Claimed By The Billionaire Alpha

The doctor did not need to speak for me to know everything was wrong. I saw it in the way he paused at the foot of my brother’s bed, clipboard held too tightly in his hands. I saw it in the careful expression people wore when they were about to break your heart and wanted credit for doing it gently. Behind him, the monitor beside Liam Rowan beeped steadily. Too steadily. As if the machine believed it was enough to keep him here. Liam looked pale against the pillow, freckles standing out sharply against skin that had lost too much colour. At twelve years old, he should have been impossible to keep still. He should have been running, shouting, eating everything in sight, complaining about chores and stealing my charger. Instead, he was here. Thin wrists. Dark shadows beneath bright eyes. And trying to smile for me. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked weakly. “Like what?” “Like you’re planning my funeral.” “Liam.” He gave a small shrug. “Bit dramatic then?” I moved to his bedside and adjusted the blanket though it didn’t need adjusting. “You need rest.” “You need sleep.” “I look fine.” “You look terrifying.” Despite everything, I let out a breath that almost sounded like laughter. “You’re rude.” “You raised me.” I brushed his hair back from his forehead. “I did an excellent job.” The doctor cleared his throat softly. “Miss Rowan, could we step outside for a moment?” My stomach dropped. “No.” The word came out too fast. The doctor blinked. I swallowed. “Sorry. I just… say it here.” Liam’s gaze moved between us. “That means it’s bad.” “It means adults enjoy drama,” I said quickly. “Ayla.” His voice changed slightly. More serious. Am I dying? hung in the room before he even said it. Then he whispered it aloud. “Am I dying?” My chest caved in. “No,” I said fiercely. “Absolutely not.” The lie came naturally now. He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded once, as though he was comforting me more than believing me. I followed the doctor into the corridor. The bright hospital lights felt brutal after Liam’s dim room. Nurses passed with practiced expressions. Someone laughed near reception. A vending machine hummed. The world had the nerve to keep moving. The doctor exhaled. “Liam’s condition is progressing faster than we anticipated.” My throat tightened. “What does that mean?” “It means the current treatment is no longer enough.” “Then change it.” “We can begin the next stage, but it requires specialist intervention.” I folded my arms tighter. “How much?” He hesitated. I already hated the answer. Then he told me. For a second, I thought I had heard him wrong. “That’s impossible.” “I’m sorry.” “No. There has to be funding. A payment plan. Something.” “We’ve exhausted the available options.” “All of them?” “Yes.” My vision blurred slightly. “And if I can’t pay?” He looked away for half a second. That was enough. “How long?” I whispered. “Miss Rowan—” “How long?” “Days matter now.” Days. The word hollowed me out. I pressed a hand to my mouth, fighting the panic clawing up my throat. There had to be something. I was twenty years old. I worked two jobs. I skipped meals. I sold half of what I owned months ago. I had nothing left to sell except blood and bone. And it still wasn’t enough. “I’m sorry,” he said again. I laughed once. Sharp. Empty. Then I walked away before I humiliated myself by collapsing in front of him. I stayed in Liam’s room another hour, smiling lies and promising home soon. I talked about takeaway pizza, stupid television, and the neighbour upstairs who yelled at football matches as if they could hear him through the screen. Only when Liam finally fell asleep did I let myself leave. Rain hit me the second I stepped outside. Cold and relentless. Perfect. I walked beneath the hospital awning with no idea where I was going. My phone buzzed. A message from work. Don’t come in tomorrow. We need reliability. I stared at the words until they doubled. Then I laughed again. Of course. Lose everything in one afternoon. Efficient. I sat heavily on a bench near the entrance and pressed my palms into my eyes. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. “You can.” I jerked upright. A woman stood a few feet away, dressed in a fitted black coat that looked expensive enough to pay a year of rent. Rain slid off the fabric without marking it. Dark hair pinned neatly back. Calm face. Sharp eyes. I had not heard her approach. “Who are you?” “Someone who overheard your conversation upstairs.” My body stiffened instantly. “That was private.” “Yes,” she said. “And devastating.” I stood. “You need to leave.” Instead of moving, she reached into her coat and withdrew a matte black card. No logo. No writing. Only a silver crest embossed into the surface. She placed it beside me on the bench. “What is that?” “A solution.” “There is no solution.” “There are always solutions,” she replied. “Some are simply less comfortable than others.” I should have walked away. I knew that. But Liam’s face rose in my mind. Days. “What kind of solution?” “A private contract registry.” “That sounds illegal.” “It is.” The blunt honesty startled me into silence. “I’m not interested.” “You haven’t heard the offer.” “I don’t care.” She studied me quietly. “Your brother needs treatment by the end of the week.” My pulse spiked. “You said you overheard. How do you know that?” “Because the doctor was not quiet.” Humiliation flushed hot through me. I hated that strangers knew my desperation. I hated more that I needed help badly enough to listen. “What do they want?” I asked. “Different things. Protection agreements. Temporary contracts. Bloodline pairings.” The last phrase meant nothing to me. “And what would they want from me?” Her gaze held mine. “You.” I stepped back. “No.” “No one forces you,” she said calmly. “But those who attend rarely leave empty-handed.” Rain fell harder, bouncing silver off the pavement. A sleek black car rolled silently to the curb across the road. I noticed it because something inside me reacted before my mind did. Awareness crawled over my skin. Pressure. Attention. The rear passenger door opened. A tall man stepped out. Dark coat. Broad shoulders. One hand in his pocket. Rain seemed irrelevant to him. He lifted his head. Grey eyes locked directly onto mine across the street. Everything in me went still. I did not know him. Yet something inside me recognized danger instantly. And something else— Something stranger— Leaned toward it. My heartbeat stumbled hard enough to hurt. “Who is that?” I whispered. The woman glanced back once. Then a faint smile touched her mouth. “Your last chance.” I looked down at the card in my trembling hand. When I looked back up, the man was still watching me. Unmoving. Certain. Waiting. The woman stepped away into the rain. “Midnight,” she said. “Call the number on the back if you love your brother more than your pride.” Then she disappeared into the storm. I turned the card over. One number. Five words beneath it. Auction begins at midnight. Across the street, the man never looked away.