Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rett
I’m in my office when the penthouse intercom buzzes, a sharp, insistent sound that immediately sets my teeth on edge. No one buzzes the penthouse. No one. That’s the entire point of having a security team in the lobby and private elevator access.
My head snaps up from the quarterly reports I’ve been pretending to read. In reality, I’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes, distracted by the scent of Zoe that’s permeated every corner of this place.
The light, cherry blossom fragrance she wears clings to the pillows on the couch, lingers in the hallway, a soft, floral ghost that is a constant, maddening reminder that she’s here.
My senses have been trained on the kitchen. I heard their quiet conversation, the hiss of the coffee machine. Then... a different kind of silence. A sudden, sharp intake of breath followed by a heavy, charged quiet that was louder than any sound.
My jaw clenched. My hand tightened on my pen, snapping it in half. I didn’t know what was happening, but my alpha did.
The intercom buzzes again, longer this time. Insistent.
I’m on my feet before the sound stops, moving toward the living room.
By the time I get there, Tristan is already there, his face a grim mask as he stares at the small panel by the door.
Diego appears from the kitchen, looking rumpled and tense.
And Zoe... Zoe is standing there with a coffee mug clutched in her hands, her eyes wide with confusion.
“What’s happening?” she asks, her voice small in the suddenly charged atmosphere.
“Stay here,” I tell her, and the words are a harsh rasp, the best I can manage when every instinct is screaming at me to snarl. Then I stride to the intercom panel, stabbing the button with a finger. “Sternam, this better be an emergency.”
“Mr. Sterling—”
A chipper, feminine voice crackles through the speaker, cutting Sternam off. “Mr. Sterling! So sorry to bother you, I have a delivery for a Zoe Clarke?”
My eyes narrow, immediately flicking to the small video feed from the intercom panel on the wall. The woman on the screen is holding a massive bouquet, but it doesn’t hide her face. Not completely.
I know that face.
I’ve seen it staring out from a pixelated author photo at the bottom of a dozen salacious articles Dane forwarded to the pack. Tiffany Burns. The junior vulture from PackTrackr.
They’ve been running those blurry photos of Zoe, speculating about our “mysterious beta.” They even posted photos of us arriving at the gallery that night after the break-in, their headline a mix of “tragedy” and “romance.”
And based on Zoe’s calm demeanor this morning, her focus on the coffee and the burnt toast, I’d bet a controlling share in Sterling Solutions that Zoe has no idea the story is still front-page news. She thinks the world has moved on.
“How did you get past the front door?” My voice is cold as ice.
The reporter laughs, a tinkling sound that grates against my already frayed nerves. “Oh, don’t be mad at your security! I’m just delivering flowers! See? I have a delivery slip right here for Ms. Clarke!”
I catch Tristan’s eye. He mouths “Bullshit” at me, already pulling out his phone. Dane materializes from wherever he’d been, his expression thunderous as he picks up the house phone to call Sternam on the other line.
“There is no delivery,” I say into the intercom. “And you are trespassing on private property.”
“But I have flowers!” the reporter insists. “Beautiful carnations! Don’t you want to know who sent them to Ms. Clarke? It’s all very romantic.”
I feel rather than see Zoe step up beside me. Her scent is clean, with hints of the soap she used this morning, and it wraps around me, momentarily blunting the edge of my anger.
“Who is it?” she whispers.
“A reporter,” I say, not looking at her. “From PackTrackr.”
Her face pales. “How did they—”
“I’m finding out,” Dane says, his voice a low growl as he speaks into the phone.
He listens for a moment, his expression darkening.
“I see. Keep her there.” He hangs up, turning to us.
“She dressed as a delivery person. Uniform, hat, the works. Said she had a delivery for Zoe from a popular flower shop. Had a massive bouquet that blocked the security’s view of her face. ”
“She got past our security with carnations?” Diego says, his voice rising with disbelief.
“The oldest trick in the book,” Tristan mutters. “And the tackiest. Carnations? At least go with roses and commit to your investigative journalism.”
My alpha roars in my chest, a fury unlike anything I’ve felt in years building inside me.
Not just at the breach of security, but at the sheer, pathetic audacity of it.
My pack has been infiltrated by a gossip columnist with a bunch of gas station flowers.
The incompetence of it is almost as infuriating as the breach itself.
“I’ll handle this,” I say, already moving toward the elevator. “Dane, with me.”
