The Alpha's False Mate

CHAPTER 5: Meeting my Savior Again

A low rumble vibrates in my chest as I’m approaching suite 617-28A. The continuous deep resonant sound inside of me loudens the instant I stand in front of Mr. Acosta's door. For a split second, I find myself frozen in place. I'm incapable of pressing the doorbell, let alone breathe properly. What’s going on with me? I was excited about seeing him earlier. Now that I’m inches away from his door, I’m just inexplicably hanging back.

“Miss, are you okay?”

A husky voice steals me away from my thoughts. Only then do I realize that there are two men in black suits, whom I assume are Mr. Acosta’s bodyguards, towering over me. How could I not notice them? They’re both tall with big physiques just like Clark. I’m so engulfed in my intoxicating keenness for seeing the man behind those doors that I inadvertently ignore his bodyguards.

I swallow the knob of air in my throat and straighten my posture, then reply with a fake lively tone, “I’m okay. Can I come in? This suite is scheduled to be cleaned today.”

“We’re aware of that,” one of the bodyguards says before knocking on the door. He then adds, “Mr. Acosta, the cleaner is here.”

It takes a few seconds when Mr. Acosta’s voice echoes from the other side of the door. “Let her in.”

Her? How did he know that the room attendant who’s assigned to his suite for today is a woman? The hotel never discloses this kind of information to our customers. I almost slap my forehead when I remember that the man inside this suite is not a customer but the owner of this hotel. Therefore, he withholds every single detail about his empire.

Wait! Did he request for me to clean his room? I just cleaned it yesterday and now he wants it to be cleaned again. Warmth rushes through my cheeks as I giggle inwardly. That feeling of being wanted is quickly dispersed into thin air when I lay my sight on the beautiful woman in the painting as the door squeals open. Her beauty makes me question the confidence I once had in my own. She looks like a model or an actress, while me, I look like… well,... never mind. It’s hard to think of any positive adjective to describe myself.

I push my trolley and walk past through the painting. Nobody’s around. I stop when I reach the bathroom's wide open door.

“Excuse me, is there anyone who’s using the bathroom?” I ask.

Since I don’t hear any response or any splashes or trickles of water, I step inside, leaving the trolley out and only carrying a mop, a bucket and a spray bottle. Funny enough, a sudden urge to glance at the huge mirror hares on my skin. Having little to no sleep, in addition to constant stress about my financial status, takes a toll on my body. My cheeks are sunken a little bit and the puffiness around my bottom eyelids is more bulging than before. I pat those areas of my face with my fingertips, as if that gesture would make any difference to how I look.

The next thing that catches my attention is the deep-rectangled basket in one corner of the room, which wasn't there before. What joggles my curiosity are the peppermint scented white polo and checkered slacks that are messily hung on the basket’s rim. Both are ripped with blood stains all over them. I can’t be mistaken, these are what Mr. Acosta was wearing during the wolves' attack on the hospital's rooftop. These clothes send me back to that agonizing moment in life. Slowly and quite reluctantly, I glide my white slip-resistant shoes forward, then grab the polo from the basket. I rub my fingers on its smooth cottony surface before dangling it on one arm. Startled, dark gray hairs stick on my fingers. I stare at them longer than I should have, analyzing where they come from. Then, I scan myself in the mirror to check if I have some of those hairs on my uniform. There’s none. When my eyes slant at the polo through the mirror, I grab it with force and study it once again. My eyes twitch. The polo's inside has a ton of hairs ranging from white to dark gray to black.

“What in the world?”

I’ve seen Mr. Acosta’s naked upper body once before. From what I recall, he doesn’t have hair on his chest nor on his forearms. The wolves emerge in my head again. Could it be that he battled the wolves by himself? If that’s the case, then why are these hairs stuck inside the polo and not outside? The way his clothes are torn isn’t from sharp claws or canines but more like from a sudden increase of body size. Also, I don’t think he can escape the big wolves’ wrath by himself. What happened during those few minutes I went to seek help? I exhale with exageration as I try to flush down the sick idea that’s scuttling in my head.

“That’s ridiculous,” I murmur.

“What’s ridiculous?”

I frantically throw the polo back in the basket before turning around to face the suite owner. He’s standing tall while fixing his necktie. He doesn't remove his unwaring eyes off my fluttering ones.

“Mr. Acosta, I d-din’t realize y-you’re there.”

He remains quiet. His eyes are as bloody as hell. His gaze is so sharp and it's shredding my nerves into pieces.

“I w-was planning to take your l-laundry downstairs then return it back once it’s c-cleaned,” I add.

