The Alpha's Crimson Vow

2

It’s exhausting. It’s only been six months since Mom and Dad passed away, six months since I took over the company. And in that time, the elders haven’t even let me breathe. Not one week of peace without their constant nagging about this apparent need for me to marry urgently. It feels like they’d love nothing more than to have total control over every aspect of my professional and personal life.

I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the storm of thoughts swirling in my head as I drive through the city streets, their glow softened by the golden haze of streetlights. A quick glance at the sleek watch on my wrist tells me it’s nearly 9 PM. A dry laugh escapes my lips.

What a joke. That so-called “dinner date” was annoying enough all by itself. But the fact that I could’ve been prepping for tomorrow’s board meeting or finishing up on some work pricks at me even more.

The drive back to the office is smooth, my thoughts a little less chaotic as I pull into the near-empty parking lot. The cool night air greets me as I step out. Without hesitation, I head straight for the building.

The automatic doors part with their familiar hum, and I stride inside, offering a quick nod to the reception staff as they gather their things to leave for the night.

“Goodnight,” I say, my tone polite but clipped.

“Goodnight, ma’am,” one of them replies, her voice warm but cautious.

I keep walking, my lips curving into a faint smile. Good for them, heading home to their families or whatever peaceful lives they’ve built for themselves. Me? I’d rather be here. Working.

Home isn’t much of a draw for me these days. Sure, I’ve got a spacious apartment, more luxurious than I’d ever need, but it feels more like a showroom than a home. I’ve even started keeping a rotation of clothes in my office. Most nights, I crash on the leather couch in the corner, finding its familiar firmness oddly comforting during those brief hours I allow myself to sleep.

It’s better this way. Being at home only amplifies the loneliness, even though it really isn’t anything I can’t handle—I’ve been used to that for years. It’s the unproductive stillness that gets to me, that gnawing sense of wasting time when there’s always something that needs to be done.

And there’s always something. Between the relentless demands of running the company, the family elders’ endless schemes to marry me off, and the subtle but unmistakable doubts I see in the eyes of certain board members, there’s no room for error.

Not for me.

I can’t falter. Can’t slip. Every move has to be calculated, every decision sharp. Because any hint of a mistake from me will surely been seen as weakness.

I walk past the stairway, my eyes catching on the steps for just a second—long enough to pull me back to that night. That one night when everything was too much. That night when I couldn’t be strong and the emotions pierced into my heart.

I’d just heard about my parents accident. The words still rang in my ears. I’d tried to hold it together, tried to make it out of the building unnoticed, but I didn’t make it far. The stairway became my refuge, and I crumpled there, sobbing harder than I ever had in my life.

I thought I was alone. I needed to be alone. But then someone saw me.

That janitor.

He didn’t say much. Just sat there, quietly, like he understood. At one point, he offered a soft word I don’t even remember now, and then, oddly enough, his sandwich. It was the strangest thing, but in that moment, it felt so real, so human—an act of kindness from someone who had no reason to be kind.

The world could use more people like that, I remember thinking that day. People who don’t want anything, who just… care. But the world isn’t full of people like him. The world is full of boardroom politics, endless work, and family elders who won’t let me breathe.

The thought of that janitor, the one I never saw again after that night, lingers for a moment before slipping away as I reach the elevator. A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, focusing on the cold feel of the button under my finger as I press it.

I hate elevators. Being trapped in a metal box, the walls always feeling a little too close, it’s never been something I’m comfortable with. But I manage. I always do.

It’s just a few seconds. I remind myself. Still, every time without fail, there’s that flicker of unease, that quiet voice in my head whispering nerves.

As the doors begin to slide shut, a voice cuts through the stillness.

“Please, hold the door.”

The words are polite, but there’s something else about the voice that makes my hand shoot out to stop the doors without hesitation. Something familiar.

He steps into view, my eyes widening with shock at the sight before me.

The janitor.

He fills the space with a presence so commanding, so powerful, that I feel momentarily dwarfed. It makes no sense for a man like this to be a janitor. His broad shoulders nearly brush the sides of the elevator, and his dark, sharp eyes flick to mine briefly before darting away. His frame is towering, but there’s a quiet gentleness to the way he moves, like he’s acutely aware of how much space he occupies.

“Sorry, Ms. Lockhart,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant, as though he doesn’t want to intrude. And then there’s that accent I can’t place. Both his voice and his appearance do not suit his job.

I manage a small smile. “It’s no trouble.”

He nods, stepping into the elevator, and the doors glide shut.

A part of me is thankful for his presence—at least I’m not alone in here.

My gaze flickers to him briefly. The first time I saw him, I hadn’t really taken him in—too consumed by my own whirlwind of emotions to notice much of anything. But now, for just a moment, I allow myself to really look.

His face is all sharp angles and rugged strength. He could probably be a model if he wanted, with that chiseled jaw and those steady, thoughtful eyes.

My eyes trail down to the small tag pinned to his chest, catching the name printed there.

Alex.

So that’s his name.

“Long day?” he asks, his voice breaking the silence.

I blink. “You could say that.”

He nods, as though he understands more than he lets on. “It’s always the long days that remind us to rest,” he says, his tone simple but oddly profound.

And then, just as I am forming a response, the floor beneath me jolts violently.

The lights above us flicker wildly, bathing the small elevator in a strobe of bright flashes and sharp shadows. My stomach lurches.

Alex’s eyes go wide, a look of shock crossing his face, but it doesn’t compare to the sheer terror that grips me. My hands shoot out, grasping at the cold, smooth walls of the elevator, clawing for anything solid to hold onto as the steel box around us shakes like it’s caught in an earthquake.

The elevator jerks to a sudden stop, and everything goes still.

The tiny, enclosed space is suffocating, the only sound the ragged gasp of my breathing as I collapse to the floor. My mind is spinning, my body trembling. The walls seem to close in, inch by inch, until I feel like they’re pressing against my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.

My throat tightens. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe.