POV - Elena
For the first time in days, the morning didn't smell like smoke.
Just coffee.
I stood barefoot in James's kitchen, wearing one of his shirts and trying to pretend this was what normal looked like — the quiet hum of the espresso machine, the sound of birds through half-open windows, the faint warmth of sunlight crawling across marble.
He moved around behind me, half-dressed, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows the way he did when he wasn't "Alpha" or "CEO," just James. It should've felt safe. Simple.
But nothing about us was simple anymore.
The mark on my neck still tingled, faintly alive. The air still carried a low vibration, a reminder of what had happened with the Council. They were gone — or scattered — but the echo of power didn't fade easily.
James handed me my coffee, our fingers brushing, and the bond sparked instantly.
He smiled. "You're quiet."
"I'm thinking."
"That's dangerous."
I laughed. "Maybe. I was just thinking that I want… a normal day. Just one."
He looked at me, amused. "Normal?"
"You know. Work. Deadlines. Lunch breaks. A day that doesn't involve saving anyone."
He considered this, then nodded. "Then that's what we'll do. We'll start today."
And we did.
The drive to Ashford Industries felt surreal — the same glass building, the same people, the same scent of perfume and fresh paper. My team smiled when I walked in, asking if I was better. I smiled back and said yes, pretending it was true.
By noon, I was buried in spreadsheets, emails, the kind of small chaos that makes life feel manageable again.
And for a while, it worked.
Until I heard her laugh.
It was light, melodic — the kind of laugh that wraps itself around a room and demands attention.
I looked up just in time to see her step out of the elevator: tall, dark-haired, strikingly beautiful. Her green eyes scanned the space like it already belonged to her. She wore a fitted navy suit and the sort of confidence that doesn't come from arrogance — it comes from being admired your entire life.
She smiled when she saw James.
He smiled back.
Something inside me twisted.
She crossed the floor toward him, hips balanced, stride graceful, and hugged him — close, brief, practiced.
He didn't pull away.
They spoke quietly. I couldn't hear a word, but I didn't need to. I could feel it — the familiarity, the ease, the weight of shared history.
Lucian appeared moments later, greeting her like an old friend.
When James finally came to my office, his expression was lighter than it had been in days. "Guess who's in London," he said.
"Try me."
"Victoria Vale," he said with a grin. "From the southern territories. She's here on some political errand, but honestly, she's probably just checking how bad things got after the Council mess."
Victoria Vale. The name sounded like something out of a history book — elegant and dangerous at once.
"She seemed close," I said lightly.
He smiled, unaware of how careful my tone was. "She is. Our families go back generations. My mother practically raised her after her father died. She's… complicated, but good people."
"Oh."
"She's joining us for dinner tonight."
That word — us — sat wrong in my stomach.
"Us?"
He nodded. "I thought it would be good for her to meet you."
"You already invited her?"
He frowned. "Was that a problem?"
I forced a smile. "Of course not."
He kissed my cheek, whispered "thank you," and left before I could find the courage to tell him it was a problem.
The rest of the day passed in fragments. My hands typed. My mouth answered questions. My mind stayed elsewhere.
By the time I reached his house that evening, the air was heavy with that quiet tension that comes before jealousy becomes a storm.
The doorbell rang.
And there she was.
Victoria Vale was even more breathtaking up close. Green eyes sharp but kind, her perfume subtle and expensive, her smile smooth as silk.
"Elena," James said warmly, "this is Victoria."
"Pleasure," she said, offering her hand. Her nails were painted deep red. Perfect.
"Likewise," I said, trying not to stare too hard.
Dinner was… polite.
Too polite.
Victoria talked about the southern packs, the rebuilding of alliances, the subtle politics of power. She mentioned James's family often, their old memories, stories that made him laugh — a sound that warmed me and gutted me at once.
I sat there smiling, nodding, sipping wine that tasted of nerves.
She was charming. Effortlessly so. And every time she said James, it felt like the name had belonged to her first.
When she finally stood to leave, she kissed his cheek, whispered something I couldn't hear, and smiled at me.
"It was lovely meeting you, Elena. I can see why he looks… lighter."
"Thank you," I said, unsure whether it was a compliment or a warning.
