THE HIDDEN ALPHA WHO PUCKED AND RUINED ME

ELARA'S POV

"Pour more. Deep down her throat."

The burn of cheap liquor wasn't the worst part-it was the laughter.

Lyra Walter's voice sliced through the pounding club music, sharp as glass.

"Pour it deeper. Make sure she chokes on it."

Her little army of followers obeyed instantly. Bottles tilted, cold liquid splashed over my head, soaking through my thin uniform until it clung to my skin. The smell of alcohol wrapped around me, sticky, humiliating. Their giggles echoed off the bathroom tiles, cruel and endless.

Not the first time. Not the second. Not even the fiftieth.

It was easier to lose count than admit how many times I'd been their target.

My knees hit the ground hard, but I kept my chin tucked, waiting it out like always. Fighting back only made things worse.

Knock. Knock.

"Hey-what's going on in there?" A man's voice from outside the bathroom door.

Panic flared across Lyra's perfect face. She snapped her fingers, and just like that, her loyal shadows scurried after her. Their heels clicked against the floor as they vanished, laughter trailing behind them like smoke.

The door didn't open. Whoever had knocked walked away, probably deciding it wasn't worth the trouble.

I stayed behind, dripping, breath shaking.

Dragging myself up, I staggered toward the cracked mirror above the sink. A broken reflection stared back-brown eyes red, black hair plastered to my cheeks, uniform ruined.

Invisible. Pathetic. Forgettable.

I peeled the wet fabric off and pulled on the spare uniform I always kept in my locker. By now, it was a habit-prepared for disaster, because disaster always came.

A whisper left my lips before I could stop it.

"If I disappeared tomorrow, no one would notice."

Shoving down the thought, I grabbed a rag to wipe at the mess on the floor and forced myself back into the pulsing lights of the club.

"Elara!" Jane's voice caught me the second I stepped out. My coworker-same age, same tired eyes-hurried over with a tray in hand. "Where the hell have you been? The boss has been looking for you. You're already on thin ice tonight."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. "I'm here now."

She pressed a bottle of wine and a clean glass into my hands. "Table twelve. VIP section. Don't screw it up."

VIP. Great. Probably some rich jerk with more money than sense.

I steadied the tray on my palm and made my way across the crowded floor, weaving between laughing strangers and drunk customers. The bass thudded in my chest, every beat urging me to keep moving.

But the moment I reached table twelve, I froze.

Alric Harlow.

The name alone carried weight. Hockey's golden boy. The man every magazine called untouchable. Twenty-six, undefeated, the league's star. His face was plastered on billboards, dorm walls, and TV screens across New York.

And now he was here-sitting back in the VIP lounge, broad shoulders stretched beneath a leather jacket, dark hair falling carelessly into ice-blue eyes