The Begging Alpha

Arranged

(Freya)

Freya was laughing. It startled her, even in the moment—how easily it came, how unguarded. Her head was tipped back, red hair slipping loose from its pins as she hurried down the corridor, skirts gathered in one hand, portfolio clutched in the other.

“Slow down,” Jasmine called, breathless but grinning as she matched Freya’s pace. “If you trip, I’m not explaining to her why her prodigies arrived bleeding.”

Freya laughed harder. “You just don’t want to be late.”

“I don’t want you to be late,” Jasmine corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The hallway buzzed with quiet energy—the kind only fashion houses had. Assistants murmured, fabric rustled, heels clicked in steady rhythm. The air smelled of starch, perfume, and ambition. They stopped outside the mentor’s private room, hearts pounding in sync.

“Okay,” Jasmine whispered, pressing a hand to Freya’s arm. “Last chance to panic.”

Freya shook her head, smiling. “No. This is it.”

They had worked for months—late nights, ruined prototypes, fingers pricked raw by needles. Their designs weren’t just dresses. They were statements. Power wrapped in silk. Grace sharpened into structure. They belonged here. Freya reached for the handle but her phone rang. The sound cut through the moment like a blade. She froze.

Jasmine frowned. “You going to answer that?” Freya glanced at the screen. The name there made her stomach drop. Mother. She swallowed and stepped back, lifting the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

There was no greeting. “Freya,” her mother said, voice tight and formal. “You need to come home.” Her smile faded. “I can’t right now. I’m about to—” “A marriage has been arranged.” The words landed flat. Heavy. Final. Freya stared at the door in front of her, the future she was seconds away from stepping into suddenly blurring. “…What?”

“You’ve been selected,” her mother continued, as if discussing a business acquisition. “The Red Eye pack. Alpha Bradley.”

A photo appeared on her screen. Freya’s breath caught. The man staring back at her wasn’t smiling. He stood tall in a tailored suit, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. Dark hair pulled back neatly. Eyes sharp. Assessing. Power, contained. He looked nothing like the men she’d imagined loving. Nothing like the life she’d built.

“I don’t understand,” Freya whispered. “You will,” her mother said. “This is an honor.” The call ended. Freya stood there, phone still pressed to her ear, the corridor suddenly too loud, too bright. Jasmine was watching her closely now. “Freya?” She lowered the phone slowly. “They arranged a marriage,” Freya said. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. “To an Alpha.” Jasmine’s eyes widened. Then—something else flickered there. Awe. Excitement. “Which one?” she asked. Freya held up the phone.

Jasmine gasped. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “Bradley? Red Eye Bradley?” Freya nodded numbly. Jasmine laughed, a little breathless. “Do you know how many people would kill for that? He’s brilliant. His company—Freya, their tech is insane. I have three of their keyboards.” Freya said nothing. Jasmine hesitated, then squeezed her hand. “I mean… I know it’s sudden. But this could be huge. For you. For us.”

For us. Freya looked back at the door they’d been about to open. “I need to go,” she said quietly. Jasmine blinked. “Now?” Freya nodded.

She never got to show the designs.

The fashion world noticed her absence almost immediately. At first, people assumed it was temporary. Burnout. Creative retreat. A prodigy regrouping before her next revolution. When her collections failed to appear season after season, rumors began to circulate. Some said she’d lost her edge. Others whispered tragedy. When the Royal family appeared in black at a gala—custom-tailored, somber, respectful—speculation hardened into belief. A legend had vanished.

Only a handful knew the truth. Freya Silk was alive. She was busy learning how to be quiet. Learning pack etiquette. Learning when to stand. When to sit. When not to speak unless spoken to. She learned how to smile beside a man who rarely smiled back. How to exist in his space without disturbing the careful balance of his control. She learned how to disappear without actually leaving.

The dream fractured.

