Page 34 of Alpha-Ex Wedding Ruse
Victor had destroyed lives with nothing more than a handshake and a smile, sabotaging trade deals out of spite—deals that would’ve kept food on the table for struggling families. When a new project came up, I planned to award the bid to a sharp, loyal young Beta in the pack as part of a youth empowerment effort, but Victor overrode the decision and gave it to an outsider who bribed him with better incentives. By the time I found out, pack members had already begun to question my push for youth empowerment—doubting my priorities, my integrity, and my leadership.
The memory soured on my tongue like acid. My jaw clenched, but I kept my face blank.
Victor shifted when Father’s gaze settled on him—cold, direct. “What are you talking about, boy?”
“Nothing specific,” Victor said smoothly, cutting another piece of steak. “Just wanted to make sure my dear brother has his head in the right place.”
“The wedding will proceed as planned,” I said firmly, locking eyes with Victor, hoping to shut down whatever twisted game he was playing.
But even as the words left my mouth, my wolf stirred beneath my skin.
My father nodded, satisfied.
“Good. Because this deal with the Moreaus isn’t just about money, Luca. It’s about dominance. Staying on top and climbing even higher. It’s about the Alpha Regency.”
His voice shifted, dropping into that tone he always used when the subject turned to pack power. Serious. Nonnegotiable.
“Their technology could revolutionize our operations,” he went on, “but they won’t hand it over without guarantees. Trust isn’t something you buy—it’s earned. Or, in this case, secured through blood.”
I’d heard this before. Again and again. It was an agonizing reminder that I had to lead with my head…not with my heart. Not with the part of me that still reacted to the sound of her name.
“The Moreaus won’t fully release their tech without assurance,” he continued, as if I hadn’t memorized every word. “They don’t trust Vaughn Industries not to cut them out once the deal is sealed. But marriage? That gives them roots. Legacy. Leverage. If this wedding doesn’t happen, the deal falls apart. And if it falls apart, another pack swoops in—takes the tech, takes the power, and threatens the Manhattan Pack’s position.”
The weight settled on my shoulders like it always did—crushing but familiar. This wasn’t just about me. It was about the pack. But my wolf didn’t give a damn about alliances or quarterly reports. It wanted his Fated Mate. The woman who’d walked back into my world like a slow-burning catastrophe.
“Speaking of business,” my father said, shifting his gaze toward Victor, “how are the quarterly projections looking? The board meeting is next week.”
Victor straightened, clearing his throat.
“Revenue is up twelve percent from last quarter. But expenses have risen with the tech sector expansion. We’re looking at a netgain of about eight percent, which is within projected margins, but—”
“But not impressive,” my father cut in, cold and clean. “Eight percent won’t secure our place against the other packs. Brooklyn pulled a fifteen percent growth. In Staten Island, it was eighteen.”
I watched Victor’s jaw tense. His grip on the fork whitened.
“The investments will pay off long term,” he said through clenched teeth. “We can’t expect—”
“I don’t want excuses, Victor.” My father’s voice turned glacial. “Results matter. Performance matters. This is exactly why—despite you being older—I named Luca as my heir. Your wolf is weak. And clearly, so is your business acumen.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mrs. Chen had quietly excused herself to the kitchen. She always knew when to vanish. She could sense the tension that clung to these family dinners like smoke.
Victor stared at his plate. His breathing was even, controlled—but his scent gave him away. Anger. Humiliation. Boiling beneath the surface.
“Perhaps it’s time I consider replacing you as CFO,” my father said, unbothered. “Find someone who can actually deliver the results this pack needs.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Victor bit out, jaw tight.
“We’ll see about that,” my father replied with finality.
Dinner continued in silence.
The only sound was the quiet scrape of my father’s cutlery, chewing without pause—unmoved by the fact that he’d just threatened to gut his own son’s future.
Victor didn’t touch his food. Neither did I. I’d lost my appetite.
I started counting the minutes. No one left the table until my father was finished eating. That was the rule.
