The Reclusive Alpha’s Sold Mate

Hilda’s POV "You really think a fresh coat of paint is going to hide the fact that this foundation is rotting?" The voice belonged to one of the senior partners, his tone cutting through the quiet hum of the boardroom. I didn't look up. I couldn't. I kept my eyes fixed on the grain of the mahogany table, my fingers digging into the edges of my light blue folder. The scent of the room was heavy. It smelled of expensive leather, citrus cleaning spray, and the kind of confidence I didn't possess. Everyone else sat tall. They belonged in these ergonomic chairs. I felt like a guest who had overstayed her welcome, a girl playing dress up in a world of suits. My palms were slick against the plastic cover of my project. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that made my vision blur slightly behind my glasses. Just breathe, I told myself. You did the work. You stayed up until three in the morning for twenty one days straight. You earned this spot. I had poured everything into these designs. Every sketch, every calculation, every late night coffee was for this moment. I wanted them to see me. Not the quiet girl who filed their papers. Not the "assistant" who was basically a glorified maid for the pack elite. I wanted them to see a professional. I adjusted my glasses and pulled a stray hair behind my ear. "You can do this, Hilda," I mouthed to the empty air in front of me. "Our next presenter is Miss Hattie," the moderator announced. The name hit me like a physical blow. My head snapped up, my neck straining. Hattie stood up from the front row. She didn't just walk to the podium; she glided. She was the daughter of the Alpha and Luna of the Haydn Pack, and she wore that royalty like a second skin. Her hair was perfect. Her suit was tailored. She looked like the sun, and I was just the shadow she cast. But she wasn't supposed to go yet. My name was next on the printed agenda. I looked down at my schedule, then back at her. Confusion turned into a cold, sinking weight in my gut when I saw what she was holding. It was a light blue folder. It had the same matte finish as mine. As she set it down on the lectern, I saw the tiny, jagged scratch on the bottom right corner. My heart stopped. My lungs refused to take in air. I looked down at my lap. I had my folder. I had made a second copy this morning to keep as a backup. But how did she have the original? "I've spent many sleepless nights on this concept," Hattie said. Her voice was like honey, smooth and sweet, projecting a warmth that I knew was fake. "I wanted to bridge the gap between our pack traditions and the modern market. It’s about more than profit. It’s about legacy." The projector flickered to life. The first slide hit the screen, and I felt the world tilt. Those were my sketches. I recognized the specific curve of the logo, the way I had shaded the edges to give it depth. Even the font was the one I had spent three hours picking out. She was reading my notes. She was using my words. "This is brilliant," an executive whispered, leaning over to his colleague. "The girl has her father's vision." Hattie beamed. She looked toward the back of the room, her eyes meeting mine for a split second. There was no guilt there. Only a sharp, predatory triumph. She knew exactly what she had done. I wanted to stand up. I wanted to scream that those were my ideas, that she had gone into my desk and taken my life’s work. My throat felt like it was filled with broken glass. I couldn't make a sound. I just sat there, paralyzed, as the room erupted into a standing ovation. "Magnificent, Hattie," the head of the department said, clapping his hands. "A true masterpiece." "She’s a natural," another added. "Some people are just born with it." I stared at the floor. The sound of the clapping felt like physical hits. The air in the room became thin, making it hard to catch my breath. Then, the whispers started. They weren't about the project anymore. They were about me. "Look at her," a woman near the back muttered. "She actually thought she could compete." "She’s been moping around the office for weeks like she's doing something important," a man replied with a chuckle. "She’s lucky Hattie even lets her handle her schedule." "Some people don't know their place," the woman whispered back. "She should stick to fetching coffee and stay out of the way of people who actually have talent." They laughed. It was a soft, cruel sound that vibrated in my ears. My face burned. I felt the heat of humiliation crawling up my neck, staining my cheeks red. I kept my head down, staring at my crumpled folder. "Hilda? You're up," the moderator said. His voice was flat now, drained