Page 30 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Wes

T he lights in the penthouse flicker on with the same sterile glow I remember from the last time I was here.

That was… what? Two years ago? Right before my dad’s fourth wedding and long before his fifth omega started showing up in our family group chats with filtered selfies of the two of them and captions like scent-matched to this one xxx.

I kick off my shoes in the doorway, loosening my tie with one hand and slamming the door shut with the other. The silence hits me harder than I expected. There are no footsteps above, no low voices carrying down the hall, no muffled laughter from the living room. Nothing .

It’s a relief.

And it’s pathetic.

The place smells like polished marble and barely-used linen; like a showroom apartment rather than a home.

Which makes sense. My dad only ever brings people here when he’s cheating—on his wife, on his own rules, on the image he pretends to maintain.

The Bahamas cruise he’s on right now is with an omega who’s only two years older than me and half as smart.

I didn’t ask questions, though. I never do.

I head straight for the liquor cabinet. I don’t bother switching on all the lights or setting up any music. I don’t even switch on the TV. The only sound is the rhythmic clink of ice and the familiar weight of a tumbler in my hand as I pour the whiskey.

I have one sip, then another. It burns going down, but I barely register it. I lean back against the cold kitchen counter, eyes fixed on the city skyline beyond the window.

Fuck .

I shouldn’t have yelled.

I knew it even as the words left my mouth, as her eyes flashed and her jaw lifted in that gotcha expression she wears so well. She baits me like it’s a sport, like she’s keeping score, and I practically handed her the win.

But this time, her expression changed. Not into the smug, bratty grin she usually flashes my way when she feels victorious, but something closer to hurt .

And maybe she deserved it. Maybe she’s been playing us this whole time. But the yelling, the accusations, the pointing in her face—it was wrong.

I should’ve been better. I should’ve walked away.

Instead, I let it happen. I let myself rise to it, and in the process, I've let myself become a version of the man I swore I’d never turn into.

And fuck, I saw it—the flicker in her eyes when I snapped. The way she looked at me like she didn’t recognize me. Like maybe I’d proven her right. Or worse, confirmed every fear she’s ever had about alphas.

I know she’s doing something here: that she walked in with a plan and a smirk and an agenda, but knowing I’m right doesn’t mean I handled it right.

I’d had her right where I wanted her just a few nights ago; pinned against the kitchen counter, flushed and breathless and trembling with the effort not to lean in.

She wanted it—wanted me —and I could feel the tension winding tight around her scent, feel the crackle of what was real beneath all her games.

I'd started pulling it back into my court, and then tonight…

Well. I let her turn it on me.

Mission accomplished, Aimee. You divided the pack.

I let her get under my skin, and now she’s probably curled up in Jace’s bed, soft and smug and soaked in praise while I’m here. Alone .

Still, even if this whole thing started as some experiment or revenge plot, I shouldn’t have lost it like that.

I should’ve just sat back, bided my time, and let her keep performing.

She’s not that good of an actress. She would’ve slipped eventually—pushed too far, overplayed her hand and lost control.

But no. I jumped the gun and blew the whole thing up, and now I’m the one who made it personal.

I’m the asshole who lost the upper hand the second I raised my voice.

I drain the rest of the glass and set it down harder than I mean to. The sound echoes too loud in the silence.

I want to go back, rewind the whole damn evening, and handle it differently. If I would have kept my cool and let her play it out until she overreached, then I would’ve been the one walking away calm and unbothered while the rest of them saw through her bullshit on their own.

But that’s not what happened.

So now, I have to deal with it.

I’ll sleep here tonight and work from the office tomorrow. I’ll give myself the day to breathe, then I’ll go home and face the fallout. I’ll apologize—not just to the pack, but to her; and I’llmake sure she knows I do mean it.

Regardless of whatever her agenda is, I still let myself become the worst version of me.

And I’m not letting that be who I am.

Next time she pushes, I’ll hold the line. I’ll be the Alpha she used to know—the one she trusted, even when everything else was on fire. I don’t know if that version of me still exists, but if it does, then he’s the only one who might be able to fix what I cracked before it breaks for good.