Chapter 1: Nessa
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So, guess what? I've got a wild and crazy story for you, but fair warning: it's not for the faint of heart! This tale is packed with all the juicy stuff: adult content, spicy language, and some seriously graphic scenes which can be triggering. If you're cool with that, then buckle up and get ready for a ride!
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Chapter 1: Nessa
"Did you hear?" Rebecca nudges my shoulder like we're twelve and gossiping in a school hallway instead of working in a rundown diner that smells like burnt grease and regret. "He's back."
Of course he is. The Alpha. The one who rolls up in a black Escalade like he's starring in his own damn book cover. The one who sits in the same section every time. The one who orders coffee he doesn't drink and waits.
For her. Not us. Her. The quiet little human waitress who pretends he doesn't exist. Classic trope. Alpha is obsessed with the oblivious waitress. Wattpad eats that shit up. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here subtly arching our backs and pushing our tits up like unpaid background characters. Not that I care. Okay. I care a little. He's hot. Obviously. Tall, dark, stupidly handsome in that "I own half the state and could buy this diner for pocket change" way. And yeah, once upon a delusional time, I thought maybe I'd end up with a rich, powerful Alpha. Spoiler alert: I did not. He didn't even blink in my direction. That was my cue. Rebecca didn't get it, though.
"That's nice," I say flatly. "Table four needs more coffee, and they've been bitching about the hash browns."
She snorts. "What do they expect? This place is a shithole."
She's not wrong.
"Can you take them? I've got another table."
Her grin turns predatory. She adjusts her bra like she's loading weapons. I watch her strut over to him, hips swaying. He doesn't even look at her. Just dismisses her and goes back to staring at the door, waiting for his little human virgin whose shift doesn't start for another fifteen minutes. I sigh and deal with table four. They complain about cold food—stale coffee. The world is ending. I smile and apologise. I get ninety cents as a tip. I hate people.
The diner was emptied, except for Mr Alpha Brooding-in-the-Corner.
She was ten minutes late. This is not going to end well. I sit in a booth, pull out my phone, and open my latest eBook. Alpha's Daughter: Claimed by Four Kings. Reverse harem. Fated mates. Territorial snarling. Steamy tension.
The werewolf biology is wildly inaccurate, but humans think we're myths anyway, so who cares? I read so many of these books that I've practically memorised the tropes. I used to think one would happen to me. Because statistically? It should have. My sister accidentally crossed into an Alpha's territory once. Saved a pup. His pup. Instead of killing her for trespassing, he offered her a job as the pup's nanny. Yes. Really. The Rogue Nanny. Guess how that ended? Claimed. Luna. Pregnant. Then Rebecca tells me about her aunt's daughter who became a live-in maid at some rich pack estate.
She ended up mated to the twin Alpha brothers. Twin. Mates. Then the neighbouring pack's Alpha daughter gets kidnapped by the rival Alpha and somehow ends up claimed instead of dead. This isn't fantasy for us. This shit actually happens. And me? My family got banished. Because my mother decided to be a raging bitch to the Alpha's omega mate. He spared her life because of us. But we were exiled. Boom. Rogues. And I thought, okay. This is it. This is my tragic backstory arc. Fresh start. New town. New me. New school. Cue destiny. Nope. Turns out we were blacklisted from most packs. So I ended up going to human schools. Then Alex showed up. We met just after I finished college. And I thought, finally — my trope. He wasn't an Alpha. Just human. Safe. Normal. And he wanted me. We dated for nine months. Got married. Two months in, he lost his job. Unemployment lasted six months. After that? Guess who worked two jobs? And Guess who stayed home playing video games and hosting "gaming events" until 3 a.m.? I'd come home exhausted, cook dinner, clean up, and ask if he'd applied anywhere.
"Yeah, babe. I applied."
I believed him. Because I'm apparently the side character in my own life. Then things got weird. I walked in on him not once but a few times, jerking off to some red-haired fox avatar on his screen. He didn't hear me. So I stepped out and slammed the door harder. He bolted to the bathroom like a guilty raccoon. Came back, kissed my cheek. Went back to gaming. That kiss? That was the most intimacy we'd had in months. Because on my days off, he was "busy."
