The Villainess Became My Alpha Husband

I changed into a soft silk nightgown and slowly walked toward the bed, the fabric brushing against my skin like a second layer of breath. I had taken the heavy flowers from my hair and let them fall onto the vanity, my fingers tracing the faint aches along my shoulders and neck.

The room felt too large, too empty, the silence pressing against the edges of my thoughts.

"Elaine still hasn’t come," I muttered, glancing at the door. "Fine. It’s better if she stays away."

Even in the quiet, her absence was a relief. The thought of her as my husband made something in my chest twist. I didn’t want her. I didn’t want her near me, not like this, not as my spouse, not as my "partner." I wanted distance. I wanted space. I wanted time.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Elaine stumbled in, her steps unsteady, her posture heavy. The air thickened instantly with the sharp, acrid scent of alcohol.

My stomach churned—both in this life and the last, I’d always hated the smell of it. The closeness of it made me feel like I was drowning in a memory I hadn’t lived but still remembered.

"Did you come to my room drunk?" I asked, my voice low but sharp, the edge of my temper cutting through the thick air.

She didn’t answer immediately, her eyes blurry, her gaze unfocused.

"Answer me," I snapped, pulling the blanket tighter around myself, my fingers tightening on the fabric. "You’re in my room, and I don’t feel safe seeing you in this condition. I don’t want to see you like this. I don’t want to be touched by you. I don’t want you near me."

Elaine shook her head, her shoulders sagging. "Your Highness, I’m sorry," she slurred, the words slow and heavy. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

"Sorry?" I repeated, my voice rising. "You’re drunk."

"I lost control," she said, her voice cracking. "It won’t happen again."

"For what are you apologizing?" I asked, bitter. "You’ve done a lot of bad things to me. You’ve made my life a cage. You’ve taken my freedom, my safety, my voice. You think a simple ’sorry’ fixes that?"

"I’m sorry for that," she said, and this time, there was a flicker of something real in her voice—something raw, something hurt.

"Again?" I snapped, my anger flaring. "Why the hell did you drink? Was it for me? Was it for this? Was it for the throne? Was it for the pain of pretending to be my husband? Or was it for someone else?"

Suddenly, I saw tears in her eyes—tears that she tried to wipe away with the back of her hand, quick and desperate. The sight of them made my anger stutter, my breath catching for a moment.

"What the hell is she crying?" I thought, my mind spinning. The woman who had treated me like a burden, like a prize to be controlled, like a cage for alpha pride, was crying.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice softer now, the edge of my anger blunted by the sight of her tears.

Elaine’s shoulders trembled, her voice breaking. "I... he one I loved... he already cheated on me," she whispered, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the air.

"Oh," I said, the word flat. "So, it’s love that made her like this."

Love. The word felt foreign, like something I’d heard in stories but never understood. In this life, I’d heard it thrown around like a weapon, like a justification, like a mask for everything ugly. In my past life, I’d seen it used to justify pain, to excuse betrayal. I’d never felt it—not real love, not true love.

"Look," I said, my voice softer now, the edge of my anger melting into something closer to pity. "I’m sad for you. But you can’t drink, and can’t come to my room like this. Can’t drag your pain into my space. You can’t drown your problems in alcohol and expect me to be your cushion. I am not your shield."

"Sorry..."

I pulled the blanket tighter, the fabric like armour against her presence. "No," I said firmly.

Elaine took a step back, her shoulders sagging with the weight of my words. "I’m sorry," she said again, the word softer now, the edges of her voice fraying.

"Elaine," I said, my voice sharp but steady, "it doesn’t matter if he cheated on you. It doesn’t matter if your heart is broken. It doesn’t matter if your world is falling apart. You’re still... still alive... still you. You’re not dead. You’re not gone."

"I am sorry..." Why is she repeating the same words again and again?

I paused, my jaw tightening. "You can’t let your pain become your identity, and you can’t let your suffering define you or anyone else."

"Then what do you want me to do?" she asked, her voice breaking. "I loved him. I loved him with everything I had. I loved... him until he broke me. I loved him... until he left me. I loved him until he cheated on me. I... loved him until he took my heart and shattered it."

"Then kill yourself," I said, the words sharp and cold and unforgiving. "If your love is so strong that it breaks you, if your heart is so fragile that it can’t survive betrayal, if your world is so small that it can’t exist without him, then kill yourself. Kill yourself and be done with it."

"What...?"

"Don’t drag your pain into my life."

Elaine’s eyes widened, her shock palpable. "You... you’re not going to comfort me?" she asked, her voice cracking. "You’re not going to say it will be... okay? Not going to say it will get better?"

"No," I said, my voice firm. "I’m not your comfort, and certainly not your cushion."

I let the silence sit between us, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a challenge. "You can do whatever you want. Healing is a slow process, and you are the only person who can do that."

Elaine’s eyes filled with tears again, the weight of my words pressing down on her like a storm. "I loved him," she whispered, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the air.

"Then move on," I said, my voice firm and unyielding. "You’re not going to die for love. And I can’t repeat my words all over again." I met her gaze, the anger in my chest cooling into something sharper—resolve.

"I am... I shouldn’t have hurt you..."

"You’re going to be free," I said. "This is just a temporary phase of your life."

Elaine’s shoulders sagged, the weight of her tears pressing down on her like a storm. "I am not a good person," she whispered, the word soft and broken.

"Yes, you are not."

I watched her, the room still heavy with the scent of alcohol and unshed tears.

"Stop treating me like a shrine for your guilt," I added, quieter now. "And please... stop using this room, this marriage, as your excuse to fall apart. If you really want to live, then live. And if you can’t do that, at least have the decency to leave me out of it."

The air between us settled, the weight of the moment pressing down like a curtain closing over a scene.