Lyric of the Alpha King

Selene

The backstage air at the Grammys is a suffocating perfume of desperation, hairspray, and fragile egos. I usually find it bracing. Tonight, it just makes me want to scream. I’m Selene Ambrose, America’s sorrowful songbird, the Omega who built an empire by singing about a broken heart. My heart. The one he shattered two years ago.

And of course, he is here.

I see him across the crowded green room. Ryder Wilde. Alpha. Rockstar. Lead singer of Crimson Howl and heir is the Wilde pack’s sprawling territory. The walking, breathing embodiment of a storm and my own personal ruin. He is leaning against a wall, laughing with his bassist, all sharp angles, black leather, and arrogant, unshakeable confidence. He looks exactly the same. He looks like my own private ghost.

Our gazes meet across the room.

The laughter dies on his lips. His face, the one I see in my nightmares, hardens into a mask of cold indifference. The air between us drops twenty degrees. Two years. Two years of silence, of carefully rated orchestance avoidance, and it all evaporates in a single, hate-filled glance.

My manager, Zoe, materializes at my elbow, her grip on my arm a little too tight. “Smile, Selene. The cameras are everywhere.”

I force a smile, the muscles in my face protesting. “I need a drink.”

“First, you need to hear the offer,” she says, her voice low and urgent.

Later, in the sterile quiet of my hotel suite, she lays it all out. The new epic fantasy film, Winter’s Dragon. A guaranteed blockbuster. They want me for a pivotal role—an ethereal, magical queen. And a song is on the soundtrack. A career-defining move.

“What’s the catch, Zoe?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

She doesn't flinch. “The male lead is a warrior prince. A primal, dark hero. The studio is building the entire marketing campaign around him. They’ve signed Crimson Howl to do the main theme.” She pauses. “They want Ryder Wilde.”

Of course they do.

“I won’t do it,” I say, the words flat and final.

“You will,” she counters, just as flatly. “Your contract renewal with the label is contingent on a multi-platform project. This is it. And besides… they have a plan to make it work. A brilliant, diabolical plan.”

I look at her, a cold dread seeping into my bones. “What plan?”

Zoe smiles, a thin, sharp smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “They don’t just want you to work together. They want you back together. Or at least, they want the world to think you are.”