THE ALPHA'S WIDOW

The Widows’ Command

The third knock echoed through the boardroom.

Seraphina jerked her hand away from Alexander.

“Who’s there?”

He didn’t answer.

His attention was fixed on the closed door. Every trace of fear had vanished from his face, replaced by a coldness that made him look almost inhuman.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered.

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Then consider it your first opportunity to stay alive.”

The handle turned.

Nobody stood on the other side.

The corridor beyond was empty, its lights flickering over polished marble. Yet the scent of roses drifted into the room—sweet, heavy, and strangely rotten.

Seraphina knew that smell.

It had clung to Elena’s coat the last time she had seen her sister.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Where did that smell come from?”

Alexander glanced at her. “You recognize it?”

Before she could answer, every screen in the boardroom switched on.

The photograph of the six dead wives appeared across the displays.

A line of text materialized beneath their faces.

ONE OF US WAS BETRAYED.

Another line appeared.

ONE OF US WAS SILENCED.

Then the final message:

AND ONE OF US KNOWS WHO KILLED ELENA VALE.

Seraphina forgot how to breathe.

“Tell me what you know,” she demanded.

Alexander stared at the screens. “Not here.”

“Then where?”

“The Thorne estate.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “You expect me to follow you to your house after a dead woman just spoke my name?”

“I expect you to understand that your sister’s death is connected to something far older than either of us.”

“Was she murdered?”

His silence lasted one second too long.

Seraphina slapped him.

The sound cracked through the room.

Alexander didn’t move. He could have stopped her. She suspected he could have broken her wrist without effort. Instead, he looked down at her trembling hand.

“You don’t get to hide behind secrets,” she whispered. “Not when my sister is dead.”

His expression shifted, and for the briefest moment she saw something beneath his icy composure.

Regret.

Then it was gone.

“Come to the estate tonight,” he said. “You’ll get answers.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then whoever sent those messages will come for you before sunrise.”

The screens went black.

A final whisper slipped through the speakers.

“Bring her home, Alpha.”

Alexander closed his eyes.

Seraphina noticed.

He knew that voice.

And whatever it had called home, he feared it.

By midnight, Seraphina stood before the iron gates of the Thorne estate.

She had come for one reason: Elena.

The estate rose beyond the gates like a monument to old money and older sins. Stone wolves guarded the entrance. Black roses climbed the walls, their petals glistening beneath the moon.

The moment Seraphina stepped through the gates, the silver scar on her wrist began to burn.

She covered it with her palm.

A man in a dark uniform approached. “Miss Vale. The Alpha is expecting you.”

“Of course he is.”

The doors opened before the man touched them.

Inside, portraits lined the grand hall. Men with hard eyes. Women with pale faces. Generations of Thornes watching her enter their world.

Then she saw the six wives.

Their portraits hung together at the far end of the hall, each woman dressed in white.

Each face was beautiful.

Each expression was empty.

Except Vivienne’s.

In her portrait, the first wife’s painted eyes followed Seraphina across the room.

She stopped walking.

“Do the portraits usually do that?” she whispered.

The attendant went pale.

“Do what?”

Seraphina looked again.

Vivienne’s eyes were fixed forward.

She was certain they hadn’t been a moment ago.

“Nothing.”

Alexander appeared at the top of the staircase, now wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Without the boardroom between them, he seemed even more dangerous.

“You came.”

“I’m not here for you. I’m here for the truth.”

“Then you should know the truth has a price in this house.”

“Good. I’m prepared to pay.”

His gaze dropped to her wrist.

“Not with your blood.”

Before she could demand an explanation, a woman’s voice rang out from the adjoining chamber.

“Alexander.”

An older woman stepped into the hall. Her silver hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, and a string of dark pearls rested against her throat. She carried herself with the authority of someone who had never needed to raise her voice to be obeyed.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Seraphina Vale.”

The woman’s expression changed.

Only slightly—but Seraphina caught it.

Recognition.

Fear.

“You should not have brought her here,” the woman said.

Alexander’s jaw tightened. “Margaret, not now.”

Margaret Thorne ignored him. She approached Seraphina and studied her face as if comparing it to a memory she desperately wished to forget.

“Your sister had your eyes,” she murmured.

Seraphina’s world narrowed.

“You knew Elena?”

Margaret’s fingers tightened around her pearls.

“I knew what she was searching for.”

“What was it?”

Before Margaret could answer, a bell rang somewhere beneath the house.

Once.

Twice.

On the third strike, every portrait in the hall cracked down the middle.

A servant screamed.

The lights went out.

In the darkness, a woman began to laugh.

When the lights returned, Margaret was gone.

In her place lay a small envelope sealed with black wax.

Alexander reached for it.

Seraphina snatched it first.

Her name was written across the front in Elena’s handwriting.

Her fingers shook as she broke the seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

SERA, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, DON’T TRUST THE ALPHA.

Below it, in a different hand, were five words:

COME ALONE TO THE ARCHIVE.

And beneath those words was a time.

12:00 A.M. TONIGHT.

Seraphina looked at the clock.

11:47 P.M.

Alexander read the note over her shoulder. His face turned deadly still.

“You’re not going.”

She folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket.

“Watch me.”

“You don’t understand what’s waiting down there.”

“Then perhaps you should have told me the truth before inviting me into your house.”

She turned toward the staircase leading to the underground archive.

Alexander caught her arm.

For one dangerous second, neither of them moved. His grip was firm, but his eyes held something that unsettled her more than his threats ever could.

Not anger.

Fear of losing her.

“Seraphina,” he said quietly. “If you go down there, the dead may not let you leave.”

She pulled free.

“Then they can tell me themselves why my sister died.”

Behind them, the six cracked portraits began to bleed black tears.

And from somewhere beneath the estate, Elena’s voice whispered:

“Run, Sera.”

“He’s already chosen who dies next.”