From Hell to Alpha

Chapter 2 — Gifts, Boundaries, and a Name

I woke up before sunrise because quiet hours are the only ones people leave me alone. The house was still. I washed, put my hair up, and walked downstairs. When I reached the foyer, a delivery boy stood beside a stack of boxes tied with satin ribbon. A florist waited behind him, holding three tall bouquets like trophies.

“Alpha Jones asked us to bring these at first light," the florist said.

I glanced at the cards. Roses. Peonies. Gardenias. All expensive. All strong‑smelling. A small velvet box sat on top with a gold seal. I opened it. A bracelet, thin and bright. It would look perfect on the wrist of a girl who spent her mornings taking pictures of herself in good light. I closed the lid.

“Thank you," I said. “Take the roses to the infirmary and hand them to patients who don't get visitors. Take the peonies to the kitchen staff. They can put them by the back door. The gardenias go to the training yard. The kids like to pick the petals and smear them on their cheeks."

The florist blinked. “And the bracelet?"

“Give it to the laundress. Her daughter turns sixteen this week."

He hesitated. “Ma'am, the Alpha—"

“Will live," I said. “You have the instructions."

They carried the gifts away. The foyer smelled like a perfume shop after a sale. I opened two windows and let the air out.

At breakfast, Jones came in with a soft smile that did not match the past three years. He sat across from me. A fresh ribbon circled a fourth bouquet on the table. Lilies this time.

“You weren't in your room when they delivered everything," he said, like he was talking about a mistake on a schedule. “Did you see the bracelet?"

“I saw it," I said. I took a bite of toast and chewed until it was gone. “I sent it to someone who will wear it."

His jaw moved once. He tried again. “I thought the flowers would brighten the house."

“They will," I said. “In the places I sent them."

He paused, then set his hand on the table, palm up, invitation plain. “I know the last years were hard. Let me make today easy."

“Easy would be quiet," I said. “Easy would be you not trying to paste decorations over a wall that has a crack."

He pulled his hand back. He did not argue. He looked at the lilies and then at me. “There's a furniture delivery at noon," he said. “New covers for the downstairs sofa. I picked a neutral color. You said once you liked clean lines."

“I did," I said. “I meant I like being able to breathe."

He nodded like he had heard a different sentence. He stood. “I'll be late. Council."

“Of course," I said.

After he left, I handled work because work is number and sequence, and numbers don't lie to your face. I met with the housekeeper. I checked the pantry and signed for a shipment of grain. I told the gardener to stop planting flowers I didn't choose. At noon, the furniture men arrived. I directed them to the living room and watched them stretch the new sofa cover tight. It was the one I had circled in a catalog in a life that seems far away: warm gray canvas, smooth and sturdy, easy to clean. It looked like something I would have picked because I had.

I made tea and carried it to the study. On the way, I passed a maid arranging a bowl of lemons on a tray. “Don't put that in my room," I said. “The smell gives me a headache." She nodded and veered off.

By late afternoon, I needed air. I cut through the side garden and walked the perimeter alone. When I came back, a black car I did not recognize was parked under the oak. Voices drifted from the entry hall. I did not hurry. I reached the doorway and stopped long enough to see everything at once, the way the jungle taught me: who stood where, who watched, who pretended not to.

Jones stood near the stairs. He wore the jacket that means he wants authority to do the talking. A girl I had never seen sat on the sofa. Not on a random cushion. On the middle one, the exact spot I chose because the light falls there in the evening and warms your knees. Her back touched the cover I ordered, the one I had run my fingers across two hours earlier to smooth a wrinkle. She leaned as if the sofa had been waiting for her since morning. Her dress was soft and pale. A scarf lay at her throat like a signature. She looked comfortable.

I felt something sharp and simple. I did not speak around it. I said the plain truth to myself: That is my sofa cover. I chose it. She is sitting on it like she owns the afternoon. I am not happy.

A pair of fresh carnations lay on the side table. A small box sat beside them with my husband's seal on the top. I did not open it.

Jones turned and saw me. “Isabella." He took one step forward. His voice was careful. “Welcome home."

Home, he said, as if the word were a rug he could roll out and ask me to stand on the design he preferred. I walked to the end of the sofa, set my tea on the table, and looked at the girl. She was pretty in the way people like to be told they are: smooth skin, delicate wrists, eyes that fill fast and shine before a single tear falls. She had the posture of someone used to being watched while pretending to be shy.

“Hello," I said.

She stood. She smoothed her skirt. She did not move off the cushion. “Hello," she said back. Her voice was warm honey with a spoon in it. She glanced at Jones and then at me, as if checking both of us for permission to breathe. “I'm sorry to come without warning."

Jones said, “I asked her here. She hasn't been well."

The girl put her hand on the back of the sofa and kept it there like a claim. I met Jones's eyes. “You asked her to wait in here?" I kept my voice level. “On this seat?"

“It's the most comfortable," he said too fast. “I thought—" He stopped. He looked like he wanted to fix it and couldn't figure out how without moving her and making the truth brighter.

I picked up the carnations. I walked to the hallway and handed them to a passing guard. “Find two children playing outside," I said. “Give one flower to each and tell them to stick the stems in the dirt and see if anything grows. If it doesn't, it's still fine."

“Yes, Luna," he said and left at a jog.

When I returned, the girl had folded her hands. Her gaze moved over me in a polite sweep that people call respect when they mean assessment. She had the smooth patience of someone who has practiced being harmless. The scarf at her throat smelled like lemon soap. I put my tea back down and sat in the armchair across from her. It is the chair I use when I have to listen without giving ground.

Jones stood between us like he was hoping to be a bridge. “We can talk," he said. “Calmly."

“We can," I said.

A maid entered with a tray and set down more cups. The girl smiled up at her and thanked her by name. The maid blushed. I filed that away. The girl had done her homework or had been here long enough to learn faces. Either way, it was information.

Jones gestured to the cups. “Tea?"

“Not for me," I said.

The girl reached for the pot with careful hands. “May I pour for you?" she asked me, head tilted. “It's jasmine."

“No," I said. “I don't drink jasmine."

She drew her hand back. The back of her knuckles brushed the fabric I picked. My throat tightened again at the simple contact between her skin and my choice. I did not scold myself for it. Some things are what they are.

“I brought a small gift," she said after a beat. She pointed to the sealed box with my husband's seal. The seal that should only be used for pack business or family. “It's from the Alpha, of course. He asked me to deliver it because he didn't want you to wait."

I looked at the box and then at Jones. “Stop sending me things," I said. “Say what you need to say out loud."

He nodded once. He knew better than to argue with that. He looked at the girl. “Soph—" He stopped, swallowed, and corrected himself. “We'll keep this short."

“We will," I said.

I stood. I didn't want to have this conversation while a stranger warmed the seat I chose for myself. Jones watched me like I was a match near dry straw. I walked to the sofa. The girl watched my hand like it was a bird. I lifted the corner of the cover, smoothed it once, and stepped back. I made no scene. I made a point.

The front door opened. Footsteps. Two elders passed the hall, talking low. Life continued around our small room like a river goes around a rock. I wanted that steadiness in my chest. I counted to five and found it.

Jones cleared his throat. “Isabella, this is—"

The girl rose from the cushion at last. She placed both hands in front of her as if she were in a room made for announcements. She looked straight at me and spoke in a clear, simple voice without adornment.

“My name is Sophia," she said. “I was his first love."