The Hidden S-Class Omega's Brilliant Comeback

Ayleen Pittman POV:

The grandfather clock in the dining room chimed the quarter hour as I came downstairs with the divorce agreement I had just signed.

The three-course French dinner on the long mahogany table had long since gone cold, the tallow candles burning down into unsightly puddles of hardened wax.

Our third wedding anniversary had ended while Kian held my sister upstairs.

Martha, the head housekeeper, hovered near the arched doorway, wringing her apron with a look of helpless pity.

I set the manila envelope beside my untouched plate and turned the plain platinum band on my left ring finger.

The metal felt like a band of ice against my skin.

"Tell Kian I'm downstairs," I said. "I have something for him to sign."

Martha nodded and hurried upstairs.

A few minutes later, heavy, deliberate footsteps descended the staircase and echoed across the marble foyer.

Kian strode into the dining room, still wearing the black shirt Dannielle had been clinging to.

His towering presence immediately sucked the air out of the room.

He didn't spare a single glance for the silver platters or the dying candlelight.

He walked straight toward the bar cart in the corner and poured two fingers of single-malt Scotch into a crystal tumbler.

I stayed beside the table. My suppression collar remained locked at the highest setting, its cold metal snug against my neck.

"If you think that performance upstairs will get you anywhere, you're mistaken," he said, taking a slow sip of the amber liquor.

His icy blue eyes swept over my plain knit sweater and bare face, devoid of any warmth.

"It wasn't a performance," I said evenly.

Kian glanced at the cold feast on the table, his forehead creasing with mild annoyance.

"Dannielle was in pain. I'm not going to apologize for helping her."

"I didn't come down here for an apology."

The crystal glass paused inches from Kian's lips.

His jaw tightened, the tendons in his neck pulling taut as his knuckles turned white against the cut crystal.

"Watch your tongue, Ayleen. Breaking things and threatening to leave won't change anything."

"You made yourself clear upstairs," I said, meeting his frigid glare head-on. "Now it's my turn."

"You knew the terms when you signed the registry three years ago," Kian said coldly, setting the glass down with a sharp clatter against the marble counter.

He stepped toward me, looking down from his immense height with pure disdain.

"You are an unclassified, scentless Omega from a disgraced branch of the Pittman family. The Hurley name gave you shelter and medical security. Know your place."

The words were designed to strip away my dignity.

Once, they might have left me gasping for air.

Tonight, they only highlighted the pathetic blindness of the man standing in front of me.

This great S-class Alpha, who believed he ruled the city, was nothing more than a fool dancing on strings pulled by an amateur thief.

"You're right," I said softly. "I finally know my place."

I picked up the manila envelope I had brought down from our bedroom.

I walked over to the bar and slapped it down right beside his whiskey glass.

Kian looked down at the envelope, his brow furrowing with genuine confusion.

"What is this?"

"What you've wanted since the day you were forced to marry me," I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.

Kian let out a short, mocking breath.

He reached out with long, calloused fingers, untwined the red string clasp, and slid the documents out into the lamplight.

The moment his eyes hit the bold, centered header at the top of the first page, his pupils constricted violently.

DIVORCE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.

His gaze dropped to my signature at the bottom of the page.

The silence in the room stretched until it felt ready to snap.

The blue veins along the back of his hand bulged as his grip crumpled the crisp white paper.

He snapped his head up, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that bordered on feral shock.

"What kind of pathetic game are you playing now, Ayleen?" he ground out, his jaw clenched with suppressed rage.

I looked directly into his eyes, enunciating every single syllable with absolute clarity.

"No games, Kian. I am divorcing you."

A dangerous storm flared in his eyes.

With a savage, sudden motion, Kian gripped the contract in both fists and tore the thick stack of papers straight down the middle.

Then he flung the torn pages into the air.

White scraps fluttered through the air like winter frost, scattering across the dark floor between us.