Page 1 of Perfect Alpha

Chapter 1

Victory

Imaginegoingthroughlifewith the name Victory Parker.

No, that isn’t a typo and, no, it isn’t short for Victoria or any other common V name. My parents had areallyhard time conceiving and, yes, you guessed it, me being alive is their Victory.

My best friend, Hannah Fenway, who has the perfectly ordinary name I’ve always dreamed about, reminds me it could be worse. My parents could have named me Triumph, Finally, Miracle, or the ever-popular We Did It, which would be infinitely more mortifying.

And, of course, I chose a career where people often get your name wrong, even if it’s Ann or Bob. I’m a junior agent with Gemstone Literary Agency in New York City.

Part of my job is going through our “slush” pile, which means reading manuscript submissions from aspiring authors who want to publish their books traditionally.

When my profile on the agency website specifically shares a manuscript wish list and bio forVictoryParker and a query letter arrives for Victoria or, worse, Victor, it immediately gets the “delete” treatment.

Attention to detail matters in all areas of life.

I’ve already gone through sixteen submissions this morning, and only one is promising. Standing to stretch my aching back and thinking that I should really start showing up to yoga class more often, I head to the coffee pot and wish there was a way to hook it up as an IV.

Our office space is best described as industrial chic with exposed brick walls, large windows, and countless bookshelves filled to their breaking points.

We’re a small team, so our space is open concept to encourage collaboration, and our workstations are equipped with teak desks and huge dual monitors.

“How many cups of coffee have you had today?”

The sudden appearance of Fiona Shipway, one of the senior agents and my dear friend, nearly makes me jump through the ceiling.

She has a habit of walking around the office in bare feet and scares the shit out of me each time I don’t hear her approach.

And, for the record, that would be every time.

She giggles when I clasp my hands over my heart and pretend to faint.

“Sorry,” she says. But she doesn’t look sorry. In fact, she’s grinning.

“I’m going to buy you a pair of stilettos,” I warn.

Fiona groans. “Yeah, right. It will be a cold day in hell when I cram my feet into a pair of those torture chambers. Have you heard of bunions? You should probably Google them given the shoes you wear.”

My gaze drops to my classic black Manolo Blahnik pumps I found on Craigslist for sixty bucks. They’re not uncomfortable, exactly.

Just not especiallycomfortable.

“Fine, I’ll get you a bell instead.”

She dissolves into another fit of giggles. “Victory! You mean, like a cowbell?” Mock horror covers her face, and I think for the thousandth time that she could easily own a catwalk.

Fiona is long, lean, and gorgeous, clocking in at almost 6 feet tall. She has honey-blond hair, a ridiculously flawless tan, and big aquamarine eyes, which I didn’t even realize was a color until I met her.

She’s about as far from cow-like as you can get.

“Basically,” I grumble.

I inhale the decadent scent of my rich black coffee with the most gloriously complex flavor profile that has ever graced my lips. With a happy sigh, I take a grateful sip. The nutty undertones make me say a quick prayer thanking the heavens for small miracles.

“And back to your original question, this is cup number four if you must know.”

“Holy shit!” Fiona gasps. “Maybe you should Google water, too. It’s, you know, essential to life and stuff.”

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