Promised to the Alfa's Son, Fated to Another

Chapter fourteen

Zoey leaned against the counter of the tiny shop, pretending to notice the customers. In truth, her thoughts were miles away.

Everyone always stared. Not because she was beautiful—though her golden hair and sharp green eyes turned heads—but because she was Zoey Backet. The bastard child. Born from two packs, yet belonging to none.

Her father was Emmet Campbell, respected elder of the Full Moon pack. Her mother… once of the Red Moon pack. Their little mistake was now standing behind the counter, selling cheap phones to make rent.

The bell chimed. Zoey’s stomach clenched when she saw him. Emmet. Light blond hair, gentle brown eyes—he looked younger than his sixty years. To the world, he was honorable. To her, he was a secret.

“Sweetheart,” he greeted softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Zoey forced a smile. “You have a moment?”

They slipped into the back room. He pulled out a wad of cash, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I know it’s not enough…”

Three hundred dollars. Rent alone was five. Her chest tightened.

“How are you, Zoey?” he asked, as if the answer mattered.

“Not complaining,” she lied, though the bitterness laced her tone.

“I spoke with Alpha Satton,” Emmet continued. “Soon, after my son’s engagement is announced, we can finally bring you into the pack. Officially.”

Zoey’s laugh was sharp. “Big deal. Engagement.”

“It is a matter of status. Not every she-wolf is considered worthy.”

“Worthy.” The word cut like glass.

“I arranged something for you,” he added quickly. “At the party… catering needs more hands. You can be a waitress.”

Zoey froze. Her lips curved into a cruel smile. “So, you want me to serve your wife and your precious daughter? Smile while I pour champagne for the family that gets to exist, while I hide in the shadows?”

Emmet paled. For once, he had no words.

“I didn’t think about that,” he admitted quietly.

“Of course you didn’t.” Zoey shoved the cash into her pocket. Her wolf growled inside her chest, restless, humiliated.

His phone buzzed. He answered with a soft, “Yes, darling.” The voice he used for his real family. Zoey turned away, swallowing the burn in her throat.

When he left, she stared at the bills in her hand, anger boiling. Three hundred dollars to buy her silence. To keep the bastard quiet.

The doorbell rang again. A young man approached the counter, throwing down cash for a phone. His smirk lingered too long on her chest.

“You gave that old guy a private show in the back?” he sneered. “Add a few extra dollars and you can give me one too.”

Zoey’s nails dug into her palm. She forced a smile, slipped the phone into a bag, and shoved it at him. “Get a grip, punk.”

He laughed, swaggering out. The moment the shop was empty, Zoey snatched up her own phone. Her fingers trembled, but her mind was cold, sharp.

She dialed. No answer. She typed instead: Didn’t you ask for information?

The phone rang almost immediately. She pressed it to her ear.

“It better be good,” a man’s voice snapped, breathless, like he’d been interrupted from something intimate.

Zoey’s lips curved. Finally, power. “I can tell you when and where the engagement party will be, Mister Layton.”