of the excitement he had shown for Hattie. I stood up. My legs felt like they were made of water. I nearly tripped over my own feet as I walked to the front. The silence in the room wasn't respectful; it was impatient. I felt dozens of eyes on me, judging my cheap shoes and my nervous posture. I reached the podium and opened my folder. The pages were damp from my shaking hands. I looked out at the sea of faces. The executives were checking their watches. Some were already whispering to each other, completely ignoring me. "Well?" one of them barked, tapping a heavy gold pen against the table. "We have a lunch meeting in twenty minutes. Let’s get a move on." I opened my mouth. I had a whole speech prepared. I had practiced in front of my bathroom mirror until my voice was hoarse. But now, staring at them, the words were gone. My mind was a complete blank. All I could see was Hattie’s smug face as she took the credit for my soul. "I... I had..." I started, but my voice cracked. "Is there a problem?" the man with the pen asked. He looked annoyed. I wanted to tell them. I wanted to point at Hattie and call her a thief. I wanted to show them the dates on my digital files. But the words stayed trapped in my chest. If I spoke up now, without proof, I was just the jealous assistant attacking the Alpha’s daughter. They would ruin me before I finished the sentence. "She’s clearly not ready," someone from the side said. "This is a waste of time," another person added, gathering their papers. The whispers returned, louder this time. The laughter was no longer hidden. I felt a tear prick the corner of my eye. I blinked hard, desperate not to cry in front of them. "I'm sorry," I managed to whisper. "If you don't have a presentation, please sit down," the moderator said, his voice cold. "You're holding up the schedule." I nodded quickly, my head hanging low. I turned to leave the podium, but my hands were shaking so much that the folder slipped. My backup papers spilled out, fluttering across the floor like wounded birds. I knelt down to grab them, but nobody moved to help. I saw a pair of expensive heels step over one of my drawings as someone headed for the door. "I guess she realized she couldn't top the real deal," a voice mocked from the front row. "Must be hard, realizing you're just the help." I gathered my ruined papers and fled. I didn't go back to my seat. I ran straight out of the boardroom and down the long, carpeted hallway. My chest was so tight it felt like I was being crushed. I reached the end of the hall and leaned against the cool plaster of the wall, gasping for air. "Why?" I sobbed quietly, the tears finally falling. "Why is it never enough?" Hattie had the world. She had the title, the money, and the love of the pack. She didn't need this win. I needed it. It was my only way out, my only way to prove I was more than a shadow. And she had snatched it away just because she could. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to pull myself together. I needed someone. I needed Hendrix. Hendrix was my anchor. He was the only person who saw me, the only person who told me I was brilliant when the rest of the world called me a maid. He would know what to do. He would hold me and tell me that we would find a way to fix this. I walked toward his office, my pace quickening. The heavy oak door was just ahead. I reached for the handle, but stopped when I heard a sound. It was a giggle. High, melodic, and unmistakable. Hattie. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll. I told myself it was fine. They were colleagues. He was a high ranking member of the pack; of course she would talk to him. I was being paranoid. I was letting my bad day ruin my head. I pushed the door open just a crack, ready to apologize for interrupting. The apology died in my throat. Hendrix wasn't at his desk. He was in his chair, but he was pushed back. Hattie was draped across his lap, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. His hands were on her waist, pulling her closer. They were kissing. It wasn't a quick greeting. It was deep, desperate, and familiar. The folder in my hand hit the floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet office. They both jolted. Hendrix looked up, his eyes widening as he saw me standing in the doorway. Hattie didn't look shocked. She slowly untangled herself from him, smoothing her skirt with a slow, deliberate motion. She looked at me and smiled, her eyes gleaming with a cruel, satisfied light. "Hilda," she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "You really should learn to knock." I felt the blood drain from my face. My voice was a ghost of itself. "What are you doing?"