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The Alphas start arriving that night.
We’ve prepared for this. Rooms are ready. Security tightened. Strategy sessions outlined. Mum is already in political mode and Dad is practically vibrating with tension. I’ve never seen him wear a shirt tucked in for this long.
The kids have been warned.
“Prank war is officially on hold,” I told them earlier, holding up a peace sign like I’m not ready to arrest anyone over toothpaste sabotage.
They all agreed—sort of.
Which in this house means no pranks in public, and all hell confined to the walls of our apartment. I’m still checking my shampoo for green dye and switching my toothbrush out nightly like I’m part of a spy op. And Noah’s still mad about the alarm clocks. Honestly, fair.
When the first Alpha lands earlier than expected, Caden a
