After My Alpha Took My Daughter to His Mistress

The scent of lemon polish filled my modest apartment as I wiped down the kitchen counter, my mind a thousand miles away from the mundane task. Hattie's latest sketches from Paris were pinned to the refrigerator—beautiful charcoal drawings that made my heart swell with pride. My daughter had inherited the Bradley artistic sensibilities despite our modest lifestyle, a thought that brought both comfort and regret.

My phone vibrated against the counter, the screen flashing an unknown number. I almost ignored it, but something compelled me to answer.

"Hello, is this Adele Scott?" The voice was crisp, professional—the kind that belonged to someone accustomed to authority.

"Yes, this is she." I set down my cloth, a flicker of unease dancing through me.

"This is Victoria Hayes, Headmistress of the Metropolitan Arts Academy." She paused, and I could hear papers shuffling in the background. "I'm calling regarding your daughter, Hattie Scott."

My heart stuttered. "Hattie? Is everything alright?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Scott. I regret to inform you that Hattie has been expelled from our program effective immediately."

The world tilted sideways. "Expelled? That's impossible. Hattie is in Paris on a scholarship. She's been there for months."

"Mrs. Scott, I have Hattie Scott right here in my office. She's been attending classes here in New York under your family name."

My hand trembled so violently I had to grip the counter for support. "That's not possible. Someone is using her identity."

"Nevertheless," Hayes continued, her voice cooling several degrees, "the expulsion stands. Plagiarism and behavioral misconduct are taken very seriously at our institution. Please come to the academy immediately to discuss this matter further."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stood frozen in my kitchen, the phone still pressed to my ear. This had to be a mistake—a terrible, bizarre mistake. Hattie had been in Paris since January, studying at the École des Beaux-Arts. I'd spoken to her just yesterday.

Something cold and terrible settled in my stomach as I grabbed my keys.

---

The Metropolitan Arts Academy loomed before me, its limestone facade gleaming in the afternoon sun. Students clustered on the steps, their portfolios tucked under arms, laughing and chatting—normal teenagers living normal lives.

I hurried through the entrance, following signs to the administrative offices. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached the Headmistress's door.

"Mrs. Scott?" Victoria Hayes looked up from her desk, her expression a mixture of surprise and confusion. "You're not—"

"I'm Adele Scott," I interrupted, my voice steadier than I felt. "Hattie's mother."

Hayes blinked, clearly flustered. "But then who is—"

I followed her gaze through the glass partition into the adjacent office. A young girl sat hunched over a desk, her dark hair falling forward as she scribbled on a form. Something about her struck me as vaguely familiar—the tilt of her head, the way she held her pen.

And then I saw her.

Alexia Mitchell. The woman Jackson had introduced as his "widowed cousin" at last year's pack gathering.