Silvia woke up slow and deliberate from her massive king bed, heavy silk sheets whispering soft as she stretched her powerful alpha frame with a low sigh.
Sunlight filtered through velvet curtains, casting golden pools across her toned arms and broad shoulders.
As a wildly successful CEO commanding multimillion deals, perfection defined her every breath—from sealing boardroom victories to curating flawless personal routines.
Childhood forged that steel—top scores across elite academies, gold medals in track sprints and martial arts tournaments, looks that commanded attention in every room she entered.
But one thing always eluded her full grasp—the chaos of children.
Even at seven, she shunned playground games for solitary news broadcasts, dissecting stock reports with a child’s focus while peers chased balls and laughed wild.
Her parents didn’t like her—not outright hate, but a quiet disappointment carved deep like fault lines.
Geniuses in finance and law themselves, they yearned for a ‘normal’ child bursting with friends, messy laughter, unscripted joy.
Instead, they received Silvia—prodigy machine, emotion-locked fortress, too mature for crayons or cuddles.
They poured all that denied warmth onto someone else—Lyra, daughter of their closest friends.
Lyra embodied the ‘perfect idiot’ in Silvia’s eyes—flunking grades with carefree shrugs, dissolving into crybaby tears over every scraped knee, zero decorum at fancy dinners where she’d giggle through courses.
Silvia hated her instant, a visceral clash.
Lyra feigned friendship for Silvia’s parents’ sake, all bright smiles and awkward hugs, but Silvia saw the pity play clear—transactional tolerance.
Silvia differentiated alpha fierce at puberty, pheromones flooding the air with dominant pine-iron that bent rooms to her will.
Lyra?
Omega soft and yielding, predictable as dawn—no surprise to anyone watching.
Both families nudged marriage early, dreaming of power-couple synergy to merge empires.
Silvia refused flat and firm.
“No idiots cluttering my life—find someone worthy.” Her stance held ironclad until tragedy struck—Lyra’s parents perished in a fiery car crash, leaving the girl orphaned and vulnerable.
Even their company was implicated in all this—going bankrupt after their deaths.
Silvia’s parents weaponized fresh grief, cornering her in their study.
“Yu have to honour the old alliance, Silvia, or we’ll cut every tie—your inheritance, your legacy.” Consent twisted into obligation; she relented, but only on her terms.
Silvia married Lyra under strict contract—warned her plainly in the prenup signing, red pen scratching paper.
“Maid status only—that’s what you will get from this marriage.
Divorce in exactly one year—no extensions.” Lyra nodded numb, doe eyes downcast, but proved pure incompetency from day one.
Couldn’t brew a simple cup of coffee without turning it to poison?
Utterly useless.
Silvia glided downstairs graceful, heels clicking rhythmic on polished marble like a metronome.
Gas stove clicked blue flame alive.
Butter dropped into a preheated cast-iron skillet, foaming instant into golden bubbles that sizzled fragrant and rich.
Eggs cracked precise—one by one, four whites separated clean, two yolks whipped fluffy in a glass bowl with sea salt pinches and chives snipped fresh green flecks from the herb pot.
Poured into the sizzling fat, omelette set edges crisping lacy brown under gentle spatula lifts and folds, interior staying creamy soft.
Shredded aged cheddar sprinkled last, melting into gooey rivers that stretched golden strings as she plated with care.
Bacon rashers laid in a second hot pan—fat popping salty bursts, strips curling tight into dark mahogany glossy perfection, rendered juices pooling amber at the edges.
Slot-toaster popped four slices amber-crisp, surfaces buttered thick with Irish plugs melting slow into shiny pools that soaked in deep.
Coffee brewed in the glass French press: dark roast grounds scooped generous, near-boiling water poured slow over them, steeped four minutes exact before plunger pressed smooth—yielding nutty-black heaven steaming aromatic in a white porcelain mug, bold notes promising sharp awareness.
Plate loaded high and steaming, aromas layering intoxicating through the kitchen, she carried it balanced to the grand dining table of carved mahogany.
She ate deliberate forkful by forkful while scanning the crisp newspaper spread before her: stocks surging green, rival merger scandals unfolding in bold ink.
Hours slipped by quiet; she migrated to the living room chaise with a coffee refill steaming hot.
Clock chimed noon sharp on the mantel.
Irritation simmered low.
“Incompetent as always,” Silvia muttered to the empty room, folding the paper with a sharp snap.
“How could she possibly be my wife?
A true partner needs brains, business savvy—someone to grow empires beside me, not drag them into the mud.”
“Why the hell is she sleeping so much this late?
Another calculated tantrum to test my patience?”
Silvia stood decisive, setting her mug down with a soft clink.
She strode upstairs with purposeful steps, each heel strike echoing resolve.
Pushed open Lyra’s bedroom door without a knock—habit of command.
Found her curled foetal tight on the rumpled bed, emerald dress twisted awkward, blonde waves tangled wild across sweat-damp pillows.
“Tch!
Useless waste of space,” she scoffed low under breath.
She walked closer measured, looming tall over the small form.
“Hey, wake up right now.
No response.
Only shallow, ragged breaths rasping faint.
“Are you throwing some petty tantrum to manipulate me?
I won’t entertain your little games, Lyra.
Get up this instant.”
Still nothing.
Limp as a doll.
“Wake up properly!” Silvia yanked the thick duvet covering her off in one sharp, decisive pull—careful not to jolt too hard.
Lyra shivered violent beneath, skin pale and clammy under the emerald silk, goosebumps rising fast.
“Do you want me to drag you out on the street like yesterday’s trash?
Answer me.”
Silvia reached down deliberate, grabbing her wrist to shake gently firm—testing response.
The skin burned scorching hot under her palm, fever pulse racing erratic.
“What the hell is this?” She pressed the back of her hand to Lyra’s forehead quick but steady, feeling the burning radiate fierce—no mistaking it.
No sweet omega heat scent sweetened the air, just sour illness sweat clinging heavy.
“Fever—high one.
How long has she been burning up like this without a word?”
Lyra stirred faint at last, sapphire eyes fluttering weak half-open, voice a cracked whisper.
“H-honey…
everything…
hurts so much…”
“Sorry…
I-I h-haven’t clean…
the house…”
Silvia froze mid-motion, alpha instincts twitching uneasy beneath her ice façade.
“Tch!
Just stay her until I call the doctor, okay?
You are a useless omega.”