Trying to act calm in front of this handsome man is close to impossible. I keep swallowing and darting my eyes around as I wait for his response.

“Throw them or burn them. Whatever might be easier for you.”

His monotonous voice thrums with the rapid pounding of my heart. Before he could turn his back on me, I unrestrainedly say,

“Hold on.”

He stares at me. That makes the tension in my chest explode all throughout my body and it’s choking me. I draw in the stuffy air through my mouth, which triggers a smirk to light up Mr. Acosta’s face. Though embarrassment ceaselessly devastates me, my desire to express myself is more dominant. That desire pushes the words out of my lips.

“I’d like to thank you for…”

“If it’s about your father, I already heard it from Clark,” he interrupts, then asks, “Anything else?”

My jaw trembles as I open my mouth to say more.

“Relax,” he says.

His presence unmasks my unfathomable anxiety.

“Listen,” he starts as he walks towards me.

I take a couple of steps back, which induces him to stop walking. He continues speaking instead.

“I don’t have much time. I’m a very busy person. Tell me what you need so I can leave.”

My desperation for salvation flees from my mouth instantaneously. “I need a second job. Can you help me?”

He softly chortles, which causes my eyebrows to flinch. I don’t find my question funny, so his reaction catches me off guard. He turns serious when I make it obvious that I don’t share the same enthusiasm as he does.

He asks, “If you think you can ask me whatever favor you want, forget it. I helped you twice. Don’t overdo it.”

“If you can’t offer me another job, maybe there’s someone you know who can?”

I intertwine my fingers against each other, trying to nullify the displeasing feeling of rejection from someone whom I thought is my savior.

“Mr. Kobe Chua might help you. I can ask my bodyguards to find him.”

The mention of that man with an ill-favored face and a beer-belly swooshes to my heart like an arrow. It hits directly to the right spot. My knees buckle and my hands quiver in fear. Shame gushes through my boiling blood. What's worse, is the wry smirk at Mr. Acosta’s face. He knows Mr. Chua. More likely, he also knows my history with that pig. If Mr. Chua lies to him about me, then I have to defend myself, right? But what for? Mr. Acosta wouldn’t care anyway.

Without dropping that smirk, he asks, “Do you want his help?”

The way he overemphasizes the words ‘his help’ irks me to my bones. Patently, he’s mocking me, which I find unfair. How could he judge me without even knowing me fully well? Anger saturates every part of me. My eyes moisten and my fists clench into a ball. Before the agitation bursts through my mouth, which might cause me my job, I jog past Mr. Acosta, then grab the trolley’s handle. I only manage to take a couple of steps back while pulling my trolley when Mr. Acosta gets out of the bathroom and asks,

“You’re leaving? Are you sure you’re done with what you’re supposed to do?” Impatient about my reaction, he continues, “You did the same thing the last time you were here. You left without cleaning the entire suite. I understand that you have personal issues. I have mine too, but I don’t put my responsibility in jeopardy. Learn how to separate your problem from your work. Take that advice so you’d land a second job without the need of anyone’s help.”

My churning fury could no longer desist from being unrevealed. It blasts out of my eyes and my mouth.

“Easy for you to say! Sure, you might have personal issues. But I’ll put my head on the chopping block for guessing that your problem is nowhere near as catastrophic as mine. You have money! You can buy your way through your happiness!” I respond through my tears.

Mr. Acosta licks his lower lip, then bite it. Unable to accept the fact that this man isn’t as compassionate as I thought he is, I storm out of his sight. Unfortunately, he precedes me from getting to the door. He leans his back against it while folding his arms across his chest.

“Speaking ill to your boss’ boss’ boss isn’t gonna help you either.”

Aside from he's right, I'm also tired of any further argument. I mumble, “I’m sorry. I’m prepared for any disciplinary action necessary.”

“Disciplinary action? You must think highly of me. I can fire you right now.”

My mouth flings open, but no word is able to clear out of it. My eyes are begging, but his inexpressive gaze is unruffled. Relinquishing my little-to-nothing self-worth, I drop my knees on the floor, press my palms on my lap and stare at Mr. Acosta’s black leather shoes.

“Please forgive me. I’m wrong to assume that someone is willing to save me from drowning. I should have known that there’s only me who could tread the water to save myself.”

My sobs intensify my anger, but I stay low. I can’t make the same mistake again. I can’t lose my job. As I struggle to control more tears from wetting my face, Mr. Acosta hunkers down. Then, the pit of my stomach fidgets when he lifts my chin so our eyes could meet. His fingers playfully rub my chin. His once impassive yet piercing red eyes become genuinely concern. The most surprising of all, is the next set of words that he says.

“Tell me everything you need. I’ll help.”