I Slept With the Alpha

(Maya's POV) I counted the bills twice before I let myself believe the number was real. Even then, it didn't help. Twelve thousand dollars. That was what stood between me and a landlord who'd stopped pretending to be patient, a hospital that sent a new letter every week in the same red ink, and a stepmother who smiled like she'd invented the number herself. "You're short again." Diane didn't even look up from her phone. She was perched on the arm of the good couch—the couch that used to belong to my father before Diane had reupholstered it in cream to match everything else in the house he'd left behind. "I don't understand how a girl with two jobs manages to be short every single month." "I'm not short." I placed the envelope on the table between us. "I'm exactly on time." I made sure to keep my hand steady. "That's this month's share. In full." Diane finally looked up. She had a way of looking at me that made me feel eleven years old again. Small. Unwanted. Like I'd accidentally wandered into a room where I wasn't supposed to be. "Your father's debts don't stop because you had a good month, sweetheart." Her voice was sweet enough to rot my teeth. "There's interest. There's the loan against the house. There's—" "I know what there is." I kept my voice level. "I have the paperwork memorized." I'd learned a long time ago that the moment I raised my voice, Diane won. Because then it wasn't about the money anymore. It was about me being difficult. Me being ungrateful. Me being exactly the kind of burden my father should never have left behind for her to deal with. Diane's daughter, Portia, wandered in from the kitchen with a granola bar she hadn't offered to share. She looked between us with the mild, entertained interest of someone watching a show she'd seen before and still enjoyed. "Is it debt night?" She took a bite of her granola bar. "I love debt night." "Go finish your homework," Diane said. Not unkindly. Portia rolled her eyes and left, already staring at her phone. I waited until the sound of her bedroom door closing drifted down the hall. Then I spoke. "I picked up a catering shift tonight." Diane's eyes returned to me. "Reyes Events. It pays double for the black-tie ones." I swallowed. "That'll cover next month's interest early." Something shifted behind her eyes. Not warmth. Never warmth. Calculation. I'd learned to recognize that look. And I had learned to dread it. "Tonight?" She tilted her head. "The Ridgeview Hotel event?" "You know it?" "I know Marion runs the boutique that dresses half the women who'll be there." Diane finally set her phone down. That alone should have warned me. "It's the Black Industries founders' gala." She smiled. "Very exclusive. Very old money mixed with very new money." Her smile widened. "Which is the worst kind of room to be poor in." I ignored the jab. "You'll want to look presentable, at least." She picked up her phone again. "I'll have something sent up for you before you go." "I'll be in the catering uniform the whole night." I shrugged. "Nobody's going to see what I'm wearing under the apron." "Humor me." Her thumbs moved quickly over her phone. "Consider it a peace offering." I should have known better. I'd lived under this roof for six years. Six years since my father's heart gave out on a Tuesday in March. Six years since I'd discovered that the father I thought had left me security had actually left me a mountain of debts. Six years since Diane had looked at me across the funeral reception and decided that grief was simply another line item to be managed. I should have known that nothing Diane offered came without a hook buried somewhere in the middle of it. But I was tired. And the number on the table was smaller than the number in my head. For one weak, foolish hour, I let myself hope. Maybe—just maybe—Diane meant it as kindness. The dress arrived that evening. And the second I saw it, my stomach tightened. It was beautiful. Beautiful in the specific, expensive way that made me feel poorer just looking at it. Deep green silk. A fitted waist. A plunging neckline that somehow managed to look elegant rather than desperate. The kind of dress that belonged to a woman who had never once stood in front of a grocery shelf calculating whether she could afford the name-brand cereal. "For the gala," Diane said. She hung it on my bedroom door without knocking. "Marion insisted." I stared at the dress. "Marion?" "She says you have the coloring for it." "I told you, I'm working." I pointed at myself. "I'll be wearing black slacks and a company polo." "Wear it underneath." Diane waved dismissively. "Take the polo off when your shift ends. You can enjoy the last hour as a guest instead of the help." She smiled. "You've earned one nice night, haven't you?" Her voice softened. "I'm trying here, Maya." It was such a small thing to want to believe. One nice night. One hour where nobody looked through me like I was furniture that happened to be carrying a tray. I reached out and touched the silk. It was impossibly soft beneath my fingertips. And I hated myself a little for how badly I wanted it to be true. I