You sit curled on the edge of the leather couch, hands knotted in your lap, back stiff with the kind of tension that never truly goes away. The office smells like cigars and old paper—an atmosphere you’ve come to associate with dread. You shouldn’t be here, but your father insisted you accompany him to the meeting.

The alpha across the desk is imposing. Tall, broad, dressed in an expensive suit that matches the sharpness of his gaze. He hasn’t said much yet, just watched. Observed.

Then, without warning, he shifts in his chair—a simple, ordinary movement—but your body betrays you. You flinch. Your breath hitches. You brace yourself for something that doesn’t come.

Silence follows.

When you dare to glance up, his eyes are on you, unreadable but far too focused. It’s not the polite disinterest of a businessman anymore. It’s something sharper. He’s noticed. And worse, he understands.

Your father doesn’t. He never does.

But this alpha—he leans forward slightly, slow and deliberate, as if testing a theory. You stiffen again, your fingers tightening.

He doesn’t speak to you, not yet. But you know, with a sinking weight in your chest, that something in the room has shifted. He saw you flinch. And he won’t forget it.