Alpha, I Don’t Need You Anymore Chapter 01

Alpha, I Don’t Need You Anymore Chapter 01

Every evening after dinner, Brandon would take a short walk downstairs.

Whenever he headed out, I’d casually remind him, “Don’t forget to take the trash down​ on your way.”

He always nodded and almost always forgot.

Later, I noticed that whenever he went downstairs, our neighbor Fiona Ross’s trash would be taken out by morning.

One evening, I deliberately didn’t say a word.

Sure enough, our bag still sat by the door, while Fiona’s doorstep was clear.

I stood in the doorway for a few seconds. The faint, sour smell of yesterday’s waste hung in the air.

Without a word, I just picked up our bag and took it downstairs myself.

From that day on, I stopped reminding him about anything.

I stopped asking what time he’d be home or handing him little tasks “since you’re going out anyway.”

Then one night, he suddenly asked me,

“Have you been… a little cold toward me lately?”

I glanced at the empty trash can by the entryway, thought for a moment, and shook my head.

“No.”

It was only later that I realized some people don’t forget what they should do. They simply remember who matters to them.

And maybe it was time I learned to stop considering him a necessity, too.

Brandon came home at two in the morning.

I was still awake, sitting on the living room rug, sorting through years of household bills.

I didn’t look up when I heard the door open.

A light scent of perfume, mixed with smoke and liquor, drifted into the room.

“Sweetheart, you’re still up?”

Brandon’s voice carried a hint of guilty sweetness.He was holding an elegant cake box, bending down in front of me.

“I passed by that bakery you love on the way home. Waited in line to get you their last strawberry cake.”

While changing his shoes, he glanced at me, his eyes begging for praise.

I had been reading on the sofa. Hearing that,I lifted my gaze to the cake.

It must have been sitting out too long. It had started to turn, giving off a slightly sour smell.

My stomach tightened. I frowned almost imperceptibly.

“Thanks. Just leave it there.”

My tone was flat.

Brandon seemed put off by my coolness. He walked over, set the cake on the coffee table, and moved to put a hand on my shoulder. I shifted, turning a page, and his hand fell into empty air.

He pulled it back awkwardly, then began unbuttoning his cuffs, taking off his dress shirt.

“Oh, I need this for tomorrow’s meeting. It’s wrinkled. Could you iron it? Remember to handwash it first. The fabric’s delicate, can’t go in the machine.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact, as if I were his hired personal attendant.

I glanced at the shirt—the Italian custom silk-blend one I’d given him for our anniversary. It really was delicate.

In the past, I’d handwash every piece like that in cold water, then carefully steam-press every wrinkle, terrified of damaging a single thread.

Looking at him now, I suddenly found it all a bit laughable.

“Brandon,” I said, pointing at the cake. “Did you forget? I’m severely allergic to strawberries.”

Brandon froze, his tie halfway undone.

Surprise flickered across his face, followed by clear embarrassment and guilt.

“Oh… really? I thought you used to love…”

“That was blueberry.” I set the bills aside. “Last year, you used a strawberry-flavored condom by mistake. I spent two days in the ER on an IV. You were the one who checked me in.”

It had happened just last year.

Back then, he’d complained about the hospital chairs being uncomfortable while scrolling on his phone, saying it was my fault for insisting on protection—that my allergy made him miss work.

Now it was clear—he really hadn’t taken it to heart.

Brandon’s face flushed, then paled. His eyes darted away.

“Well… I must’ve mixed them up. I just wanted to surprise you. Good intentions, wrong outcome. I’ll get you something else next time.”

He reached to take the cake away, but I’d already stood up, picked up the elegantly boxed cake, walked to the kitchen, and dropped it box and all straight into the trash.