The Alpha's False Mate

Cloette's POV A chime echoes across the corridor when I press the doorbell of Suite28-617A. For a couple of seconds, the reddish brown wooden door isn’t opening, so I peer through the peephole camera attached to it. There’s no one coming from the suite's small hallway and all I can see is a huge painting of a beautiful woman with dark shoulder-length hair hung on the black wall. I step back as irritation seethes within me. That irritation prompts a long sigh to break free from my lips. I press the doorbell once again, then knock on the door with controlled force. “Good morning! I’m the room attendant assigned to clean Suite28-617A. If there’s no one in there, then I’ll return after an hour or two.” Faking a nice sweet tone takes an effort to pull off, but I think I did fine in doing it. I turn my heels and my trolley away from the suite. Before I take a step forward, the door behind me screeches open. Then, a low monotonous voice vibrates off the seamless white walls of the corridor. “Come in.” I look over my shoulder. A man of incomparable beauty stands tall with one arm raised and resting on the door’s black jamb. He only has a towel wrapped around his hips, exposing his drenched body. His shoulders are broad, his chest and torso are well-sculpted and his biceps are big. The most noteworthy thing about his looks are his deep-set red eyes that pierce my chest like a sword and pin me to my spot like nails. I purse my parted lips when the man catches my stare. Warmth rushes through my cheeks while my heart clatters beneath my chest. The jitters in my stomach only subside when he turns away from me and enters deep into his room. Every thump of my feet against the carpeted floor is reciprocated by a wriggling sensation inside of me. What’s going on with me? I wasn’t like this earlier. I jerk when the man stops walking. With a false confidence, I straighten my posture and smile when he angles his face at me. “Start in the bathroom,” he says before turning around again. For whatever reasons, my words are stranded in my throat so I just bob my head as a response. The man disappears through the bedroom door while I head towards the bathroom which is adjacent to the kitchen. It’s time to empty a garbage bin I didn’t fill, vacuum a graphite floor I didn’t dirty and scrub a toilet I didn’t use. This is how my every day begins and it’s a wonder if a day will come that I'll get the chance to free myself from this undesirable situation. My slumped shoulders relax a little when I set foot in the black-tiled bathroom. It isn't as filthy as the ones I have cleaned in the past. All I need to do is to just put the shampoo, toothpaste and some facial wash in the cabinet, wipe the marbled-tile lavatory and the huge mirror which occupies the entire left wall, and I'm done. I make my way towards the living area where the room owner is sipping some coffee while reading a newspaper. Just like the bathroom, there’s nothing much else to clean. But of course, I have to pretend to do something coz I don’t want a customer to report me to the management for not doing my job. Losing a source of income isn’t an option. I turn on the vacuum and glide it on the glossy creamy tiled floor. The vibrations it creates plus the presence of the man, who’s now wearing a dark bathrobe while sitting comfortably on the couch, amplify the tension in my chest. I inadvertently glance at him and when our eyes meet, I quickly and quite panicky veer my sight back to the floor. “Do you want me to get out so you could do your job?” he asks. I turn the vacuum off to dull the noise, then slant my body to his direction and, without lifting my gaze, respond, “No, sir. You can stay.” Lie slips gracefully from my mouth like rain. I’ve never been intimidated by anyone like this before and the fact that he’s not doing anything to make me feel this way is bothersome. He reclines on the couch and crosses his legs. For a moment, all that fills the air is our breaths. When I’m about to turn on the vacuum again to break the awkward silence, he speaks. “Your name?” Slowly, I direct my eyes to his, then answer, “Cloette. Cloette Gil.” He takes another sip of his coffee then lays the cup on the glass center table in front of him before leaning his back on the couch again. My eyes squint when he suddenly offers his hand to me. Though my hesitation is obvious, he doesn’t put his hand down. Out of respect, I drag my feet towards him. My hand trembles as I clutch his. Bolts of electricity squirm through my veins the instant our palms touch. Does he feel the same sensation or is it just me? His passive face doesn’t show much, so it’s easy to say that he didn’t feel what I felt. My heart pounds in my ears as he gently flips my hand so my knuckle will be on top of his warm palm. Subsequently, he presses his other hand on my palm then enfolds his long fingers around it. “Thanks for your hard work,” he says. Without understanding the context of his statement, I reply, “You’re welcome.” I’m not certain but I think the corners of his lips curve a little as he gets into his feet. His peppermint scented perfume tickles my nostrils as he closes the gap between his lips and mine. The audacity in me overpowers my nervousness. I don't take a step back as I exert patience for his next course of action. “You can leave now.” My eyebrows twitch at his words. He releases my hand then walks past me. Confused, I lower my gaze on my still raised palm. The moment I lay my sight on the one thousand peso bill, I squeeze my eyes shut. My humiliation swirls around the thickening air and it restricts my ability to move. “Is one thousand peso tip not enough?” he asks. His voice doesn’t emit any sign of mockery, but that’s how I feel while staring at the money in my palm. I pity myself for ridiculously thinking that a guy like him would be interested in someone like me. How pathetic I could be, huh? I draw out a strained air, then tuck the money inside my pocket before facing the room owner. I force the words out of my throat while curling my lips. I say, “It’s nothing like that. Thanks for the tip.” I wait for him to say something but when he just stares at me and remains unresponsive, I add, “By the way, sir… uhm, you might receive a survey about