“Wait,” Tristan says, holding up a hand. “Let me try something first.”
I stop, arching an eyebrow at him. Tristan is many things. He’s impulsive, irreverent, occasionally ridiculous, but he’s also a PR genius. It’s why he handles the public face of Sterling Solutions while I manage the backend. If anyone can spin this, it’s him.
He steps up to the intercom, pressing the button. “Tiffany? This is Tristan Sterling.”
There’s a beat of dead, shocked silence from the speaker. Then, a flustered, sputtering sound.
“How— My name isn’t Tiffany.”
Tristan’s mouth curves into a small, dangerous smile. “Oh, I think it is,” he says, his voice a low, smooth purr of pure confidence. “And I think you and I have a lot to talk about.”
There’s another, longer pause. I can almost hear the gears turning in her head as she realizes her cover is blown, that she’s been caught, and that she is now talking to one of the most powerful alphas in the city.
The panic in her voice is gone, replaced by a much more excited, opportunistic professionalism.
“Tristan! Hi! I’m such a fan of your work with the Sweetwater Symphony Gala last year. The ice sculptures were inspired!”
Tristan shakes his head with a silent chuckle. “Thank you, Tiffany. I appreciate a discerning eye. Look, I understand you’re just doing your job, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. You’re chasing the wrong story here.”
“Am I?” The reporter sounds skeptical but intrigued.
“Absolutely,” Tristan continues, his voice sliding into that smooth, charming tone that has swayed alphas, betas, and omegas alike.
“Zoe Clarke is working with Sterling Solutions on a new philanthropic art initiative. Very hush-hush, very boring. Corporate art acquisition for underfunded public schools. That’s why she’s here. ”
I almost smile.
“But what about the claiming marks?” Tiffany presses, not quite ready to give up her scoop. “Our sources say—”
“Your sources are confusing business with pleasure,” Tristan cuts in smoothly.
“Ms. Clarke is a respected curator with connections throughout the art world. We’re lucky to have her consulting on this project.
Now, I’d be happy to give you an exclusive on the initiative once it’s ready to announce.
Say, next month? Much better story than some fabricated romance, don’t you think? ”
There’s a long pause from the other end of the intercom. I can almost hear the gears turning in the reporter’s head, weighing the value of Tristan’s proposal.
“Well,” she says finally, the disappointment evident in her voice, “that does sound interesting. I suppose I could tell my editor—”
“Perfect,” Tristan says, cutting her off. “I’ll have my assistant send over the details for next month’s meeting. Now, I believe security is waiting to escort you out.”
He releases the intercom button, turning to us with a satisfied smirk. “And that’s how it’s done.”
“Nicely played,” I acknowledge, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. “But we still have a problem.”
“Several,” Dane agrees, already back on his phone. His fingers move with terrifying efficiency across the screen. “I’m pulling her social media profiles, employment history, and direct contact information for her editor.”
“What are you going to do?” Zoe asks, looking between us with a mixture of confusion and alarm.
“Nothing illegal,” Dane assures her, not looking up from his phone. “Just creating leverage.”
“He’s finding pressure points,” Tristan explains, seeing her bewildered expression. “Places where a carefully worded email or phone call could make her life... difficult.”
“You’re threatening her?” Zoe’s voice rises with alarm.
“No,” I say firmly. “We’re ensuring she understands the consequences of harassing a private citizen. There’s a difference.”
Zoe doesn’t look convinced. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her coffee mug abandoned on the nearby table. She’s looking at us with a look of wide-eyed, dawning horror.
The look hits me like a silent, brutal gut punch.
She’s seeing the reality of our world, not the sanitized version we’ve been trying to show her. She’s seeing the cold, hard, and brutally efficient machinery that underpins our power. She’s seeing the weapons we use to protect our own.
And she’s appalled by it.
A vicious, internal conflict rips through me. A part of me, the civilized man who wants her to see him as good, feels a sharp pang of shame. We are scaring her, showing her a darkness she is too good for.
But the alpha, the primal, possessive beast that now sees her as the absolute center of our pack, has a different reaction entirely.
Good.
Let her see. Let her understand the lengths we will go to. Let her realize that this is what our protection looks like. It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is absolute.
“This is because of me,” she says quietly. “Because I’m here.”
“No,” Diego says immediately, moving to her side. “This is because of them. Because they have no respect for privacy or boundaries.”
“But if I wasn’t here—”