Page 20 of The Alpha's Forbidden Heir

Maeve hesitates for a moment before nodding and retreating toward the stairs.

The moment I hear her footsteps fade, I set the tray on the nearest table and turn toward my father’s office.

The hallway feels longer than usual, the polished wooden floors stretching out endlessly in front of me. I’ve passed by his office a thousand times before, and I have always respected the invisible boundary he’s drawn around it. But not today.

The door is dark and heavy, and the brass handle gleams when I see it up close. My hand trembles as I reach for it, and for a split second, I consider turning back. But then I remember the things Bane said.

My father wouldn’t lie to me. Would he?

The handle turns easily, and I slip inside, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.

The room is exactly how I imagined it would be. It's pristine, ordered and intimidating. There are shelves lining the walls, andthey're filled with books that look more for show than actual reading. His desk sits in the center, a monolith of dark wood, its surface impossibly clean.

I start with the drawers, pulling them open one by one. Pens, papers, nothing out of the ordinary. I move to the cabinet behind his desk, flipping through the files there. Again, nothing.

My frustration grows with every empty drawer, every meaningless document I flip through.What am I even doing?I thought. Until my eyes land on the safe.

It’s tucked beneath the desk, partially hidden by the chair. I kneel in front of it and brush my fingers over the keypad.

It’s locked, of course. But what’s the code?

I try the first thing that comes to mind, my birthday. 0428.

The safe clicks open.

My heart stops for a moment before pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest. I pull the door open, and the first thing I see is a stack of papers. Letters. Pictures.

The pictures are what make my stomach churn.

Men, women, children. Bruised, broken, bleeding. A shipment log with numbers and dates, names scrawled in neat handwriting beneath the heading “Deliveries.”

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

My hands shake as I shove the papers back into the safe, slamming the door shut like that will somehow erase what I’ve seen.

This can’t be real. It can’t.

I stumble out of the office, my vision blurring as I make my way back to my room. The nausea intensifies with every step, and by the time I reach the bathroom, I’m already on my knees.

The vomit burns my throat, and tears sting my eyes, but I can’t stop. I clutch the edge of the toilet, my body heaving as my mind replays the images repeatedly.

When it’s finally over, I collapse against the cool tile floor, gasping for air. My hand brushes against something soft, and I glance down to see the edge of a pad peeking out from the cabinet beneath the sink.

My stomach twists for a different reason now.

I count the days in my head, my breath hitching when I realize the truth.

I’m late.

No. No, no, no.

This isn’t happening.

But deep down, I know.

And for the second time that morning, the tears come, and this time, I don’t try to stop them.

Chapter Seven

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