Then one night, I came home early. He was grunting again.
I thought it was the same shit. So I was finally going to confront him.
It wasn't. He was balls-deep in a orange-red-haired woman wearing a literal fox getup. Full cosplay commitment. And while he was still inside her, he dared to blame me.
"You're never home. I have needs."
I was never home because I was paying the mortgage. The fox girl at least had the decency to look embarrassed. She scrambled for her clothes and muttered, "You said you lived with your mom."
I stood there.
Completely numb.
Not crying.
Not screaming.
Just done.
Then the fucker refused to sign the divorce papers. What he didn't know?
If you don't show up to court, the divorce still goes through. I sold the house. Took the cash and left. He didn't know it was sold until he got evicted. Oh — and I sold his car too. That was my villain origin story, and that's when I finally accepted it: Story tropes are not meant for me. Because what bestselling romance features: A 29-year-old rogue she-wolf
working as a waitress. Divorced. Broke. Bitter. Snarky. There's no category for: "Unclaimed Rogue with Debt and Trust issues with a resting bitch face."
No Alpha waiting in the corner for me.
No fated bond.
No hidden royal bloodline.
No secret heat cycle that drives a pack crazy.
Just me.
NPC energy.
I don't get chosen.
I don't get claimed.
I don't get kidnapped.
I don't get a redemption arc.
I get bills.
I'm the background character who refills the coffee while the real heroine gets claimed against the counter. So yeah. When Rebecca says, "He's back." I don't look up. Because Alphas don't come back for girls like me. They wait for the quiet virgins with soft eyes and tragic backstories. Not the snarky divorced rogue who swears too much and knows how the story ends. And if this is my trope? It's probably: "The Background Bitch Who Watches Destiny Happen to Other People."
That tracks.
Not like I fit into any of the overdone, copy-paste, bestseller tropes anyway.
Fated Mates? Please. The Moon Goddess clearly lost my paperwork. If I had a mate, he's either dead, defective, or emotionally unavailable with a podcast.
Alpha & Omega? I'm not some trembling omega with heat cycles and fragile wrists. And I'm definitely not the Alpha's delicate little "good girl." I'd mouth off during the claiming ceremony and ruin the vibe.
Rejected Mate → Grovelling Alpha? For that to happen, an Alpha would first have to want me. And second, reject me. And third, crawl back begging. The only man who crawled back to me wanted Wi-Fi.
Secret Luna? Hidden royalty? Surprise pack princess? The only secret about me is how I still manage to pay rent. I don't have a dormant throne—I have overdue bills.
Virgin Heroine? I was married. To a man who cheated on me with a woman dressed like a woodland mascot. The innocence ship has sailed, crashed, and been auctioned off.
Billionaire Romance? Billionaires don't fall for divorced rogue waitresses with student loans and a caffeine addiction. They fall for art curators and women who "summer" in places.
Boss/Employee? Unless my boss is the 63-year-old diner owner with gravy stains on his apron, that trope isn't happening. And if it does, call the police.
Reverse Harem? Multiple men fighting over me? I can't even get one emotionally stable adult male to return a text. One or more possessive Alphas? Be serious.
Marriage of Convenience? Tried marriage once. It was inconvenient enough.
Hidden Heir? The only inheritance I'm getting is generational trauma and my mom's attitude.
Accidental Pregnancy? Bold of you to assume destiny would give me something that dramatic. My life doesn't do plot twists. It does paperwork.
So no. I'm not the fated one. Not the chosen one. Not the secretly powerful one. At this point, if an Alpha walked in, dropped to one knee, and said, "You're mine," I'd probably ask if he brought health insurance and what his credit score looks like. Because I don't need a trope. I need therapy and a savings account. I know what you're thinking.
"Ohhh, so you're the bad girl trope." No. I'm not the mysterious bad girl with trauma and a redemption arc. I'm not the morally grey anti-heroine who secretly has a heart of gold. I'm not the misunderstood villain who just needs to be loved correctly. Fuck all of that noise. I'm the cunt. I'm the ugly stepsister. The one who stands in the corner of the ballroom watching Cinderella trip into destiny while I'm stuck holding the broom. I'm not the dark seductress the Alpha can't resist. I'm the girl the heroine side-eyes because I dared to exist within breathing distance of her man. You know the trope.
