The Breaking Point of Mate: Giving Up on My Alpha novel Chapter 58

Chapter 58

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Melanie’s POV

I knew Moira was, once again, trying to “bind” us into a single unit, attempting to maintain the image of a complete Alpha family at this kind of dinner.

I didn’t look at Archer’s reaction. I just followed Moira into the dining room to sit down.

The dining room had a long table. Plates and cutlery were already set on both sides, with a row of shared dishes in the middle- roast beef, roasted vegetables, salad, chicken wings, small rolls, and a few light, hot dishes that I preferred.

I sat across from Moira and Trista.

In my periphery, Archer pulled out the chair to my left and sat down next to me.

Moira finally looked a little satisfied. After the main courses and sides were served, she told Archer, “Get some food for Melanie. She just rushed back and must be hungry.”

I didn’t look at him. “It’s fine, I’ll—”

Before I could finish, Archer reached out. From the nearest platter, he cut a piece of the spicy pan–fried beef that I liked and scooped some roasted vegetables onto the plate in front of me.

I paused slightly. “…Thanks.”

Archer didn’t say anything, just naturally withdrew his hand.

The “care” that Moira demanded was never just a symbolic gesture–it was about him remembering that I was sitting next to him and remembering my preferences throughout the entire meal.

Clearly, with his memory, he could execute these details perfectly without much conscious effort.

So, when my plate was almost empty, he quietly added a little more–almost all of it was the few things I favored: spicy beef, roasted potatoes, and stir–fried green beans.

This had happened occasionally in the past few years.

He could publicly ignore my existence, yet he wouldn’t forget these minute details. But it didn’t mean anything.

In Archer’s world, “remembering your preferences” was not the same as “keeping you in his heart.”

At most, it was a perfectly trained habit.

After dinner, Archer stayed to chat with Moira.

I sat on the side, listening quietly.

Occasionally, when Moira spoke to me, I would answer briefly, but I didn’t proactively join the conversation or deliberately exchange a word with Archer.

I rarely even looked up at him.

The fire in the fireplace burned quietly. The living room was filled only with the aroma of coffee and the soft crackle of wood.

The mating bond that once drew us so close was now like a set of dulled, segmented lines, leaving only a minimum tolerance for

each other’s scent.

Around nine o’clock, Moira put down her cup and waved us upstairs to rest.

I took Trista back to her room to bathe and wash her hair.

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Chege 58

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Steam filled the bathroom. She leaned in the tub, playing with bubbles and talking about small things that happened at school.

I listened, occasionally responding, but rarely following up on her topics as I used to.

After I blew her hair dry, she rolled over on the bed and suddenly looked up at me.

I was putting away the hairdryer and asked, “What is it?”

Trista hugged her pillow and scooted toward the middle of the bed. “Mommy, are you sleeping with me tonight, too?”

I paused. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“Either way is fine,” she blinked, then added, “But, you haven’t slept with Daddy in a long time. Aren’t you going to sleep with Daddy?”

“I’ll go back soon,” I said.

In everyone’s eyes, I was still the Luna of the Razor Pack.

If Moira found out I stayed here for another night, it would likely cause unnecessary commotion.

When I returned to the master bedroom, the light was on.

Archer was sitting at the desk on one side. The computer screen cast a cold white light, and the sound of the keyboard was clear and rhythmic in the quiet room.

His scent was clean and contained, emitting only the cool, sharp aura of a man in work mode.

Hearing the door open, he glanced up at me. His gaze rested on me for no more than two seconds before he returned to his

screen.

I walked straight into the walk–in closet, grabbed my pajamas, and went into the bathroom.

I closed my eyes as the hot water streamed down my shoulders.

Frost curled up in the depths of my consciousness, letting out only a muffled hum.

She was long familiar with the scent of this space.

After showering, I picked up a book from the bedside table and leaned against the headboard to read.

In the same bedroom, we were occupied with our own things.

The sound of the keyboard and the rustle of turning pages occasionally overlapped, then settled back into their own frequencies, with hardly a word exchanged.

Close to midnight, my eyelids started to feel heavy.

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