After she left, James came to me, brow furrowed. "You were quiet."
"Tired," I lied.
He didn't press. He kissed my forehead, murmured goodnight, and drifted to sleep easily.
I didn't.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ache of insecurity settle somewhere deep in my chest.
For all my strength, all my power, all the things I'd done — there it was again. That human fear.
The fear of being less.
I turned to him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful, utterly unaware of the storm inside me.
I loved him so much it hurt.
And that's what terrified me most.
Because love had always been the thing I fought for.
And now… it was the only thing I was afraid to lose.
…
The morning after dinner tasted like metal on my tongue.
I buttoned a soft slate-blue blouse, tucked it into charcoal cigarette trousers, and slid on low black heels—the kind you can move in when the day won't give you time to feel things slowly. My hair: half-up, practical. Minimal gold hoops. An HR manager uniform that said I belonged to a world of policies and people, not prophecies and power.
I told myself it helped.
At Ashford Industries, the lobby smelled of polished stone and coffee. I signed a stack of contractor NDAs at reception, answered a question about sick-leave carryover for Manufacturing, then rode up to seventeen, where HR took its morning breath: printers warming, people murmuring, the view over the river grey and honest.
"Morning, Ms. Dorne!" Claire from Payroll waved a stapled packet. "ED&I training rosters—you wanted ages and tenure anonymized?"
"Perfect," I said. "And flag anyone over capacity—we'll schedule a second cohort."
I dropped my bag, opened my laptop, dove into the small order of my world. 9:15, a grievance mediation between two supervisors about shift swaps. 10:00, a hiring panel debrief for R&D. 11:30, a draft of the new parental leave policy to send legal.
Routine steadies a trembling hand. I steadied mine.
By ten, I was mediating.
"So the issue isn't the swap," I said, pen poised, voice even. "It's how the request travels—last-minute, no coverage plan, and the team's left scrambling."
Tom, jaw tight, nodded once. Priya crossed her arms, breathing heat through her nose.
"We're not assigning blame," I continued. "We're fixing a system. Here's the plan: shared calendar, swaps require a named backfill, and whoever initiates the swap owns handover notes. Two weeks to trial, then we adjust. Agreed?"
A reluctant nod. A sigh that sounded like relief disguised as defeat. I smiled, gentle but firm. "Good. We care about the work. We also care about each other. Meeting adjourned."
The door closed. My smile fell. I rubbed the crease between my eyes. Coffee. I needed—
"Ms. Dorne?" Claire's voice crackled through the intercom. "Miss Vale is in reception. She asked for you."
For me.
"Send her to Conference B," I said, voice steady from practice alone. "And hold my next slot."
I had five minutes. I breathed through every one of them, then walked to B with my notepad like any other meeting mattered this much.
Victoria Vale arrived as if the room had been waiting. Dark hair loose, green eyes liquid and unreadable. A moss-green wool coat draped over her shoulders; under it, a black crepe sheath dress that fit like it had learned her. Bone-coloured stilettos, narrow gold bangles, a slim watch. She was the kind of beautiful that made the air behave.
"Elena," she said, smile precise. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Of course," I replied, professional. "James is offsite this morning. If you need him—"
"I needed you."
She slipped the coat off and laid it, perfectly folded, over the chair back. She didn't sit. Neither did I.
"Last night," she began lightly, "was… nostalgic." The word hung. "Your table is lovely. He was relaxed. I haven't seen him that way in years."
"James has had a difficult few weeks. A calm night helped."
"It did," she agreed. "It reminded him of simpler versions of himself." A pause, almost kind. "And of us."
I kept my posture open, my gaze steady. "You mentioned your families are close."
Her smile warmed a degree. "More than close, once. You deserve truth, Elena. Not whispers."
"I value truth."
"Then here it is." She placed her palms on the chair back, fingertips aligned. "James and I were… entangled, on and off, for years. We grew up in adjoining rooms—summers between our houses, winters in London. When his father expected steel and his mother demanded grace, he came to our place. He'd arrive at two in the morning, shoulders tight, and knock on my door like a boy who'd forgotten how to sleep."
She watched my face, as if measuring how much to feed into the fracture.
