Page 27 of The Alpha's Crimson Vow

“Alex?” I call out, my curiosity piqued, but before I can take another step, he steps out of the kitchen, his heavy footsteps padding across the wooden floor.

He stands there, tall and broad, wearing a black apron that looks comically small against his muscular frame. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing those strong forearms, the kind that seem to make ordinary gestures—like wiping his hands on a dish towel—look absurdly captivating.

“I made a little treat,” he says casually, his voice low and calm, the kind of tone that has a way of settling my nerves. “Something to snack on before we head out.”

I glance toward the kitchen, trying to focus on the sweet scent and not how unfairly good he looks. “Must be some snack,” I reply, unable to hide the smile tugging at my lips. “Smells amazing.”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eyes. “It’s nothing fancy. Just thought you might like a bite before tonight.”

I nod, but my gaze lingers, taking in the details: the way his hair is slightly mussed, like he’s run his fingers through it too many times. And I have to look away before my mind wanders somewhere inappropriate because this dinner is important, and I don’t have time to lose myself in thoughts of him.

He disappears into the kitchen, and when he returns, it’s with a small plate and a fork in hand. “It’s pie,” he says, holding the plate out to me, his tone casual, like he hasn’t just turned my apartment into a five-star bistro.

I accept the plate and take a bite, and oh my… this isn’t just pie. It’s perfection. Flaky crust, sweet, tangy filling—every bite feels like it’s been crafted with care. But at this point, I’m not surprised. It’s one of the many things I’ve come to learn about Alex over the past couple of months. He knows so much. Not just surface-level stuff, but the kind of knowledge that makes you stop and wonder. Fine dining etiquette, how to whip up gourmet-level meals, subtle cues that hint at a past he hasn’t let me into yet.

I take another bite, savoring it, but force myself to put the fork down before the plate is empty. “If I don’t stop now, I won’t have room for dinner tonight,” I say, laughing softly as I push the plate back toward him.

He smiles, that subtle, knowing smile he always has. “I guess we should get ready, then.”

Getting ready doesn’t take long. I had my dress and jewelry picked out days ago—a sleek black number that fits like a glove, paired with delicate, understated accessories. It’s a classic look, elegant but not too loud, just the right balance for tonight’s event.

When I step out of my room, I find Alex already waiting in the living room.

And God help me, the man looks incredible.

He’s in a perfectly tailored suit, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and lean frame like it was made just for him. The crisp white shirt beneath his jacket is unbuttoned just enough to hint at a more casual edge, and the way his hair is slicked back giveshim an air of effortless sophistication. He looks like he’s stepped right out of a dream.

He steps toward me. He doesn’t say a word at first, just takes me in, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Then he holds out his hand, palm open, his voice low and smooth as he asks, “May I?”

I place my hand in his, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine. His fingers curl around mine gently but firmly, and I can’t help but smile.

I could get used to this.

The car ride to the venue feels quiet, but not in a bad way. There’s something about watching him drive, something that tugs at a deeper part of me. It’s a simple moment, but it feels like so much more. Maybe it’s the quiet strength he exudes, or maybe it’s the realization that a small, selfish part of me wishes this wasn’t just an arrangement.

When we pull up to the venue, the world outside feels louder and brighter. The grand diner hall is nothing short of luxurious, a glittering display of wealth and power. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over tables adorned with fine china and crystal glasses. The air is filled with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the faint clinking of cutlery.

Alex steps out first, coming around to open my door. I slip my hand into his as we walk in, his touch steady and warm against mine. It feels natural.

Inside, the crowd is already gathered. Familiar faces mingle—board members, prospective partners, and, of course, Uncle Lawrence and Frank. They’re doing what they do best, greeting guests with smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes.

Alex and I fall into the rhythm we’ve mastered over the past couple of months. I introduce him as my boyfriend, and every time, he plays the part perfectly. There’s a natural ease tothe way he engages people—whether it’s about politics, policy, or business strategies. He speaks with confidence, and even I sometimes find myself marveling at how much he knows. But at this point, I’ve stopped questioning it. It’s just... Alex.

Then the sharp clink of glass interrupts the hum of the room. My head instinctively turns toward the sound, and I see Frank standing near the center of the hall, a wine glass in hand, tapping it lightly with a spoon. His expression is one of calculated charm, the kind that always seems to carry an edge beneath the surface.

A toast. Of course.

The room begins to quiet as attention turns to him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to make a toast to celebrate our new partnership…” Frank begins, his voice warm and practiced, radiating the confidence of someone who knows the room is his for the taking. He stands tall, his wine glass raised, and the room hums with polite attention.

The corners of his mouth twitch up into a self-satisfied smile, and I can already tell he’s basking in the moment. The spotlight suits him. Too bad he doesn’t actually deserve it. I can stomach his theatrics, though. If his little show is keeping the guests entertained, fine.

“Here at Pinnacle Group, we see possibilities where others do not,” Frank continues, his tone swelling with false gravitas. “This partnership and expansion plan is a testament to that. There were many doubters, many who felt that this didn’t need to happen. But through sheer determination and the desire to make the impossible possible… here we are.”

A soft wave of applause ripples through the room. The guests are nodding, smiling, eating it up like he’s the hero of the story. I almost laugh out loud. The irony is a little too rich for my taste. Frank—Frank of all people—standing here and waxing poeticabout possibilities when he did everything in his power to kill the expansion plan? Please. But his voice drones on, smooth as silk.

“Whether it’s in business, in life, or even in love,” Frank says, letting the word love hang in the air for a beat too long, “we believe in making the impossible possible. Like creating a partnership that breaks past language barriers…”

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