Sold to Bastard Alpha after My Divorce!-Chapter 85

Aria’s POV

My hands were shaking on the steering wheel.

I ran every yellow light between the office and Sunshine Academy. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Was she hurt? Did she fall? Did someone take her?

A thousand nightmare scenarios played through my mind. Each one worse than the last.

I pulled into the parking lot so fast my tires screeched. Didn’t even bother finding a proper spot. Just stopped the car and ran.

The front desk lady tried to say something as I burst through the doors. I didn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in my ears.

Director Patterson’s office. Second floor. I took the stairs two at a time.

The door was already open.

I stopped.

Lina sat on a small chair in the corner. Her head was down. Her little hands were folded in her lap. She looked so small. So guilty.

But she was okay. She was whole. She was alive.

The relief hit me so hard my knees almost buckled.

"Ms. Moon." Director Patterson stood up from behind her desk. Her face was serious. Too serious. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"What happened?" I was still catching my breath. "Is she hurt? Is she—"

"Lina is fine." The director gestured to another chair. "Please. Sit down."

I didn’t want to sit down. I wanted to grab my daughter and run. But I forced myself to take the seat.

That’s when I noticed the other people in the room.

A woman I didn’t recognize sat on the couch against the wall. She was holding a little boy on her lap. The boy had a bruise on his forehead. Fresh. Purple.

My stomach dropped.

"Ms. Moon, this is Tyler and his mother." Director Patterson’s voice was carefully neutral. "There was an incident during free play this morning."

I looked at Lina. She still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

"What kind of incident?"

The woman spoke up. Her voice was sharp. Angry.

"Your daughter pushed my son. Hard. He hit his head on the corner of a table." She pulled the boy closer. "He could have been seriously hurt!"

"I’m so sorry." The words came out automatically. "Lina, baby, what happened?"

My daughter finally looked up. Those black-gold eyes were swimming with tears.

"He took my crayon, Mommy." Her voice was tiny. "The purple one. I asked for it back and he said no. So I pushed him. But I didn’t push hard! I promise!"

"You didn’t push hard?" The woman’s voice rose. "Look at my son’s face! Look at that bruise!"

"I’m very sorry." I turned to face her fully. "I apologize on behalf of my daughter. She knows better than to put her hands on other children."

"Sorry doesn’t cut it!" She stood up, the boy still in her arms. "This is the third time something like this has happened with your kid! Last month she broke another child’s toy. Before that she knocked a boy off the swing. There’s something wrong with her!"

The words hit like a slap.

I felt Lina flinch beside me.

"Please." Director Patterson’s voice was firm. "Let’s keep this civil."

"Civil? My son is HURT!" She pointed at Lina. "That girl is dangerous! She doesn’t belong in a normal school!"

I stood up. My hands were clenched at my sides.

"My daughter is three years old." My voice came out steady. Barely. "She made a mistake. Children make mistakes. That doesn’t make her dangerous."

"Normal children don’t send other kids to the nurse twice a month!"

"That’s enough." Director Patterson stepped between us. "I’ve already assured you that we’ll handle this situation appropriately. Please take Tyler to get some rest. We’ll follow up with you later."

She glared at me. Then at Lina. Then she turned and stormed out, muttering under her breath about "problem children" and "negligent parents."

The door slammed behind her.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

"Ms. Moon." Director Patterson’s voice was softer now. "Please. Sit."

I sat. Pulled Lina onto my lap. Held her close.

"I really didn’t push hard, Mommy." Lina’s voice was muffled against my chest. "I promise. I barely touched him."

"I know, baby." I stroked her hair. "I know."

But I also knew the truth.

Director Patterson cleared her throat.

"Ms. Moon, I need to show you something."

She walked to her desk. Picked up a tablet. Tapped a few times. Then turned the screen toward me.

Security footage.

I watched as Lina approached Tyler at the craft table. Watched as he grabbed her crayon. Watched as she reached out to push him—

The push looked gentle. Barely a shove.

But Tyler flew backward like he’d been hit by a truck. He crashed into a chair. The chair shattered. Actually shattered. Wood splintering in all directions.

My blood ran cold.

"That chair was solid oak." Director Patterson’s voice was quiet. "It shouldn’t have broken like that. Not from a three-year-old bumping into it."

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

"Mommy?" Lina tugged at my sleeve. "Why did the chair break? I didn’t mean to break it."

"I know, sweetheart." My voice sounded far away. "It’s not your fault."

