The Alpha King's Runaway Daughter

The Man in My House

Elara’s POV

Definitely alcohol.

Red wine, I guessed, from the dark burgundy ring staining the rim of his glass.

A woman had joined him at the bar, and they looked close.

Too close.

Their hug was tight, airless, the kind that says I’ve missed you without needing words.

She was beautiful.

Her skin caught the bar light like polished obsidian: warm, glowing, making the amber bottles behind her look dull. Her hair was a crown of tight curls pinned up but rebelliously escaping, brushing the sharp line of her jaw. She wore a burnt‑orange wrap dress that hugged her waist and flared when she shifted. When she laughed, her whole throat moved, unguarded. Gold hoops swung at her ears, catching light each time she tilted her head. Her lipstick was the color of crushed berries.

She had the kind of presence that made you sit up straighter without knowing why.

And Franklin was looking at her like she’d just invented breathing.

Andrew slid back into his seat across from me, two cups of ice cream sweating in his hands. Mint chip for him. Vanilla for me. A thin pool of melted cream was already forming at the bottom of mine. I didn’t touch it. My eyes were locked on Franklin’s thumb brushing the small of the woman’s back, slow, familiar.

“But how do I show my face at work tomorrow?” Andrew began, already spiraling again. His spoon trembled.

He wasn’t talking to me.

Not really.

When Andrew spiraled, he interviewed himself out loud.

“I should definitely try again. Maybe I can get the deal back.” He stabbed at the ice cream. “Or should I just update my LinkedIn and pretend I resigned with dignity? God, they’re going to know I’m a fraud. Sarah from compliance already looks at me like I’m a typo.”

Normally I’d reach across, steady his hand, remind him he wasn’t.

But Franklin had leaned in. Whispered something against the woman’s ear.

She threw her head back, laughing, palm flat against his chest.

His fingers tilted her chin up.

“Elara?” Andrew’s voice cut through. “Are you even listening?”

“Sorry,” I said, blinking. “It’s just—”

That’s when it happened.

Franklin’s mouth found hers.

Not a peck.

Slow. Certain.

His hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head like he’d done it a thousand times.

She melted into him, fist tightening in his shirt.

The bartender turned away politely.

The couple beside them didn’t even look up.

But I couldn’t breathe.

I shot to my feet, chair scraping against pavement.

“They kissed. They kissed. That is not casual,” I blurted, too loud.

A woman pushing a stroller slowed mid‑step. Two men in suits glanced over, then pretended they hadn’t.

I felt their eyes: Is she okay? Does she need help?

We were outside. Evening had settled over the West End, cool enough to raise goosebumps on my bare arms but soft enough to make you want to linger. Strings of fairy lights hummed above the café tables, buzzing faintly each time the breeze moved them. My vanilla was a soupy ring in the cup. I’d spent ten minutes watching Franklin and not tasting a thing.

“They kissed?” Andrew asked, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth, a green drip landing on the table.

That was when I knew.

I’d messed up.

I’d just live‑narrated my own surveillance.

“Sorry,” I said, dropping back into my seat. Heat crawled up my neck. “Andrew, let me be honest. I haven’t been listening. Not one word.”

“Oh.” He blinked. Hurt flickered, then he tucked it behind a half smile. “That’s… fine. Who were you watching?”

“No, no. Don’t get mad. I’ve just been focused on him.”

“On who?” His gossip mode activated instantly, eyes brightening.

“Franklin,” I said.

“Franklin?”

“Yes. Franklin. Mary’s boyfriend.”

“Oh yes. That Franklin.” His voice dropped into the register he used for secrets, his real voice. Andrew was a gossip, and maybe that’s why we were close. “Wait. He kissed Mary? Was Mary pretending it wasn’t serious this whole time?”

“No, not Mary.” I lowered my voice and glanced at the glass wall. Franklin was laughing again, forehead pressed to the woman’s, fingers laced with hers on the bar top. My stomach twisted. “Claire and I have been telling her. Franklin is a playboy. Textbook. But she won’t listen.”

“Maybe she knows and doesn’t want to spoil things,” Andrew offered, ever the devil’s advocate. He licked his spoon clean. “Some people prefer the lie if the truth is lonely.”

“Not Mary. That girl is oblivious to everything. If a red flag danced in front of her in a carnival costume, she’d ask it for directions to the exit.”

“Where is this Franklin?” Andrew craned his neck, shameless.

I nodded toward the bar. “There. Orange dress. See him? Hand on her waist like he pays rent there. And look, look at that.”

Franklin had pulled something from his pocket.

A small velvet box.

My breath caught.

He wasn’t opening it.

Just holding it between them, thumb rubbing the edge while the woman covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes shone. Not sadness. Joy.

Andrew choked on his ice cream. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But it’s not a keychain.”

“So what are you going to do?” His voice was lower now. Serious. For once.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to blow things up for her. But I can’t let her walk into that blind.” My phone buzzed against the table, vibrating metal. Saved by the courier. “Oh. Andrew, we need to cut this. I have to pick up something for my trip this week.”

We wrapped it up fast. I walked him to the curb, pavement still holding the day’s heat under my flats. We flagged a black cab. He thanked me twice, awkward and grateful.

“For tonight. For listening. Or, well, trying to. And for the ice cream therapy.”

“Get some sleep, Andrew. You’re not a fraud.”

He gave me a small, real smile before the door shut.

I grabbed my package from the drop point: a small brown box, corners soft, taped like someone was protecting state secrets. By the time I got home, the sky was bruised plum, streetlights flickering on. My building smelled like rain and someone else’s cooking, curry from 3B, maybe.

I dropped the box onto the couch. It landed with a dull thud.

Something rich drifted from the kitchen: tomatoes reduced low and slow, thyme, garlic, smoked paprika. My stomach pulled, loud in the quiet flat.

I followed the smell, keys still hooked on one finger.

The kitchen was empty.

Stove off.

But the pot was warm.

I pressed the back of my hand to the lid. Heat whispered against my skin. The faint tick of metal settling. The wooden spoon on the counter was stained red. Like someone had just lifted the lid, tasted, approved, and walked away seconds ago.

Weird.

I kicked off my heels, toes sighing against the cold tile. Peeled off my blazer, let it fall over a chair. The flat was too quiet. No TV. No shower. Just the hum of the fridge and that smell, home, but not mine tonight.

A quick rinse, then I’d figure out who was playing chef in my flat.

I grabbed my shower cap, tugged my dress over my head, and stood in a silk camisole and underwear. The air raised every hair on my arms.

I pushed open the bathroom door. Hinges creaked.

Warm steam rolled out, thick with eucalyptus and something else.

Male.

Soap, clean sweat, aftershave I didn’t own.

The mirror was fogged, water beading in slow tracks. For a second, all I saw was the shape of him through the cloud: broad shoulders, wet skin, towel slung low on his hips.

And then he turned.

I screamed.

Raw, high, bouncing off tile.

There was a man in my house.

In my bathroom.

Water dripping from his hair to the mat, darkening gray to charcoal.

And I was in nothing but a silk camisole and underwear.

— End of Chapter 2 —