name hovers too close to the surface, like my nerves recognize him before my mind does. James Scoffield. The only man I've ever loved. The only man who ever broke me. Three years! That was how long we were together. Three years of shared classes, shared beds, shared dreams that slowly became his and stopped being mine. He was my first kiss, my first love, my first time. The first man who made me feel chosen. And the first who made me feel so small. It didn't start ugly. It never does. There were late-night drives, his hand warm and confident on my thigh, his laugh loud and careless like the world had never told him no. James came from money, the kind that cushioned every fall. His parents paid his tuition, his rent, his mistakes. He spent cash the way other people spent time. I mistook that ease for security. The first time he hit me, it wasn't even hard. Just a sharp slap when we were arguing, it was more shock than pain. I remember freezing, my mind blank, my ears ringing like I'd walked into the wrong reality. He cried afterwards. Bawling his eyes out, saying he had lost control and that wasn't him. He said stress made him someone he didn't recognize, someone he was trying hard to fix so he could be good for me. He showed up the next day with flowers, my favourite, red roses, chocolates, Twix to be precise and a Kelly bag worth over fifty thousand dollars. I didn't even know how much it cost until the saleswoman's eyes widened when James casually dropped it on the counter like it was nothing. I owned nothing luxurious so it was a new kind of excitement. I remembered thinking, No man who spends this much on an apology could really be bad. He must really love me. Maybe a second chance wasn't so bad afterall. That was the beginning of the lie I told myself. James forgot my birthday every year. Every single one. And every year, I told myself it didn't matter because a few days later, he'd throw money at the guilt, designer shoes, jewelry, weekend trips I never asked for. He'd smirk and say, "You know I'm bad with dates, Vic." Bad with dates, great with excuses. "He never changed," I said now, my voice brittle. "But I kept waiting like he would." Bree leaned forward slightly. "What were you waiting for?" "For him to choose me," I sighed heavily. "The way I chose him." Silence stretched between us, heavy and familiar. Bree doesn't rush it. She let the truth sit where it hurt. I loved James in a way that erased me. I defended him to my friends. To my sister. To myself. I loved the version of him I met at nineteen, the boy who smiled like trouble and held me like I was the only real thing in his world. When Bree told me, gently, carefully, that love doesn't bruise you, I broke down. Because if she was right, then everything I held onto was wrong. The final memory doesn't come quietly. It never does. I wasn't supposed to come home early that day. My car had stalled outside the office, again, and my boss waved me off like I was replaceable. I remembered thinking I'd surprise James. Maybe we'd order takeout. Maybe I'd pretend everything was normal for one more night. Instead, I walked into hell. I did not tell Bree that the memory lives rent-free in my body, not my head. That it started with the sound. Not moaning, that would be too generous a word. It was my mother's voice, sharp and needy, coming from my bedroom like something feral. The walls carried it, bounced it, forced it into my ears before my brain could catch up. I remembered thinking, She must have the TV on too loud. Why was she watching porn at her age? Then I pushed the door open. James had his back to me. Broad shoulders, familiar spine, the tattoo at the nape of his neck I used to trace with my finger when I couldn't sleep. His jeans were around his thighs. My mother was on my bed, my bed hair wild, legs wrapped around him like she belonged there. Like I didn't. Her nails were digging into his back. My back. The one I used to kiss after he hurt me and said sorry. James didn't even stop. He just lifted his head, looked over his shoulder, and froze. Not in shame. In irritation. Like I'd interrupted something important. The room smelled like s*x and my perfume. The silk blouse I'd worn to work that day, cream, buttoned to my throat, suddenly felt obscene on my skin. My hands were shaking so badly I had to clench them into fists to stay upright. My mother gasped when she saw me. Covered her mouth. Whispered my name like I was the sin. James finally pulled away, swore under his breath. "Vic—" I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't even move. I stared at the tattoo on my ribs, just below my sports bra, James, inked in cursive like a promise I thought would last forever. I'd been stupid enough to make him permanent on my skin. The irony nearly made me laugh. He'd told me once that my eyes were my best feature. Hazel, flecked with gold. Said they looked like they were always searching for something. That day, I felt them go dead. I remember every detail too clearly. My mother's lipstick smeared. The indentation her body left on the mattress. The fact that James had bought her the same Vancleef bracelet he once gave me, gold, thin, careless. Three years reduced to one grotesque moment. I turned around and walked out. I didn't run. I didn't slam the door. I just left like a ghost abandoning her own life. I blocked my mother that night. Changed my number. Slept in my car because the thought of that bed made me sick. And still, still, my heart betrayed me. I woke up hoping James would call and tell me it was a bad dream. It never happened and that he loved me. That is the part that scares me the most. Not that he ruined me. But that a part of me would have let him do it again. What he did was unforgivable but why is my heart refusing to process it? Why am I in denial and hoping I was hallucinating that night? That image lives in me now. The way trauma does, uninvited, permanent. Some nights I still hear her voice. Some mornings I wake up gagging. I haven't spoken to my mother since. "How did that moment change you?" Bree asked softly. "I stopped recognizing myself," I said. "I wanted to block him. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to do the right thing." My voice shook. "But my heart kept begging for him to love me back." That's the part no one understands. Not my sister, Lydia, perfect Lydia with her white coat, her perfect marriage, her three beautiful children who call me Aunt Vic like I'm some distant relative. Not my coworkers at the front desk of a company that pays me just enough to survive but never enough to escape. My father's dead. My mother's gone. My sister lives a life that feels like a different universe. And me? I'm twenty-four, sitting on a therapist's couch, still in love with the man who ruined me. Bree watched me carefully. "Healing doesn't start with forgetting," she said. "It starts with choosing yourself, even when it feels impossible." I swallowed. "I don't know how." "I do," she replied. "And we're going to start small." "It is that time of the year where people make resolutions, exes will come crawling back, James would do whatever to ruin your healing and growth." "You think I can heal from this?!" I scoffed, wiping a stray tear off my cheeks. She opened her notebook, pen poised. "Time will help you heal." That, I found hard to believe. "This week," Bree said, "I want you to do one thing that scares you. One thing that shifts your routine, your sense of worth." I laughed weakly. "Everything scares me." She smiled. "Good. Then it means there's still something alive in you." I left her office an hour later with red eyes, a pounding head, and a knot in my chest that hasn't loosened, but hasn't tightened either. A familiar scent wafted through my nostrils. It was one I had committed to memory on our first date, three years ago. I felt the ground shift beneath my feet when his towering height loomed from behind. "Vic." I froze, keys slipping from my fingers. I know that voice. I turned. "James?" He smiled like we were still us. Like he didn't ruin me. "Hey," he said, pulling a bouquet from behind his back. Red roses. Too many. Too dramatic. My chest locked. "What are you doing here?" He dropped to one knee. Right there. In the parking lot. "Marry me," James said softly. "Let's stop pretending we don't belong together." My breath shattered. People stared, fawning. My world tilted. And all I could think about was, "What the hell!" when people started screaming. "Say yes!"