The Alpha's Lost Heiress

POV: Millie "Millie, you can't be serious." I don't look up. My eyes stay fixed on the box in front of me, folding the cardboard flaps over each other until they hold. I can't bring myself to meet Chasity's gaze right now, not when tears threaten to spill from her eyes. "Millie," her voice climbs higher, cracking at the edges. "Are you even listening to me?" "I'm listening." I run my palm over the top of the box as if that'll make the tape stick faster. My fingers trace the seam twice, three times. "I just don't have anything else to say." She huffs. I hear her nails tapping against her arm before I see them, that quick irritated rhythm she produces when anger takes hold. "I mean, have you really thought this through?" I have. More than I've thought through anything in my entire life. But telling her that feels like handing her a rope to pull me back with. Her eyes are already glassy, and her voice wobbles at the end of every sentence, each word trembling like a leaf about to fall. So I shrug instead. Casual. Like I'm picking what cereal to buy instead of uprooting my whole life and moving it across the country. Am I sure this is what I want? No. If I'm sure of anything, it's that moving is the last thing I want to do. The thought of leaving makes my stomach twist into knots. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and lately, I'm desperate. More desperate than I've ever been, even if I won't admit it out loud. I press the last strip of tape down with my thumb and stand up, looking around the room. Everything I've ever known is here, crammed into the boxes at the foot of my bed, or standing in my doorway with perfectly sculpted eyebrows pulled into a frown that's somehow still photogenic. I never thought I'd say it, but I'm going to miss this. The noise of the city that used to keep me awake at night. Being just another face in a crowd, anonymous and safe. Even the constant drama that comes with being best friends with Chasity, exhausting as it is. "You could talk to him," she says, leaning against the doorframe with studied casualness. "Rod, I mean. Maybe if you actually talked to him instead of just nodding whenever he's around..." "It's not about Rod." It's not, not really. Rod is fine. I like him, or at least I want to. He's never been anything but kind to me. But what I think about him doesn't matter. Chasity's the one who's in love, and she's the one who's going to be stuck with him until divorce does them part. Knowing Chasity and her flair for drama, I'd bet money on a long, ugly, expensive divorce somewhere down the line. The kind that makes headlines in the society pages she loves so much. I don't need a crystal ball for that one, just her track record and a basic understanding of patterns. If I had to guess, Chasity falls in love with the idea of being in love more than she falls for any actual guy. She's addicted to the rush, the romance, the fairy tale. Reality always disappoints her eventually. I hope I'm wrong. Or that she figures it out before the wedding, at least, before she makes promises she can't keep. I gave up trying to talk to her about her love life a long time ago, after one too many tearful three a.m. phone calls. Not my problem anymore. I get down on my hands and knees and check under the bed one more time, just to be sure. Dust bunnies and an old sock, nothing else. Then I yank open the dresser drawers and run my hand along the back corners of the closet shelf, my fingers searching for anything I might have missed. Nothing. There's almost nothing left in this room that's mine, nothing to prove I ever lived here at all. "Find anything?" Chasity asks, her voice small. "Nope." I tape the last box shut and give it a shove with my foot, sending it sliding into the hallway with the others. It hits the wall with a dull thud that sounds too final. It's kind of depressing, if I think about it too long. Twenty-four years on this planet, and everything I own fits into a handful of cardboard boxes and the trunk of my beat-up Honda. I'd like to say I travel light, that I'm minimalist by choice, that possessions don't define me. The truth is, outside of my clothes, a few family photos I can't bear to part with, and a couple of knickknacks that hold memories I'm not ready to let go of, I don't own much of anything. Never have. I pull the folded bills out of my back pocket and count them again, like the number's going to be different this time, like maybe I miscounted and there's actually more. Two hundred twenty-seven dollars and fifty-eight cents, from selling off everything I decided I could live without. I have no idea if that's enough to get me where I'm going. It'll have to be. It always has to be, and somehow it always works out, even if the landing is rough. I sink down onto the floor, cross-legged in the middle of the empty room, and look up at Chasity. The afternoon light catches her hair, making it glow like a halo. "I can't believe I'm doing this." "Then don't," she crosses her arms, defensive now. "Stay. We'll figure something out. We always do." We both know that's not true. It's not Chasity's fault I'm leaving, and it's not really mine either, but I can't stay. The math doesn't work. It's not that I'm not wanted - she's made that clear about a hundred times in the last week alone, her voice breaking every time. But with Rod moving in, the two of them need their privacy. Boy, do they ever. There are images burned into my brain from the one time I came home early that I'll be unpacking in therapy for the rest of my life, assuming I can ever afford therapy. I just can't see it lasting, Rod and Chasity. She's so... Chasity. The woman lives in a permanent state of OMG, exhausting to be around 24/7, let alone in a one-bedroom apartment forever. Every emotion is a crisis, every moment a drama. I hope Rod knows what he signed up for. He's a good guy, genuinely. Mellow. Down to earth. Nothing rattles him, which honestly might be the only thing keeping that apartment standing once I'm gone. Someone needs to be the calm in her storm. He's also Chasity's exact opposite in personality, and the two of them don't have a single thing in common beyond the fact that he looks exactly like her type and she's decided that's love. They don't even like the same movies. I don't know what Rod actually thinks about any of it. With Chasity doing all the talking, filling every silence with words, he barely gets a word in. There has to be something there though, or he wouldn't be moving his stuff in while I move mine out. Maybe he sees something I don't. Maybe opposites really do attract. If I'm honest, Rod looks like a Ken doll that learned to walk and talk. He belongs on a beach somewhere, soaking up sun and posing for i********:, and so does Chasity. Together they're a matched set - tan skin, sun-bleached hair, blue eyes, practically glowing with health and privilege. And then there's me. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin that burns instead of tans, definitely the odd one out in every photo we've ever taken together. The shadow to her light. Chasity is the whole package. Tall, blonde, beauty queen gorgeous, and fully convinced the universe revolves around her personally. She moves through the world like she owns it, like doors will always open for her. That's probably exactly why we ended up best friends in the first place. She wants the attention and I'd rather set myself on fire than be looked at, so it works out. We balance each other, in our own weird way. I'm not an ogre or anything, I'd call myself average, maybe cute on a good day when I actually try, but nowhere close to her level. Next to her, I get zero competition, which suits me fine. She talks, I listen. Guys fall over themselves staring at her and barely notice I'm standing right there, which is exactly how I prefer it. She's the socialite. I'm the one nobody sees, the invisible friend, and I've made peace with that role. "You okay?" Chasity asks, softer now, crouching down so she's eye level with me on the floor. Her knees crack as she lowers herself, and she makes a face. I try to smile and look hopeful about my future, about whatever waits for me at the end of this drive. Chasity flashes her perfect pearly whites back at me, like she believes the lie I'm trying to sell, like she can't see right through me. Well, it is Chasity, so maybe she actually does believe it. She's always been good at seeing what she wants to see.