should have asked questions. Why would Diane suddenly care whether I had a nice night? Why would Marion, a woman I'd never met, send an expensive dress to a catering employee? And why was there a small card tucked inside the garment bag? I pulled it out. Suite 1204. Beneath the number, Diane had written: For after your shift, darling. Marion has set aside a private spot for you to change. I stared at the handwriting. Too neat. Too deliberate. Too much like something planned. I should have asked. I didn't. I was too tired. Too desperate for one small kindness. And that was the mistake that would follow me for the rest of my life. The Ridgeview's ballroom glittered the way old money always glittered. Not loudly. Never loudly. Just a steady, expensive shimmer of chandelier light reflected against champagne flutes, polished marble, and jewelry that probably cost more than my entire debt. I moved through the crowd with a tray balanced on one palm. Invisible. That's what service staff were trained to be. Invisible. Smile. Don't interrupt. Don't stare. Don't speak unless spoken to. I caught fragments of conversations as I passed. Someone's yacht. Someone's second divorce. A ski resort in Switzerland. And one name. Black. Again. And again. People said it differently than they said everyone else's name. Not casually. Not normally. They said it with a strange mixture of respect and caution. Like they were talking about something powerful. Something that could hurt them if they got too close. I didn't care. Rich people were always strange. Then I saw him. Only for a moment across the ballroom. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. A black suit tailored so perfectly it looked less like clothing and more like armor. He stood surrounded by several men who leaned toward him whenever he spoke. I couldn't hear what he said. But I saw the others listening. Completely. Someone beside me whispered, "Ethan Black." I glanced over. "Ethan?" The woman immediately lowered her voice. "Don't stare." "Why?" She gave me a strange look. "You don't know who he is?" I shook my head. She looked almost horrified. Then she walked away. I shrugged. Whatever. Ethan Black wasn't my problem. Not tonight. I had twelve thousand dollars worth of problems waiting for me at home. A mysterious billionaire wasn't one of them. At least, that's what I thought. My shift ended at eleven. My feet were killing me. My lower back ached. My shoulders felt like they belonged to someone twice my age. When my supervisor finally waved me off with a distracted, "Good work. Go on." I practically ran to the staff bathroom. I peeled off the polo. Then I looked at the green dress. For a long moment, I simply stood there. Then I put it on. I stared at myself in the mirror. And stopped breathing. I looked...different. Not like the exhausted woman who worked two jobs. Not like the daughter of a dead man who had left behind nothing but bills. Not like Diane's unwanted responsibility. For one strange breath, I looked like a woman who belonged in that ballroom. I almost smiled. Then my phone buzzed. Diane. I opened the message. Go to Suite 1204. Another message appeared. Marion left you a gift. Then another. Don't keep her waiting. I frowned. Before I could respond, another message appeared. Drink the champagne she left. It's a good year. Then: You deserve it. I stared at the screen. Something about it felt strange. But I was tired. And flattered. And, most importantly, I wanted to believe that someone had finally decided I deserved something nice. So I went upstairs. Suite 1204 was enormous. Too enormous. The kind of room I'd only ever seen in movies. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. A bottle of champagne sat waiting on a small table. There was one glass beside it. I looked around. "Marion?" No answer. I checked my phone. No new messages. I should have left. Instead, I walked over to the table. The bottle had already been opened. A single glass had been poured. I hesitated. Then I picked it up. The champagne was cold. Sweet. Expensive. I took a sip. It tasted faintly bitter beneath the sweetness. I frowned. Maybe that's what expensive champagne tasted like. I took another sip. Then another. Within minutes, warmth spread through my body. I leaned against the table. My heart suddenly seemed to be beating too fast. I blinked. The room moved. Just slightly. I grabbed the edge of the table. "Okay..." I laughed weakly. "Maybe I haven't eaten enough today." I tried to take another step. The floor tilted beneath my feet. My stomach dropped. I reached for the wall. Missed. My phone slipped from my hand and hit the carpet. My vision blurred. And somewhere behind me...I heard the unmistakable click of the suite door opening. I froze. Someone was here. A man's voice came from behind me. Low. Deep. And dangerously calm. "Who the hell are you?" I tried to turn around. I couldn't. My knees buckled. The last thing I saw before everything went black was a pair of unfamiliar eyes glowing an impossible, terrifying shade of gold. And the last thing I heard was a growl. Not from the man. From somewhere inside him.