The Hidden S-Class Omega's Brilliant Comeback

Ayleen Pittman POV:

Torn paper drifted across the tips of my slippers.

Kian took a heavy step forward, closing the distance between us until his broad chest nearly pinned me against the polished edge of the bar cart.

My collar hummed as it blocked the pheromones he was flooding the room with.

"Are you done with this childish tantrum?" he sneered, looking down at me with contempt. "You think using a divorce threat will make me look at you? Aside from the Pittman surname, what value do you even possess in this city?"

Near the archway, Martha let out a terrified gasp and took two steps back, lowering her head to avoid the Alpha's crushing aura.

I didn't back down.

My pulse remained steady, my breath calm behind the metal shield of my neck collar.

"Value?" I let out a soft, mocking laugh.

I reached into the deep pocket of my cardigan, pulled out a second, identical manila folder, and slapped it hard against the center of his chest.

The crisp thwack of paper echoed across the high ceiling.

"My only value for three years was being the fool who secretly stabilized your psychotic Rut episodes while you remained completely blind!"

I stepped closer, tilting my chin up to meet his blazing glare.

"You can't even control your own instincts, Kian. Strip away your money and your name, and you're just an animal in an expensive shirt."

Kian froze.

The aristocratic composure he wore like armor shattered in an instant, his face draining of color as if he had been slapped across the mouth in public.

"You insolent—"

He let out a low growl and reached out, his large hand snapping around my jaw with crushing force.

His grip tightened as he tried to force my submission.

The VII-grade matte black collar around my throat hummed faintly, its internal suppression circuitry locking tight and repelling every single particle of his Alpha dominance.

I forced my jaw against his grip, staring into his pale eyes with unvarnished defiance.

"What's wrong?" I whispered, my voice dripping with venom. "Did a scentless Omega finally bruise your sacred Alpha ego?"

Kian stared at me.

He searched my features for the familiar terror, the quiet pleading, the desperate need for approval that had defined my presence in his home for three long years.

He found nothing but absolute ice.

He let go of me so fast it was as if my skin had burned his palm.

He stumbled half a step back, his chest heaving under his tailored shirt, his expression a chaotic mess of fury and disbelief.

"Fine. Perfect."

Kian let out a dark, ragged laugh.

He snatched the replacement folder from my hand and marched over to the dining table. He pulled out the documents, took his Montblanc fountain pen from his shirt pocket, and snapped off the cap with vicious force.

He didn't read a single line of the terms.

He pressed the pen against the signature line, the gold nib scratching deeply into the paper as he signed his name with brutal strokes.

He picked up the signed contract and hurled it against my chest.

"Take your garbage and get out of my house tonight."

"I wouldn't stay in this perfumed cesspool for another ten seconds even if you paid me," I replied calmly.

I picked up the signed document from the floor, checked both signature lines with clinical detachment, and folded it neatly into my handbag.

Without another word, I turned toward the grand staircase to pack a single suitcase. On the way up, I booked a rideshare on my phone.

Kian returned to the bar, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped in the silence.

Ten minutes later, I walked down the marble steps carrying a simple black roller bag.

Martha stood by the foyer, her eyes red-rimmed with tears.

"Madam..." she whispered, stepping forward.

"I am no longer the madam here, Martha," I said softly, offering the older woman a gentle nod. "Take care of yourself."

I reached the double entrance doors.

Kian had not moved from the bar.

He held his half-empty glass of Scotch, watching me through the gloom like an executioner waiting for a plea of mercy.

"Step past that threshold, Ayleen, and you will never see a single cent from the Hurley estate," he warned, his voice dropped to a frigid register. "You'll be on the streets before dawn."

"Keep your money for Dannielle's fake gland treatments," I said.

I pushed the heavy oak door open.

The cold night air and torrential rain rushed in, soaking the hem of my pants within seconds.

I opened my black umbrella, stepped into the downpour, and let the heavy iron gates of the Hurley estate close behind me with a final, resonant clang.

At the curb, the headlights of my requested rideshare sliced through the mist.

I climbed into the back seat, closed the door, and looked at the receding silhouette of the manor in the side mirror.

For the first time in three years, I could breathe.