THE ALPHA'S WIDOW

The last thing Seraphina Vale ever said to her sister was, “I’m busy. Call me tomorrow.” Elena never got a tomorrow. Three years later, Seraphina stood inside the glass-walled boardroom of Thorne International, staring at the man who might have ordered her sister’s death. Alexander Thorne sat at the head of the table like he owned the air everyone breathed. His black suit was immaculate, his expression unreadable, and his presence so commanding that even the executives seemed afraid to move without permission. The billionaire was famous for buying failing companies and crushing anyone who stood in his way. Rumor said he never lost. Seraphina intended to change that. “The hotel acquisition is approved,” Alexander said, sliding a document across the table. “Effective immediately, the property belongs to Thorne International.” Her stomach tightened. The hotel. Elena had worked there during the final weeks of her life. It was the last place anyone could confirm seeing her alive, and the last location mentioned in the message she had sent Seraphina before she disappeared. If anything happens to me, look beneath the room that doesn’t exist. Seraphina had spent three years trying to understand what that meant. Now Alexander Thorne had bought the building. She pushed back her chair. “I have a question.” Several executives looked at her as if she had committed a crime. Alexander lifted his gaze. “You have thirty seconds.” “What are you planning to do with the hotel’s old records?” “Destroy what is irrelevant. Preserve what is valuable.” “And who decides which is which?” His eyes settled on her. “I do.” A familiar anger rose in her chest. “Convenient.” The room fell silent. Alexander’s expression barely changed, but something in the atmosphere shifted. The man across the table had the cold composure of someone accustomed to having his way and the dangerous patience of someone who could afford to wait until his enemies made mistakes. “What is your name?” he asked. “Seraphina Vale.” For one strange second, he stopped moving. It was brief enough that anyone else might have missed it. Seraphina didn’t. His gaze dropped to her wrist, where the edge of her sleeve had slipped back, exposing a thin silver scar that curved like a crescent moon. She tugged the fabric down. Too late. Alexander rose. “Everyone out.” The executives gathered their papers and hurried toward the doors. Nobody questioned him. Nobody even looked at Seraphina as they passed. When the last door closed, Alexander stepped around the table. “Where did you get that mark?” “I was born with it.” “Who told you that?” “My mother.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. Seraphina’s pulse quickened. “Why? What does it mean?” “Leave the building.” She almost laughed. “You buy the hotel where my sister disappeared, react strangely to my name, and then demand to know about my scar. Now you want me to leave?” “I’m giving you a chance to walk away.” “From what?” His eyes were dark, almost black beneath the boardroom lights. “Something you don’t understand.” “Then explain it.” For the first time, Alexander looked less like an untouchable billionaire and more like a man hearing the approach of a nightmare he had spent years trying to bury. “Your sister should never have gone looking for the truth,” he said. Seraphina’s blood turned cold. “You knew Elena?” He didn’t answer. “You knew her!” Her voice cracked against the glass walls. “What happened to her?” Alexander turned away. That was answer enough. She snatched up her bag. “I’ll find out what you did to her. And when I do, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who Alexander Thorne really is.” “You think you can threaten me?” “No.” She met his eyes. “I think you’re afraid of what I’ll discover.” For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Seraphina’s phone vibrated. Unknown number. A single message appeared on the screen. THE WIDOWS HAVE CHOSEN. Her fingers went numb. A second message followed. ASK THE ALPHA WHY NONE OF HIS WIVES SURVIVED. Seraphina slowly raised her eyes. Alexander was watching her phone. He looked genuinely afraid. “What is this?” she demanded. “Give me the phone.” “No.” “Seraphina.” His voice had sharpened. “Give it to me. Now.” The urgency in his tone frightened her more than the message. She stepped back and opened the image attached to the conversation. It showed Alexander standing beneath an enormous chandelier in an old-fashioned ballroom. He wore a black suit, one hand resting at the waist of a woman dressed in white. Behind them stood five more women. Six wives. Six pale faces. Six pairs of lifeless eyes. Seraphina recognized the woman beside Alexander from the newspaper photograph announcing his first marriage. Vivienne Thorne. The wife whose death had been reported as a tragic accident. Every woman in the photograph was dead. Beneath the image was a list of names and dates. The dates stretched across decades, though Alexander looked no older in the photograph than he did now. “That’s impossible,” Seraphina whispered. Alexander reached for the phone, but she pulled it away. “Who are they?” “People you should forget.” “Your wives?” His silence was answer enough. She stared at the photograph again. The women’s expressions were eerily similar—not happy, not sad, but watchful, as if they were waiting for something to happen. Then she noticed the words printed across the bottom. THE ALPHA MAY COMMAND THE LIVING. THE DEAD WIVES COMMAND THE PACK. “The Alpha?” she asked. “What does that mean?” Alexander’s face hardened. “Delete the photograph.” “Tell me what’s happening.” “You have no idea what you’ve stepped into.” “Then stop speaking in riddles!” A low hum rose from somewhere beyond the boardroom walls. Seraphina froze. It sounded like a woman singing an old lullaby. Alexander went completely still. The hum grew louder. Her phone flickered, and the photograph changed. The five women remained motionless. But Vivienne—the first wife—was no longer looking straight ahead. Her head had turned toward the camera. Toward Seraphina. A new message appeared. SHE HAS RETURNED. Seraphina’s breath caught. In the photograph, Vivienne’s closed lips slowly parted. Then her eyes opened. Alexander seized Seraphina’s wrist, his fingers closing over the silver scar. “Whatever you do,” he whispered, his voice stripped of every trace of power, “do not let the dead know your name.” From the phone came a woman’s soft, unmistakable whisper. “Seraphina.” And somewhere in the building, something answered with a knock. Once. Twice. Three times. The dead had found her.