The Alpha's Filthy Secret.

- CHAPTER FIFTEEN -

Sloane.

I got back to my apartment building at eight thirty.

The lobby is empty. I take the elevator up to the fourth floor, my keys out, ready to see Sarah and put Zane to bed.

I reached my door and looked down.

Something white sits on the floor mat. A plain envelope slid down the hallway under the door.

There is no stamp. No name. No return address.

My hands shook as I picked it up and unlocked the door, stepped inside the dark foyer, and locked the deadbolt behind me. Sarah is in the living room reading a book, and Zane's bedroom door is shut. He is already asleep.

I walked to the kitchen counter and tore the edge of the envelope open.

A small photograph drops onto the granite.

I picked it up.

My breath locked in my throat as I stared at the photograph. It was a photo of me when I was six years old. I was wearing a yellow summer dress, standing in the grass by the garden wall. My mother, Anya, stood right beside me with her hand on my shoulder. She's smiling at the camera, her hair tied back, looking healthy and young.

I haven't seen this photo in fifteen years.

I turn the print over.

On the white cardboard back, written in thick, black marker was a single line:

YOUR MOTHER DIDN'T DIE FOR TREASON.

My hands shook, causing the photo to drop onto the counter.

My heart stopped instantly.

Ivara, who has been quiet all evening, speaks in the back of my mind.

'He's coming for us.'

'Who is?'

She stayed silent.

I looked toward the dark hallway leading to the bedrooms. Nothing moves. The apartment is dead quiet.

Then my phone lights up on the island.

It was an unlisted number.

One text:

Ask Raul why your mother was really killed.

_

I sat awake until dawn staring at the photograph on my nightstand. The message from last night still burned in my mind.

'Ask Raul why your mother was really killed.'

My mind raced in circles, but six in the morning came whether I slept or not. The bedroom door swung open with a loud thud against the wall. Before I could hide the picture under my pillow, tiny footsteps echoed.

Zane bounces directly onto my stomach, his dark curls flying.

"Mommy! You're late!"

I let out a dull groan, grabbing his waist to keep him from crushing my ribs. "For what?"

"Breakfast."

"That's not an emergency, Zane."

He stops bouncing then sits on my ribs and gives me his most serious expression, his green eyes wide. "It is."

I laugh despite myself, pulling his small frame down into a quick hug. The heavy weight in my chest lifts for a second.

Sarah appears at the bedroom doorway holding a wooden spoon, her apron tied over her jeans. "I've been trying to get him dressed for twenty minutes."

Zane points a finger at me. "Mommy is helping,"

"Your mother hasn't even gotten out of bed." Sarah says.

"She will." Zane answers without turning around.

I stare at my son, narrowing my eyes. "Traitor."

He giggles, scrambling off the bed and running toward the hallway.

Ten minutes later, I sit at the kitchen island in my robe, sipping black coffee while Zane works his way through a bowl of blueberry pancakes.

He kicks his feet against the barstool, his fork tapping his plate. "Was Mr. Roan at the photoshoot yesterday?"

I swallowed my coffee wrong, coughing into my napkin. "How did you know about him?"

He giggles and says nothing, still eating his pancakes.

Sarah stands by the stove, turns to face him, looking amused. "Zane, how did you know that?"

"I saw it on the news while you were watching, Aunt Sarah," Zane says, chewing his pancake. "He's a fine man."

I clear my throat, staring at my son. "Apparently someone has a favourite."

"I don't have a favorite," Zane says, taking another bite. He pauses, looking up at me, his eyes now shining exactly like Raul's eyes. "I like Mr. Roan."

"You don't even know him, sweet boy." I said.

"I don't need to," He says simply. "He doesn't seem like a bad guy, unlike others."

I hid my smile behind my cup, though a quiet knot forms in my stomach. Zane has never met Roan, but children pick up on news feeds faster than adults think. More than that, Zane knows when I come home stressed from meetings.

I finished my coffee, got dressed in a beige wool suit and kissed Zane in the forehead.

"Be good for Sarah."

"I'm always good, mom," he says, his eyes glued to his morning cartoons. "Take care."

"Thank you."

I glanced up at Sarah who gave a firm nod. "Let me know if anything happens."

"Sure will, Eva. Knock em dead."

I head downstairs to the building garage. My driver, Hector, stands beside the white sedan, holding the rear door open.

"Good morning, Miss Eva."

"Morning, Hector. Agency headquarters, please."

