Make The Alpha Pay

The mansion's routines become my scripture over the next week, each pattern memorized and catalogued like evidence in a case I'm building against its master.

Monday through Friday, Grayson leaves at nine sharp for his office downtown, returning by six with the satisfied air of a predator who's spent the day marking territory. Weekends are for entertaining—elaborate dinner parties where the pack's elite gather to worship at the altar of his power.

But it's Tuesday and Thursday afternoons that interest me most.

Lila's spa appointments are as predictable as sunrise, her departure at two o'clock accompanied by a flurry of air kisses and promises to return "refreshed and radiant." She never does return until after five, which gives Grayson exactly three hours of unsupervised playtime.

The first Tuesday, I'm polishing silver in the kitchen when I hear the front door chime. Not Lila's return—she always uses her key. This is someone being welcomed in.

"Grayson, darling," a sultry voice drifts through the service corridor. Not Lila's voice. This one is deeper, more confident. "I've missed you."

I edge closer to the doorway, catching a glimpse of glossy red hair and a dress that costs more than most people's cars. She moves with the fluid grace of someone who knows exactly how beautiful she is and exactly how to use it.

Grayson's laugh is warm in a way I've never heard it with Lila. "Victoria. Right on time."

They disappear up the main staircase, and I force myself to continue polishing, cataloguing this information like every other detail I've gathered. Victoria. Tuesday afternoons. The way his voice changed when he said her name.

Thursday brings a different woman—a willowy blonde who giggles like a teenager despite being obviously in her thirties. Friday afternoon, when Lila goes shopping instead of to the spa, it's a brunette with an expensive handbag and the kind of confidence that comes from old money.

Grayson Cross, the devoted Alpha who publicly dotes on his beautiful mistress, is systematically cheating on her with half the eligible women in the city.

The knowledge sits in my chest like a loaded weapon, waiting for the right moment to fire.

That moment comes sooner than expected.

"Harriet!" Grayson's voice booms through the mansion on a Thursday afternoon, sharp with irritation. "Get in here. Now."

I find him in his office, standing over his massive mahogany desk with a crystal tumbler in his hand and murder in his eyes. Red wine spreads across the pristine white silk rug beneath his feet like a blood stain, the liquid already seeping deep into the expensive fibers.

"Look what you've done," he snarls, though we both know I've been three rooms away for the past hour.

The accusation hangs in the air, daring me to contradict him. Instead, I drop my eyes and let my shoulders curve inward, the picture of a servant accepting blame for her master's clumsiness.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I'll clean it immediately."

"You'd better." He sets the tumbler down with deliberate force. "That rug is worth more than you'll make in five years. If you can't get the stain out completely, the cost comes out of your wages."

Five years of wages. For a rug. The casual cruelty of it makes my jaw clench, but I keep my voice steady. "I understand, sir."

He stalks out, leaving me alone with the impossible task and, more importantly, unrestricted access to his private office.

I kneel beside the stain, pulling cleaning supplies from my cart with deliberate slowness. The wine has already set, bonding with the silk fibers in a way that no amount of scrubbing will ever fully remove. But that's not the point. The point is that I now have a legitimate reason to be in this room for hours, undisturbed.

The office is a monument to Grayson's ego—awards and photographs covering every surface, expensive art chosen more for its price tag than its beauty. But it's the small details that interest me: the way he leaves documents scattered across his desk, the unlocked filing cabinet, the computer that's still logged in to his email.

I work methodically, scrubbing the stain while my eyes catalogue everything within reach. Financial records. Legal correspondence. Personal letters. A treasure trove of information just waiting to be—

The sound of running water from the adjoining bathroom makes me freeze. Grayson's voice follows, muffled but audible through the thin wall.

"—told you, Marcus, I need this wrapped up by Friday. The pack council is starting to ask questions about the Henderson contract."

I edge closer to the bathroom door, my hands still working at the wine stain in case he emerges unexpectedly.

"What? No, that's not a problem." His laugh is sharp, dismissive. "Lila? She's just an accessory, Marcus. Beautiful, but gets boring fast. She has no idea about any of this."

My heart hammers against my ribs as I fumble for the burner phone hidden in my apron pocket. The recording app opens just as his voice continues.

"Trust me, she's not smart enough to be a threat. I keep her around because she looks good on my arm and knows how to keep her mouth shut when it matters. But between you and me, I'm already getting tired of the act."

The water shuts off, and I quickly pocket the phone, my hands returning to their scrubbing motion. Thirty seconds later, Grayson emerges, his hair damp and his shirt unbuttoned.

He glances at me with mild interest, as if he's forgotten I exist. "Still working on that, are you?"

"Yes, sir. I think I'm making progress."

He doesn't even look at the rug. "Good. I have a conference call in ten minutes, so make sure you're finished by then."

After he leaves, I allow myself a moment to process what I've just captured. Grayson's own words, dismissing Lila as nothing more than a pretty ornament. The casual cruelty in his voice as he reduced her to an object for his amusement.

It's not enough to destroy him, but it's a start. More importantly, it's exactly what I need to plant the first crack in Lila's unwavering devotion.

Later that evening, while Lila sits at her vanity preparing for bed, I move through her room with practiced invisibility. She's humming softly to herself, apparently unaware that her beloved Alpha spent the afternoon disparaging her to his lawyer.

As I dust the various bottles and trinkets on her vanity, I pause at her hairbrush—an ornate silver thing that probably costs more than most people's rent. Nestled among her dark strands is exactly what I planted there an hour earlier: a single, long blonde hair that I collected from the guest room where Grayson's Thursday afternoon companion spent her time.

I pick up the brush, examining it with the kind of careful attention that draws notice without seeming deliberate.

"Miss Monroe?" I keep my voice soft, uncertain. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but did you change your hair color recently?"

Lila's humming stops abruptly. "What?"

"This hair in your brush—" I hold up the blonde strand, letting it catch the light. "It looks so different from your natural color. Much lighter."

The effect is immediate and devastating. Lila's face goes pale, then flushes with something that might be embarrassment or might be rage. She snatches the brush from my hands, staring at the foreign hair as if it's a venomous snake.

"That's... that's not mine." Her voice is barely a whisper.

I arrange my features into an expression of helpful confusion. "Oh! Perhaps it got mixed up at the salon? Sometimes those places aren't very careful about cleaning their tools properly."

But we both know she wasn't at a salon today. She was at the spa, the same spa she visits every Tuesday and Thursday while Grayson entertains his parade of other women.

Lila's hands shake as she examines the hair, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. The timing. The color. The fact that it was found in her most personal space.

"That will be all, Harriet," she says, her voice tight with barely controlled emotion.

"Of course, Miss Monroe. Good night."

I slip from the room, leaving her alone with her suspicions and that damning strand of blonde hair. As I walk down the service corridor toward my cramped room, I can hear her moving around, the sharp sound of drawers being yanked open and slammed shut.

Searching. Looking for more evidence of betrayal.

She won't find any tonight—I'm not ready to show my full hand yet. But the seed is planted, and seeds have a way of growing in the dark, nourished by doubt and watered with tears.

By morning, Lila Monroe will be a different woman. Still beautiful, still desperate for Grayson's attention, but no longer blindly trusting.

And a woman who doesn't trust is a woman who pays attention. Who asks questions. Who might just be willing to listen when someone offers her the truth about the man she thinks she loves.

Guess what she’d do next? I utterly looked forward to Lila’s potentials.