The Begging Alpha

His Past

(Freya)



Freya did not sit. She stood near the edge of the office, arms crossed so tightly across her chest it felt like she was holding herself together by force alone. Jasmine had taken position near the door, black hair gleaming under the overhead lights, posture relaxed but unmistakably territorial. Brittany remained where she was—near the center of the room, careful not to step any closer, hands loosely clasped in front of her as if proximity alone might provoke violence.

The silence stretched. Freya’s pulse hammered in her ears. She hated that Brittany stood there breathing the same air. Hated that her presence dredged up images Freya hadn’t been able to erase—the way Bradley’s face softened when he spoke to her on camera, the ease of his smile, the warmth he never brought home. “You have five minutes,” Freya said coldly. “Use them wisely.”

Brittany nodded once. No smile. No relief. “I will.” She took a slow breath, as if steadying herself for something she had been carrying for years. “I’m not here to tell you he’s a good man,” Brittany began. “I’m here to tell you how he was made.” Freya’s jaw tightened. “Be careful.” “I am,” Brittany said quietly. “Because none of this erases what he did to you.” That earned her a flicker of acknowledgment—barely perceptible, but real.

Brittany glanced down briefly, then back up, choosing her words with precision. “Bradley grew up in a house where everything looked perfect from the outside. Immaculate. Controlled. Quiet. The kind of place people admired.” Freya snorted softly. “Of course it did.” “There was no chaos,” Brittany continued. “No yelling. No cruelty you could point to and say, that’s abuse. But there was also no warmth. No softness. No… affection.” Freya’s fingers dug into her arms. “I was there,” Brittany said. “Not every day. But enough. I slept over. I ate at their table. I watched them interact.” She hesitated, then added, “I never once saw his parents touch.” Freya’s breath stuttered despite herself. “Not holding hands,” Brittany said. “Not a kiss on the cheek. Not even absentminded contact. They sat across from each other like colleagues. Polite. Civil. Distant.”

Jasmine’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And they never said it,” Brittany continued. “I love you. Not to each other. Not to him. Not on birthdays. Not on anniversaries. Not when his mother was sick.” Freya closed her eyes briefly, pain flaring sharp and unwanted.

“They weren’t cruel,” Brittany said quickly, anticipating the reaction. “They believed love was… assumed. Understood. That it didn’t need to be spoken or shown.” “That’s bullshit,” Freya snapped. “Yes,” Brittany agreed immediately. “It is. But they didn’t think so.” She shifted her weight, grounding herself. “In that house, love was treated like a liability. Something you kept hidden so it couldn’t be used against you.” Freya’s laugh was brittle. “So he hid it from me.” “I think,” Brittany said carefully, “he didn’t know he was allowed to show it.”

That did it.

Freya turned on her, fury blazing. “Do not stand there and tell me he didn’t know. He knew I was hurting. He knew I was lonely. He watched me disappear and did nothing.” “I know,” Brittany said. Her voice didn’t waver. “And that’s on him.” The admission took some of the wind out of Freya’s rage—but only slightly. “I’m not asking you to forgive him,” Brittany went on. “I’m asking you to understand what he was taught love was.” She took another breath. “In his family, affection meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant leverage. And leverage meant danger.”

Freya’s chest tightened. “They taught him that if someone knew what you cared about,” Brittany said, “they could destroy you with it. So he learned early not to let anyone see.” Jasmine shifted, arms crossing now. “That’s a convenient philosophy for powerful men.” “I’m not saying it isn’t,” Brittany replied. “I’m saying it was drilled into him before he was old enough to question it.” She looked back at Freya. “Can I tell you something that still haunts me?” Freya didn’t answer. Brittany took that as permission.

“He broke his arm when we were kids,” Brittany said. “Bad break. Bone through skin. Blood everywhere.” Freya’s stomach dropped. “I remember everyone expecting him to cry,” Brittany continued. “I expected him to cry.” She swallowed. “He didn’t. Not when it happened. Not when they set it. Not later, when the adrenaline wore off.” Freya’s nails bit into her palms. “He went completely silent,” Brittany said. “Jaw clenched. Eyes dry. He just… endured it.” “And his parents?” Freya asked, voice barely above a whisper. Brittany’s eyes hardened. “His father told him he was proud.”

The room went very still. “Proud,” Brittany repeated softly. “For not crying. For not showing pain. For handling it.” Freya felt something inside her fracture—not sympathy, not forgiveness, but understanding sharp enough to cut. “After that,” Brittany said, “every time he swallowed something that should’ve hurt, they praised him. Silence became virtue. Endurance became worth.” She looked at Freya steadily. “That’s how he learned love.” Freya shook her head slowly. “So he learned to disappear.” “Yes,” Brittany said. “And to perform when necessary.”

Freya’s laugh was hollow. “That explains the smiles. The charm. The warmth he saved for cameras and children and anyone who wasn’t me.” Brittany nodded. “He learned that if you give people just enough, they stop asking for more.” Freya’s eyes burned. “And the children?” she asked suddenly. “You said something about that.” Brittany’s expression softened. “Yes.” She smiled faintly. “He is himself with them. Completely. That man you saw—the one kneeling on the floor, laughing, letting them win, listening like nothing else in the world mattered?” Freya’s throat tightened painfully. “That’s him,” Brittany said. “That’s who he is when there’s no expectation, no threat, no consequence. Children don’t leverage affection. They don’t punish vulnerability. So his walls don’t activate.”

Freya swallowed hard. “Then why couldn’t he be that man with me?” Brittany’s answer was immediate—and devastating. “Because you mattered.” The words landed like a blow. “With you,” Brittany said quietly, “he had something to lose.” Silence stretched again, heavier this time. Freya turned away, breathing hard. Her anger hadn’t vanished—but it had shifted, reshaped into something far more dangerous: grief mixed with clarity. “So he loved me so badly he couldn’t show it,” Freya said bitterly. “No,” Brittany corrected gently. “He didn’t know how to love you without armor.” Freya laughed once, sharp and broken. “That armor cut me to pieces.” “Yes,” Brittany said. “And that’s why you don’t owe him anything.” Jasmine stepped forward then, voice cool and sharp. “That’s enough.” Brittany looked at her. “I understand.”

Jasmine’s black hair gleamed as she tilted her head. “Next time you want to have a conversation in my shop, you make an appointment. Preferably with less emotional arson.” Brittany huffed a quiet breath of amusement. “Fair.” She turned back to Freya one last time. “I didn’t come here to fix him. I came here so you’d know the truth before you decide whether he’s worth the risk.” Freya didn’t look at her. “Get out.” Brittany nodded. No argument. She left without another word. The door closed. Freya stood there shaking, rage and understanding colliding violently in her chest.

Jasmine moved to her side, resting a steady hand on her back. “You okay?” Freya stared at the window, jaw tight. “I don’t know.” And that terrified her more than anything Brittany had said.