"We were never a fling," she went on, voice even. "We were rooms in each other's lives. There were nights he fell asleep with his face in my hair, and mornings he brewed coffee too strong and pretended not to notice. He kissed like he meant to leave a vow on your mouth and then argued policy for an hour like it was seduction. He was—he is—a man who loves in full sentences."
My throat went tight. "You and he are not together."
A soft laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "No. We are not currently together."
I didn't flinch. "Nor will you be."
She tilted her head. "He told you about me?"
"He told me enough."
"Mm." She let silence stretch thin. "Then you'll know about the long weekends when he'd vanish to the coast. He'd arrive at ours with wind-burned cheeks, throw his shoes somewhere ridiculous, and we'd spend hours on the terrace talking packs and politics until the dawn browned the horizon. He would find my hand under the blanket without looking, the way people do when they already know a body better than truth."
She lowered her voice, almost fond. "He's tender, Elena. In ways you don't see when he's Alpha."
"I see him," I said, and heard the tremor. "All of him."
She nodded slowly, as if granting me a point. "Perhaps you do. Now. But he's a man of epochs. He has seasons you haven't lived through yet. I've held him in more than one of them."
I held her gaze. "You came to tell me he loved you before he loved me?"
She smiled, rue without apology. "I came to tell you he loved me while he was becoming the man you love now."
"Why now?"
"Because last night I watched him look at you like a cliff looks at the sea," she said simply. "And I thought: he will throw himself. And you will ask him to. And I wondered if you understood what it costs to be the ocean."
She finally sat. I remained standing, spine a rule.
She continued, conversational, like a woman sharing wardrobe advice:
"The first time he kissed me, we were twenty-one. Rains in Sussex. He'd helped mend a fence in the lower field, ruined his hands, laughed anyway. He tasted like iron and summer. We didn't stop laughing for a month."
"The winter he moved into the city, he returned every Friday for two years. Sometimes he brought files; sometimes he brought nothing but exhaustion. He would stand in our kitchen at midnight, press his forehead to mine, and breathe like breathing itself was a ritual no one else knew."
"There were fights, too. Real ones. He'd leave, stubborn, and I'd let him. He always came back." A delicate shrug. "Until the time he didn't."
"Why?" I asked, before I meant to.
"Because duty found him a language stronger than ours." No bitterness—just a ledger closing. "He chose the company. The pack. The version of James Ashford who belongs to other people first. He does that. He belongs to everyone." She let her eyes rest, deliberately, on the mark at my neck. "Until he doesn't."
"You think he'll leave me," I said, frankness my only shield.
"I think love rearranges a person, and he has been rearranged before," she replied. "I think honeymoon is a spell and spells fade. What remains is choice. He chose me many times. He chose against me once. One day, love will ask him to choose again."
"And you're here," I said quietly, "to make sure the next time he chooses, he remembers your door."
She didn't deny it. "I'm here to remind you that the man you adore is not a statue you discovered. He is a moving thing. I've held him when his hands shook after a fight you can't picture. I've told him truths he hated and he stayed anyway. We have the kind of history that doesn't go away because a pendant glows."
I steadied my breath. "We have the kind of bond that doesn't go away because a memory knocks."
Something in her expression sharpened, then smoothed. "Do you know," she said mildly, "how he sleeps when he's truly at peace? On his side, one hand under the pillow, the other reaching back, a habit from boyhood when he kept an extra blanket for Selene in winter. He does that even now. People don't change, Elena. They accumulate. Are you ready for all the rooms he lived in before you ever walked through his door?"
The question landed like a weight in my chest.
She stood, lifting the coat with careful hands. "He is a good man. I don't come to you as an enemy. I come as someone who knows what it is to be the first call and the last thought. If you are both lucky, you'll have decades. In those decades, there will be nights when he forgets the language you taught him and returns to the dialects he spoke with me."
"How generous," I replied, a frost in my voice I barely recognized.
"It's not generosity," she said. "It's math."
She moved to the door, then paused and looked back. The smile she chose was almost kind. "For what it's worth—the way he looked at you at dinner? I have never seen him look that way at anyone. Not even me. It won't save you from the work of being with him. But it might help you breathe."
She left me with that mercy shaped like a blade.