Freya gasped awake. Her heart was racing, breath sharp in her chest as she bolted upright, sheets tangled around her legs. It took a moment for the room to come into focus. Neutral walls. Minimal furniture. No trace of him. The guest room. Not the bed she had shared with Bradley for five years. Her hand flew to her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her nightshirt as the weight of it all crashed back down on her. The girl laughing in the hallway felt like someone else entirely.

Freya swung her legs over the side of the bed, grounding herself in the present. The dream lingered like a bruise—tender, revealing. She had lost more than a marriage. She had lost herself. And for the first time since waking in this cold, borrowed room, Freya allowed herself to think something dangerous.

Never again.

Freya didn’t fall back asleep. The dream had burned itself too deeply into her nerves for that. Instead, she lay there for a while, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of the penthouse waking up around her. Distant footsteps. The soft hum of systems coming online. Life continuing as if nothing had changed. She lowered her feet until they touched the floor and stood. The guest room bathroom was immaculate—unused, impersonal. She flicked on the light and met her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were still a little red, but clear now. Awake. Present. She brushed her teeth slowly, methodically. The mint burned her tongue just enough to keep her grounded. Water splashed against porcelain as she rinsed, wiped her mouth, tied her hair back.

Routine steadied her.

She opened the dresser she’d been given—neatly arranged, everything in neutral tones. Freya reached past the delicate, impractical pieces and chose one of the modest bras she preferred. Comfortable. Supportive. Something that didn’t demand attention. Comfort had always mattered more to her than people assumed. Fresh panties followed, then skinny jeans that hugged her hips just right—not tight, not sloppy. Familiar. Hers. She pulled on a simple white T-shirt, soft with wear, the kind that moved with her instead of against her. She looked like herself again. That mattered.

Freya reached for her phone, thumb hovering as she unlocked it. One contact sat pinned at the top of her list—a name she hadn’t dialed in three years. Jasmine. Her chest tightened—not with fear, but with something sharper. Anticipation. Guilt. Relief. She lifted the phone—

A knock sounded at the door. Three light taps. Evenly spaced. Freya closed her eyes. She knew that knock.

“Luna,” came the soft voice on the other side. “Breakfast is ready whenever you are.” The maid’s tone was polite. Neutral. As if nothing were wrong. As if Freya hadn’t slept in the guest room instead the same room as her mate. Her Alpha. As if the house hadn’t quietly shifted overnight.

“Thank you,” Freya replied calmly. “I’ll be down shortly.” The footsteps retreated. Freya exhaled and dialed the number before she could second-guess herself. The line barely rang once. “Freya?” The voice cracked. “Oh my god—Freya, is that you? Are you—where have you been? I thought—” “Jasmine,” Freya said softly. The sound on the other end broke—half laugh, half sob. “I missed you,” Jasmine blurted. “You disappeared. You just—vanished. Do you know what that did? To the house? To me?”

Freya closed her eyes, leaning back against the dresser. “I’m sorry,” she said. And she meant it. Jasmine laughed wetly. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. I took your spot, you know.” Freya smiled faintly. “I know.” There was pride in Jasmine’s voice now. “They needed someone. Your designs—your vision—it left a hole. I filled it. I’m good, Frey. I learned fast.” “I always knew you would.”

A beat. Then Jasmine’s tone shifted. Sharpened. “Are you okay?” Freya hesitated. Just long enough. “No,” she said honestly. Silence. Then, quietly, dangerously calm: “What did he do?” Freya hadn’t planned to tell her. Not all of it. But the words came anyway—years compressed into moments. Distance. Neglect. The coldness disguised as duty. The warmth she saw him give someone else. By the time she finished, Jasmine was breathing hard. “That arrogant—” Jasmine stopped herself, then hissed, “He should pay.”

Freya didn’t argue. She slid her phone into her back pocket, smoothed her shirt, and headed for the door.

Breakfast waited downstairs. The house expected her. The role still clung to her like a title she hadn’t shed yet. But something had shifted. She wasn’t disappearing this time. She was waking up.