He Chose The Rogue: The Billionaire Healer's Cold Revenge

On the tarmac, the wind was cold, but my husband's rejection was freezing.

"You aren't coming on the jet," Jackson said, adjusting the diamond cufflinks I had bought him.

He pointed to the stairs where his mistress, Amber, stood wearing a silk dress I had commissioned for myself.

"Amber is frail. She needs the comfort of the private cabin. I booked you a commercial flight. It leaves in three hours."

He shoved an envelope into my hand. Economy. Middle seat. Two layovers.

I stood there, the Luna of the pack, being told to fly cargo while a Rogue took my seat on the Gulfstream G650 'I' had paid for.

My mother-in-law even chimed in, clutching the designer bag I bought her, claiming my "healer energy" was too stressful for their precious guest.

Jackson blocked our telepathic bond, took his mistress's hand, and the door hissed shut in my face.

He thought he was the Alpha. He thought he held the power because I had let him play the part for five years.

But he forgot one tiny detail: his name wasn't on the trust fund.

As the jet taxied away, I didn't cry. I pulled out my phone and dialed my personal banker.

"Dr. Hogan?"

"Cancel the flight plan," I said, my voice steady. "Revoke their clearance. Ground the jet at the first refueling stop. And cut the credit lines. All of them."

"All of them, Ma'am? The pack accounts?"

"Everything," I whispered, watching the plane lift off. "Let's see how the Alpha survives without my wallet."