Page 2 of The Alpha's Crimson Vow

The glass in my hand is dangerously close to shattering. I take a deep breath, forcing a smile. “That’s fascinating. Tell me, what exactly do you bring to the table?”

His smile falters, but he recovers quickly. “Connections. Influence. The kind of power your family wants in a partnership.”

“Well,” I say, grabbing my purse. “It’s been enlightening. But I don’t think you and I are a good fit. So I’m afraid your ‘partnership’ is off the table.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I get to my feet. “What I meant by that, Mr. Winters, is that this foolish date is over.”

The finality and command in my tone stuns him into a gaping silence. I almost smile. He looks better when he has nothing to say.

I drop a couple of hundreds on the table and turn away, my louboutins click-clacking against the marble floor as I leave.

“That arrogant bitch! Who the hell would ever marry a woman who thinks she can act like a man?!”

I hear his furious complaints on my way out, but I couldn’t care less as I stride out of the restaurant.

What a total waste of my time.

I don’t even know how I’ve managed to put up with all of this nonsense. It’s taking every ounce of patience I have. The world seems to be overrun with men like Chris Winters, and honestly? It’s pathetic.

And me? Lately I’ve had the displeasure of crossing paths with guys like him way more often than my stomach can handle, all because The family elders won’t stop breathing down my neck. They’re always harping on about the importance of marriage—how I’m “not getting any younger” and how crucial it is for someone in my position to “secure the family legacy.”

Chris Winters is just another one of their handpicked suitors, another one of their golden ducks they’ve wheeled out for me to endure an awkward encounter with. In a way, I get it—on paper, it makes sense. The Winters family has been a solid partner to Pinnacle Group for years, and Chris is the heir to their empire. Of course the elders see him as the perfect match.

What they’re not considering, though, is that he’s an absolute dickhead.

It’s exhausting. It’s only been six months since Mom and Dad passed away, six months since I took over the company. And in that time, the elders haven’t even let me breathe. Notone week of peace without their constant nagging about this apparent need for me to marry urgently. It feels like they’d love nothing more than to have total control over every aspect of my professional and personal life.

I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the storm of thoughts swirling in my head as I drive through the city streets, their glow softened by the golden haze of streetlights. A quick glance at the sleek watch on my wrist tells me it’s nearly 9 PM. A dry laugh escapes my lips.

What a joke.That so-called “dinner date” was annoying enough all by itself. But the fact that I could’ve been prepping for tomorrow’s board meeting or finishing up on some work pricks at me even more.

The drive back to the office is smooth, my thoughts a little less chaotic as I pull into the near-empty parking lot. The cool night air greets me as I step out. Without hesitation, I head straight for the building.

The automatic doors part with their familiar hum, and I stride inside, offering a quick nod to the reception staff as they gather their things to leave for the night.

“Goodnight,” I say, my tone polite but clipped.

“Goodnight, ma’am,” one of them replies, her voice warm but cautious.

I keep walking, my lips curving into a faint smile. Good for them, heading home to their families or whatever peaceful lives they’ve built for themselves. Me? I’d rather be here. Working.

Home isn’t much of a draw for me these days. Sure, I’ve got a spacious apartment, more luxurious than I’d ever need, but it feels more like a showroom than a home. I’ve even started keeping a rotation of clothes in my office. Most nights, I crash on the leather couch in the corner, finding its familiar firmnessoddly comforting during those brief hours I allow myself to sleep.

It’s better this way. Being at home only amplifies the loneliness, even though it really isn’t anything I can’t handle—I’ve been used to that for years. It’s the unproductive stillness that gets to me, that gnawing sense of wasting time when there’s always something that needs to be done.

And there’s always something. Between the relentless demands of running the company, the family elders’ endless schemes to marry me off, and the subtle but unmistakable doubts I see in the eyes of certain board members, there’s no room for error.

Not for me.

I can’t falter. Can’t slip. Every move has to be calculated, every decision sharp. Because any hint of a mistake from me will surely been seen as weakness.

I walk past the stairway, my eyes catching on the steps for just a second—long enough to pull me back to that night. That one night when everything was too much. That night when I couldn’t be strong and the emotions pierced into my heart.

I’d just heard about my parents accident. The words still rang in my ears. I’d tried to hold it together, tried to make it out of the building unnoticed, but I didn’t make it far. The stairway became my refuge, and I crumpled there, sobbing harder than I ever had in my life.

I thought I was alone. I needed to be alone. But then someone saw me.

That janitor.

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