The jealous coworker.
The pack slut.
The bitter ex.
The clingy she-wolf who "doesn't know her place."
The power-hungry Beta's daughter.
The mean girl who "tries to steal him."
The Luna wannabe.
The girl who throws herself at the Alpha and gets publicly rejected.
That's the category I fall into.
Not the chosen one.
The "she should've known better."
I'm the girl readers comment about like: "Ugh, I hate her."
"This Bitch." "She needs to get humbled." "Someone put her in her place."
"Why is she so desperate?"
Desperate? No, sweetheart. I'm just not written to win. I'm not soft-spoken.
I'm not innocent. I don't blush and look at the floor. I don't pretend to notice when a hot Alpha walks in. If I look, I look. If I want, I want. Apparently, that makes me the villain. Because in romance books, women like me don't get claimed. We get used to tension. We're the obstacle. The dramatic interruption at the mating ceremony. The one who says, "He doesn't love you," right before security drags us out. I'm not the sunshine to his grumpiness. I'm the thundercloud that gets written off as unstable. I'm not the omega he protects. I'm the rogue he warns people about. And let's be honest — every story needs one.
The girl who tries too hard.
The girl who wears the tight dress.
The girl who flirts.
The girl who "doesn't respect boundaries."
The girl who wants the Alpha and isn't ashamed of it.
Meanwhile, the heroine stands there with wide innocent eyes, as if she doesn't even know what sex is. And somehow that's what gets the bond to snap. So no. I'm not the bad girl trope.
Bad girls still get arcs.
They still get redemption.
They still get claimed by the darker, hotter, more dangerous male lead.
I'm the one who watches it happen.
The ugly stepsister.
The jealous she-wolf.
The background bitch.
And if you're waiting for the part where I reveal I'm secretly powerful, secretly mated, secretly royal—
Wrong book.
I'm just the girl who learned the hard way that some women are written to be loved... And some of us are written to be the lesson.
I shoved my apron into my locker and rolled my aching shoulders. "See you tomorrow, Jimmy," I call out, pushing through the back door.
"Have a good night, Ness. Get home safe," he waves, spatula in hand like some greasy knight.
"I will."
I live in a tiny-ass town called Maple Hollow in upstate New York. Less than two thousand humans. A handful of rogues thrown in because we can't exactly waltz into pack territory without an alpha's permission slip. This place? Neutral ground. It's negative twenty in February. The kind of cold that doesn't just freeze your breath — it freezes your fucking soul. The kind that makes you question every life choice that led you to this ice cube of a town.
And yes, before you ask — werewolves get cold. Here's the thing nobody tells you: we're pack creatures. Without a pack, our wolf goes dormant. Quiet. It crawls into the back of your skull and curls up to sleep. You don't shift. You don't feel that power humming under your skin. You just... exist. I could join a pack. Wake her up. Get that power back and not freeze my tits off. But honestly? It feels kinda good not answering to anyone. Not having to bow my head. Not having to worry about some big bad alpha pounding on my door because I stepped out of line. Freedom tastes better than loyalty ever did. It's been three years since I moved here from Las Vegas. Three years since the divorce. Three years since I packed my shit and decided I'd rather freeze my tits off than stay somewhere that suffocated me.
Do I love it here? No. Do I hate it? Also no. It's just... neutral. Like me. I already ate at the diner, so when I got home, I took a quick shower. Hot water beating against my shoulders, washing off grease and the smell of burnt toast. Then collapse onto my couch, fully intending to zone out. I flip through Netflix. Romantic comedy. Romantic drama. Romantic tragedy. Fuck me.
I groan. I toss the remote aside.
"Yeah, no. Not tonight."
My apartment is a small one-bedroom. The kitchen and the living room are basically the same damn space. If I burn toast, the couch smells like it for a week. But it's mine. No ex-husband. No pack. No expectations. Just me. Being blacklisted was the best thing that could have happened to me. So instead of a movie, I open the new story I started — a human mafia romance. Toxic men, guns, tension, bad decisions. You know. Fun. It was so damn good I didn't realise it was three in the morning until my eyes started burning.
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