Rejected In Nairobi, Claimed With The Alpha's Baby.

The small birthday cake fell from Aisha's hands and smashed on the golden floor of Serena Hotel. Chocolate and cream splattered on Vanessa Kenyatta's red Dior dress. The whole hall went silent. "Oh my God!" Vanessa screamed, jumping back like she touched fire. "This dirty waitress ruined my dress! It's 300,000 shillings! Mark, do something!" Aisha couldn't breathe. She stared at the floor. The pink icing said _Happy Birthday Aisha - 22_. She had saved 300 shillings every day for three months from her 18,000 shilling waitress salary to buy this small cake from Naivas. She wanted to share it with Mark. Mark Mwangi didn't look at the cake. He looked at his friends - all rich kids from Runda and Karen in suits, holding iPhones and champagne, now laughing and recording. "Aisha," he said, his voice so cold Aisha felt ice in her chest. "What did I tell you about coming to my private parties?" Aisha's lips shook. Tears started burning. "Mark... it's my birthday. You said you would come to Kayole to eat my mandazi tonight. I waited... you didn't come, so I brought cake to you. You said you loved my laugh." For six months, Mark came to Serena every evening at 6pm. He ordered black coffee and sat at Table 7, just to talk to her. He said he was tired of rich Runda girls with gold eyes who only wanted his Mwangi Group billions. He said Aisha was different. Real. Vanessa Kenyatta linked her arm through Mark's. Her gold eyes glowed faintly under the golden lights. She was the daughter of the Kenyatta pack, the girl Mark's father wanted him to marry. "Mark, darling, tell your little charity case the truth," Vanessa purred loudly so everyone could hear. "Tell her your father will disinherit you if you marry a human from Kayole who sells mandazi. Tell her Alpha heirs don't marry waitresses." Mark's silver eyes flickered. Aisha knew those eyes. She had seen them glow when he laughed with her at the staff kitchen, when he ate her samosas and said they were better than Serena's chef. For one second, Aisha thought she saw pain in them. Like his wolf was fighting. Then it was gone. The billionaire mask was back. "I was nice to you because you served me food, Aisha," Mark said, loud enough for the iPhones to catch. "That's what waitresses do. Service. I felt sorry for you. I am Mark Mwangi, heir to Mwangi Group. My pack is the strongest in Nairobi. My father would never allow human trash from Kayole in our bloodline. Take your cake and get out before security drags you out. You are embarrassing yourself." Someone in the back shouted, "Take her back to Kayole where she belongs!" Laughter exploded. Phones flashing. Aisha's blue waitress uniform, the one she had ironed so carefully that morning, now felt like rags. Like a costume. Her hands were shaking so hard she dropped the small envelope Mark had given her last week - 100,000 shillings. "For your trouble," he had said. She had wanted to throw it in his face then, but she kept it because her rent was due. She had also bought him a gift - a silver bracelet from Maasai Market for 2,000 shillings, almost her whole week's tips, with a small wolf carved inside. It was still in her apron pocket. She didn't give it. She couldn't speak. She turned and ran. She ran past the champagne tower, past the golden lights that had looked so beautiful from the kitchen, past Mzee Kamau the old security guard who shouted "Aisha! Child, what happened?" but she didn't stop. The Serena back door banged behind her and Nairobi night hit her face. Cold September rain, matatus screaming on Kenyatta Avenue, boda bodas splashing mud on her borrowed red dress from her roommate Njeri. Her 22nd birthday. Ruined. She stood under the streetlight crying, makeup running, holding the empty cake box, when she saw her. Across the road, under her own small mandazi kiosk that she closed every evening at 5pm, a tiny girl was hiding. Barefoot. Dress torn. Knees to her chest. Hair full of dust. And her eyes - glowing silver in the dark, exactly like Mark's when his wolf came out. Aisha forgot her own heartbreak. She crossed the road, dodging a matatu. "Hey... little one? Are you lost? Where is your mama?" The girl didn't move. She was staring at Serena Hotel across the road, at the golden light, like she was starving but too scared to come out. Aisha knelt in the mud. Rain soaked her dress. "I'm Aisha. I sell mandazi here. Are you hungry?" The girl slowly turned her head. Her silver eyes locked onto Aisha's brown eyes. And for the first time in 366 days, Zara Mwangi - the secret daughter Mark Mwangi had hidden from the entire Nairobi pack because her pure silver eyes were too powerful - opened her mouth and spoke. "Mama." The word was a whisper, but the air around them shook. The jiko next to the kiosk, full of cold oil and old mandazi, lifted one inch off the ground by itself, hovering in the air. Zara's eyes flared brighter. And somewhere inside Serena Hotel, Mark Mwangi's wolf suddenly howled so loud inside his chest that his champagne glass shattered in his hand.