I sat only when the latch clicked. The room felt smaller. My blouse too tight at the throat. My hands lay flat on the table like I'd been caught stealing.
A minute passed. Then another. I stood, because stillness would undo me, and went back to my day as if you can file grief between agenda items.
At 12:20 I presented to Operations:
"Effective next quarter, paid parental leave extends to sixteen weeks fully paid, with phased return. Coverage plans must be documented three weeks pre-leave. Managers will be trained next month."
Hands, questions, applause that sounded like paper. I answered, smiled, recorded action points. The part of me that has always been competent saved the part of me that was splintering.
At 2:00 I ran interviews for a People Analytics lead.
"What excites you about this role?"
"Designing dashboards that actually change behavior," the candidate said. "Not pretty numbers. Decisions."
Good answer, I thought. Make it useful or it's theatre.
At 3:30, Claire slid into my doorway with a mug of tea and a soft look. "You need five minutes to breathe?"
"I'm fine," I lied, English to the bone.
By five, the office thinned into evening. The Thames darkened. I sent three final emails, logged approved headcount, and packed slowly, the way you do when leaving means facing yourself.
My phone vibrated with a message from James:
Dinner at home? I'll cook.
Miss you.
I typed and erased Yes twice. Then:
I might go to my place tonight. Laundry. Quiet. Call you later? x
Three dots. Then:
If you need quiet, I'll bring it to you. But I'll wait, if you ask me to. x
I closed my eyes. He always did that—offered presence without pressure. It made love harder, not easier.
Thank you. I'll text when I'm in. x
I didn't go straight home.
I walked the long way along the river, past commuters and dogs and lives I could imagine living. The wind had a bite. I tucked my hands into my coat and thought of rooms—the ones he'd lived in, the ones I was learning to inhabit, the ones I refused to share with ghosts.
At my building, I paused under the awning, watched a bus hiss past, and decided not to cry where anyone could mistake it for weather.
Upstairs, I changed into a black knit dress and soft socks, scrubbed my face, tied my hair in a loose knot. I made tea I didn't drink. I sat on the sofa and stared at the books I love like they could read to me.
When the buzzer sounded, my heart climbed my throat.
"Elena?" The intercom crackled. Not James.
"Who is it?"
"Victoria."
I laughed once—no humor, just astonishment. "How did you—"
"James asked if I'd seen you. I said no," she replied, voice smooth. "He's worried. I thought you might want the truth I didn't give you this morning."
"I think I've had enough of your truths."
"Then let me leave one thing you can use."
Against my better instinct—against pride, good sense, and the small animal in me that wanted to bolt—I buzzed her in.
She stood at my door with rainy hair and a trench belted neatly, like a woman persuaded by weather but never ruled by it. She held no handbag; both hands were visible. It was its own kind of courtesy.
"Two minutes," I said.
"Two." She stepped inside, looked once around my small, ordered place, and nodded like she respected rooms that know what they are.
"Last addition to the ledger," she said, voice quiet. "You asked me if we were together. We aren't. We haven't been for a long time. But I have been in his arms more times than you can count. I have kissed him when the world wouldn't, and held him when the world asked too much. We spent winters where the only warm thing was his laugh and summers where that laugh was all I wanted. We fell asleep on couches and in cars and once on the floor beside a door we were too tired to open. He has known my body in ways that made prayer feel redundant. And I say this not to break you, but to warn you: ghosts don't need doors. They have keys."
I swallowed. It burned all the way down. "Thank you for the warning."
She studied me, then added, almost gently, "He is not coming back to me because of what we were. But he might forget you for a heartbeat because of what he was. In that heartbeat, choose what you will become."
She turned to go.
"Victoria?" My voice surprised us both. "If you want him, say it plain."
She faced me, endless green steady. "I want him happy," she said. Then, after a beat that felt honest, "And I want him, yes. But I will not beg. I never have."
"Neither will I," I said.
She smiled, not unkind. "Then perhaps he chose well."
When the door closed, the quiet didn't feel empty. It felt like a place to put something down.
I sat with what she'd given me—its cruelty and its usefulness. I thought of James at twenty-one, and twenty-five, and now. I thought of rooms. I thought of the mark at my neck and the man who knew how to be gentle with it.