He’ll say he’s proud of me.
We’ll eat Thai on the couch while Pancake tries to stick his paw in the curry.
Then we’ll have mediocre sex again, and I’ll pretend it feels like something it doesn’t. Because the truth is, my life here is fine.
Better than fine.
I have a good apartment, solid friends, a job with benefits, a boyfriend who kisses well and listens more than he talks. And yet…
Beneath all that polish, I can feel the crack.
It’s small, but it’s spreading.
Sometimes I catch it when I look at myself in the mirror before bed. Or when the scent balm I wear every day fades just a little too early and someone’s Alpha scent almost brings me to my knees.
But mostly, it’s when I close my eyes and dream of pine needles underfoot.
And the sound of someone growling my name like it’s a prayer.
If I were having orgasms, then my life would be nearly perfect.
But perfect was never the goal. Survival was. And that’s the problem. Because I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m starting towant.
And historically, that’s always when things fall apart.
The Everhart lobby is a blend of marble and steel, exuding quiet confidence. Neutral tones. Living walls of green moss. Receptionist in minimalist cream.
I walk in exactly three minutes early, flats traded for nude heels, hair pulled back in the low bun Rob once called my “don’t-fuck-with-me look.”
My palms are dry. Portfolio ready. I’ve rehearsed this pitch in the mirror, in the shower, on the train. I know it’s good.
But the moment I step into the boardroom, I know I’m not ready forhim.
He stands at the head of the table like he owns the oxygen in the room. Which, technically, he does—Everhart Resorts, Everhart Investments, Everhart Tech. Alpha. Late thirties. Sun-warmed skin. Dark eyes. A suit tailored to sin.
I recognize him from the press features: Wolfe Everhart. Aspen house. Climbing hobby. Too many foundation grants are suspect, not enough authenticity to be trusted.
His eyes meet mine.
My bodylocks.
Not from attraction. Not even recognition. It’s something more profound, chemical. Uncontrolled. My glands flare behind my ears.
I have balm on. I’m wearing a double layer of scent-neutralizing powder under my wrists and along my neck. It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, his nostrils flare just slightly. Like he already knew.
“Miss Aldridge,” he says, his voice like suede and gravel, hand extended.
I shake it. Firm. Professional. No tremor.
He doesn’t let go right away.
I pull back.
My manager, Scott, launches into the intro. I follow. I’m good. No—I’m great. I walk them through the pitch: eco-forwardinteriors that evoke a sense of grounded luxury. Each room is a sanctuary. Every suite is a sensory experience.