Director Patterson put down the tablet. Sat on the edge of her desk.

"Ms. Moon, I’ve been an educator for twenty-five years. I’ve seen a lot of children. A lot of situations." She paused. Chose her words carefully. "Your daughter is... different."

Different.

There it was.

"She’s stronger than she should be. Faster. Her reflexes are extraordinary." The director’s eyes were kind but concerned. "I don’t know what it means. But I do know that if something like this happens again... I’m not sure we can continue to accommodate her here."

The words hung in the air.

"Are you kicking her out?"

"Not yet. But I’m asking you to consider alternatives." She glanced at Lina, then back at me. "Special programs. Different environments. Something that can handle her... unique needs."

I hugged Lina tighter. "I understand. Thank you for your patience."

"Of course." Director Patterson stood. "Take the rest of the day. We’ll talk more tomorrow."

I carried Lina out of that office. Down the stairs. Through the lobby. Past all the normal parents with their normal children.

She was quiet the whole way to the car.

Too quiet.

I buckled her into her car seat. Her little face was scrunched up. Trying not to cry.

"Hey." I cupped her cheek. "Look at me."

Those black-gold eyes met mine. So much like his. So painfully like his.

"This is not your fault," I said firmly. "Do you hear me? None of this is your fault."

"But I broke the chair." Her bottom lip trembled. "And I hurt Tyler. And now they’re mad at you."

"People get mad sometimes. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong."

"But I’m different." A tear slipped down her cheek. "The other kids aren’t like me. They can’t break chairs. They can’t run as fast. Why am I different, Mommy?"

The question twisted in my chest like a knife.

What was I supposed to say?

"You’re special," I told her. "That’s all. You’re special and wonderful and I love you exactly the way you are."

"But being special makes people scared."

God. She was three years old. She shouldn’t understand that yet.

"Some people get scared of things they don’t understand." I wiped her tear away with my thumb. "But that’s their problem. Not yours. You are perfect, Lina. Perfect."

She sniffled. "You promise?"

"I promise."

I kissed her forehead. Got in the driver’s seat. Started the long drive home.

Lina fell asleep somewhere along the way. The emotional exhaustion finally catching up with her.

---

I carried her inside. Laid her gently on her bed. Pulled the blanket up to her chin.

She stirred slightly. Mumbled something in her sleep. Then settled again.

I stood in her doorway for a long time. Just watching her breathe.

This was the fourth preschool in two years.

The first one, we’d left after Lina accidentally bent a metal door handle while trying to open the bathroom. The second, she’d jumped from the top of the playground structure and landed without a scratch—teachers couldn’t stop talking about it. The third, she’d gotten upset during naptime and somehow cracked a window with her voice.

And now this.

I’d tried so hard to control it. Taught her to be gentle. To move slowly. To pretend she was just like the other kids.

But she wasn’t.

She was half werewolf.

And that half was getting stronger every day.

I closed her door softly. Walked to the living room. Collapsed onto the couch.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made my thoughts too loud.

What was I going to do?

I’d spent three years running from the wolf world. Building a human life. Pretending that part of me—that part of us—didn’t exist.

Lina was going to shift someday. Her wolf was going to wake up. And when it did, she would need guidance. Training. A pack.

Things I couldn’t give her anymore.

I pressed my palms against my eyes. Tried to hold back the tears.

This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

My phone buzzed. I picked it up. Glanced at the screen.

Messages from Cassius.

My heart clenched.

He’d been reaching out for months now. Every few weeks, a new message would appear. Updates about the wolf world. Changes in the pack structure. Reassurances that things were different now.

:*Aria, I know you’re not ready. I know you need time. But things have really changed here. If you ever want to come back there’s a place for you. Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.*

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Come back.

The idea had haunted me for months. Every time Lina did something that proved she wasn’t fully human. Every time I had to make excuses. Every time I saw her struggling to fit into a world that wasn’t made for her.

Could I really do it? Could I really go back to that world? The world that had broken me. The world where I was "Shadow Moon trash." The world where *he* lived.

Kael.

I hadn’t let myself think his name in years.

But now, sitting alone in my dark living room, I couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back.

His hands on my skin. His voice in my ear. The way he’d looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

I couldn’t go back for him. Would never go back for him.

But Lina...

Lina deserved a childhood where she didn’t have to hide. Where she could run as fast as she wanted. Where breaking a chair didn’t make her a monster.

I looked at Cassius’s message again.

*Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.*

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.