I slid into the leather back seat. The glass partition goes up, and Hector pulls out into the Los Angeles morning traffic. I stared out the window as palm trees and glass towers pass by, my hand resting on my purse where the old photograph of my mother sits hidden.

When I step into the fourth floor of the agency twenty minutes later, the air is thick with tension.

Orson Krenshaw.

He stood in the center of the main conference room. His coat is off, his tie loosened, his face red. Julian stood near the glass door, holding a clipboard and looking exhausted.

Orson turned the second he saw me cross the threshold.

"You can't do this, Eva," Orson says, his voice rising over the hum of the office. "You can't just bring another billionaire into this company without board clearance."

I walked into the room, setting my leather bag on the table, and folded my arms over my chest. "You brought Raul Blackridge in,"

"That was different!" Orson snaps, pacing near the window.

"How?" I ask, keeping my tone flat. "Plus you told me two weeks ago to look for outside investors to dilute Blackridge's holding. Why are you changing your words now?"

Orson slams his hand flat on the conference table. "Because two major investors created a power struggle! We have Blackridge Capital on one side and Rhys Global on the other! This agency will get crushed between them!"

Julian leans against the doorframe, quietly muttering. "That's what I'd like to know."

I look at Orson. The red flush on his face isn't fear for the agency's stock value. It's fear for his own seat, with Roan's fifteen million dollars entering the escrow account. Orson's voting proxy loses its leverage. He can no longer play middleman between me and Blackridge.

Before Orson can speak again, smooth footsteps echo down the corridor.

Roan steps into the conference room. He wore a dark grey suit, no tie, his hands resting causally in his pockets. He looks relaxed, and entirely unbothered by the shouting.

Roan looks directly at Orson. "Mr. Krenshaw, if you're worried about your position on the board, you should say that instead of pretending you're worried about hers."

Orson goes rigid. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He glares at Roan with open hatred, grabbing his coat off the back of a chair and storms out of the room without another word.

Julian lets out a quiet sigh. "I'll go handle the press inquiries." He says, following Orson down the hall.

Roan walks over to the table, looking at me. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I say, grabbing my tablet. "Orson just likes the sound of his own voice."

"He likes his title," Roan corrects softly. "Don't let him turn your win into a headache."

I offer him a brief nod, leaving the conference room to head toward the private office wing.

As I turn the corner near the executive elevators, I freeze behind the pillar.

Raul stands near the glass doors at the end of the hall. He isn't alone. Orson stands beside him, leaning in, speaking in hushed whispers. Raul listens, his face an unreadable block of stone, his hands tucked in his pockets.

A cold wave of suspicion hits my chest. Orson isn't just angry, he's feeding information directly to Raul.

Before I can step back into the shadow, Raul turns his head. His green eyes lock onto mine through the glass panel. He says a word to Orson, dismissing him. I watch as Orson scurries toward the stairwell without looking back.

Raul walks toward me, his heavy steps silent on the carpet. He stops four feet away, his broad frame blocking out the overhead light.

"You seem to be making a lot of friends."

"Maybe I'm learning from you." I reply, holding his gaze.

His eyes narrow into two sharp slits. He takes a step closer, his pine and rain scent washing over me, thick and suffocating.

"Don't," he says in a flat yet dark baritone.

"Don't what?"

"Pretend you don't know what you're doing to me." he whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, dangerous register that makes the skin on my neck prickle.

I don't give him an answer. I turn on my heel and walk away before he can say another word, heading straight for the basement parking garage.

My driver, Hector, has the sedan idling near the exit ramp.

As I approach the passenger side, something on the windshield catches my eye. Tucked neatly under the rubber driver side wiper blade is a small paper flower, folded out of yellow parchment.

I reached out, pulling the paper from the wiper and looking around the quiet concrete garage. Nobody is there except my driver. And no one approaches the packed vehicles here without permission.

I tossed the paper flower into the trash bin by the elevator doors, opened my car door and slid into the back seat.

"Home, Miss Eva?" Hector asks, checking the rearview mirror.

"Yes, Hector. Take me home."

I pull my phone from my purse to check my email, waiting to review the final release forms for the European distributors. The phone suddenly vibrates in my palm before I tap the app.

The called ID flashes: SARAH.

I slide the screen to answer, pressing the phone to my ear. "Sarah? I'm on my way back-"

"Eva?" Her voice comes through the speaker tight, breathless and sharp with panic.

My chest tightened instantly. "What's wrong?"

"It's Zane."