The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King

Chapter 210: Chapter 210 Did you hear that, Clara?

These past few days had been a whirlwind of wrapping up loose ends.

Mornings were spent at V&A Group, afternoons at Holt Enterprises. The transition of power needed to be swift and absolute—no room for anyone to challenge my authority.

The moment I stepped out of the building’s front entrance, I felt it. That familiar, suffocating presence.

"Aria!"

Ethan’s voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade. I heard the car door slam, footsteps pounding against pavement.

Two security guards immediately moved to intercept him. One of my personal bodyguards stepped in front of me, blocking my view.

I turned slowly, deliberately, letting him wait. When I finally looked at him from my position on the elevated entrance steps, I had to suppress a bitter laugh.

The man standing half a meter below me was barely recognizable.

Ethan Holt, who’d always been so meticulous about his appearance, looked like he’d crawled out of a gutter.

His usually clean-shaven jaw was covered in stubble, his shirt collar hung open and wrinkled, his suit jacket creased beyond repair.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor.

Good. He deserved to suffer.

He was breathing hard, too hard for someone who’d only run a few steps. When the security guard shoved him back, he doubled over coughing, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air.

Still, he refused to leave. Instead, he looked up at me with those pathetic, pleading eyes.

"Please," he gasped out between coughs. "Just let me talk to you for a minute. I know I messed up... I know you can’t stand to look at me right now."

His voice cracked. "But just... for what we once had. For what we meant to each other."

I felt my expression harden into ice. *Once had?* Oh, that was rich.

"Ethan," I said coldly, letting my contempt drip from every syllable. "You think you have the right to talk to me about what we ’once had’? Are you here to tell me jokes?"

"I don’t have the right," he admitted, his voice breaking. "But I... I really did love you. I *do* love you."

His eyebrows drew together, his pale lips trembling. Then his legs buckled.

I watched in stunned silence as Ethan Holt—Alpha of Silver Creek Pack, the man who’d built his entire identity on pride and dominance—dropped to his knees in front of me.

For a split second, surprise flickered through me. Then it was replaced by cold, vicious satisfaction.

"Well," I drawled, letting my voice carry just enough to make him flinch. "Turns out your sense of dignity is worth about as much as your wedding vows. Which is to say, absolutely nothing."

I tilted my head, studying him like he was an insect pinned to a board. "If you haven’t gotten your fill of playacting yet, go home and perform for Clara. I’m sure she’d love another show."