my service. I hope you can give me some positive feedback and a high rating.” Without waiting for his response, I frantically carry the vacuum, then rush out of his sight. I carefully place the vacuum in the trolley. Before I could pull it out of the door, I accidentally level my gaze at the painting. My eyes are glued to the woman’s onyx doll-like ones for a moment. An unknown curiosity surges through me. Who is she? Why do I feel like I met her before? The room owner appears in my peripheral vision. I quickly pull out the trolley as I take big steps away from him. He stands at the door, shooting a gaze in my direction. I don’t dare meet his penetrating eyes. To avoid embarrassing myself again, I quicken my pace as I walk through the corridor. My shoulders loosen their tightness when I finally enter one of the elevators, then they slump when my sight lays on my pitiable-looking reflection on the mirror of the rear wall. Though my hair is tidied in a bun and my dark blue uniform is well-ironed and clean, my face is terribly pale and my lower eyelids have some puffiness and dark circles around them. Not to mention, my uniform looks a little loose, as if I just stole it from my neighbor's laundry. I have no idea how much weight I lost, but it’s not how I looked six months ago. I was healthy, I was a student. In short, I was in a much better situation until an accident that involved my father occurred. It crushed my world and shattered my dream of a better future. Now, I’m stifled in so much debt and stuck with doing a job that’s far from what I really wanted. “Life is not always rainbows and butterflies indeed,” I murmur. Rings from my phone snap me out of my thoughts. I take my phone out of my pocket and my lips press tight when the caller’s name pops up on the screen – St. Luke’s Hospital. I teeter whether I should answer or ignore the call for a few seconds. In the end, my professionalism topples my cowardice. “Hello. Cloette Gil, speaking.” [“Ms. Gil, this is St. Luke’s Hospital’s Billing Department. Is this the best time to talk?”] I roll my eyes. Obviously, I’m working, so I don’t have ample amount of time listening to the calculations of my father’s statement of account. I wet my lips and, in a concealed annoyed voice, respond, “Can we talk later? I’ll go straight to the hospital after my shift at five o’clock.” [“That’s doable. Please don’t forget to pass by the billing department. There are important things that need to be addressed. Thank you.”] I drop the call without saying more coz there's nothing else to be said anyway. My spirit plummets down like a shot as distress streams through my blood. My eyes falter while my hands moisten. A series of sharp sighs escape my lips while defeat crosses my face from the time I get out of the elevator until my shift ends. Working without focus is hellishly difficult but, like always, I manage somehow. Riding a taxi from the hotel to the hospital is the most convenient option, but also the most expensive one. Since money isn’t on my side, I ride a jeepney then walk a few kilometers instead. When I step inside the hospital's lobby, I immediately wipe the beads of sweat on my forehead with my handkerchief. The transition from a humid atmosphere to an air-conditioned one sends comfort to me. As I walk around, my eyes are drawn to the huge wall clock at the back of the reception area which says quarter to six. If I have to follow my own rules, I’d love to take a seat on one of the steel benches to relax my breath, but I can’t. I’m obliged to always follow other people’s rules. As sad as it may sound, I’m coping with it though. With rough breaths, I thrust my throbbing legs forward, then ascend through an elevator until I reach the billing department on the second floor. “Hi! Is there someone I could speak to about Draymond Gil’s bills?” A nurse lowers down her thick eyeglasses as she looks at me. She asks, “May I know what your relationship is with the patient?” “I’m his daughter.” “One moment.” She fixes her eyeglasses as she positions herself in front of one of the computers. The tickling of her fingertips against the keyboard hums with my heavy breaths and it somehow gives me discomfort. She levels her gaze at me and says, “Ms. Gil, the total balance that you need to pay is Php 2,325,500.00.” Air knocks out of my lungs. My mouth trembles when I open it. Before it spews a single word, I close it again. I steady my emotions when several pairs of eyes look at me with pity, then swallow the knob of air in my throat to push the words out as smoothly as I can. I say, “Last week, it’s only Php 1.9 million. I didn’t realize that… that… it would blow up to four hundred thousand more that fast.” “We pump up the dosages of all his medications because he’s getting weaker by the day. If we don’t, the swelling in his brain will increase, which might result in his…” Without allowing the nurse to finish her sentence, I ask with a c***k voice, “How much do I need to pay to continue his medication and how soon do you need the payment?” “You need to pay at least twenty-five percent of the total amount and we could only give you until midnight tonight.” An indiscernible emotion swamps through me. It’s not exactly anger, but that’s how it sounds when I speak. “What!? Can you be more considerate?!” I catch the attention of the others who are nearby, but dismiss them all at once. The inner corners of my eyebrows arch and my mouth flings open while I wait for the nurse’s response. Her eyes manifest concern. She casts them down for a few seconds but when she directs them to me again, my chest clobbers. Needless for words, I know that she’s powerless to do anything to help me. I clutch the edge of the tiled counter as hard as I can to release the stress in my chest, then I say in a hushed voice, “I’m sorry. I’ll pay you, I promise. Just save my father, please.” I turn my face away from the nurse the instant a tear rolls down my cheek. Disheartened, I’ve got no choice but to cling onto the knife’s blade to get through this. I take my phone out of my tattered sling bag and, with a quivering hand, type a message to someone – a businessman, who’s willing to pay me a fortune just to get a hold of my body. [I'm accepting your offer. Where can I meet you?]