The Alpha Clause

POV: Catherine

The air on the thirtieth floor is too clean. Rich-people oxygen. Filtered, cold, sterile. Nothing like the sticky New Orleans heat waiting for me thirty stories down, thick as guilt.

Eric Wood sits behind his mahogany desk. He hasn’t looked at me in ten minutes. Just signs. Steady. Metronome. Every flick of his wrist is worth millions. Every rustle of his white cotton shirt reminds me that three months of my rent are sewn into the hem of his pants.

Tall. Carved out of marble. A suit that costs more than my car. Even the air in here feels like it’s on his payroll. So I stare at his hands. Not his mouth. Never his mouth again. I slipped once. Saw his lips move and nearly forgot my own name. His hands are safer. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Big hands. Veins like roadmaps. Signing death warrants with a pen that costs more than my fridge.

“The Ashford files, Catherine.”

His voice is a low rumble I feel in my ribs. I set the documents on the desk. My hands shake from exhaustion. I hide them behind my back.

“Everything’s there, Mr. Wood. I also reorganized your schedule through Friday.”

He finally looks up. Gray eyes. Cold. Like rain that refuses to fall. The kind of look that doesn’t want to know you. Just own you. My thrift-store suit from Magazine Street—one size too small—burns my skin with every breath. He’s spotless. Obscenely perfect.

I look away. My body takes a second too long to follow.

“You look exhausted, Miss Fermon. It’s bad for the firm’s image.”

My temper flares, hot and fast. The image. Always the goddamn image. He has no idea what my reality looks like. I hold his gaze half a beat too long for a simple assistant.

“I’ll make sure to wear more makeup tomorrow, sir.”

My voice is calm. But the insolence hangs between us, thick as cigarette smoke. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Don’t be impertinent,” he says without raising his voice. “It doesn’t suit you. Go. Go home.”

In the streetcar window, my reflection looks more tired than I feel. Or maybe more honest. At home, the smell hits me the second I open the door: warm beer, stale tobacco, and despair. My dad’s slumped in his armchair, TV flickering.

“Catherine? You got any money? I owe the tavern, I need cash…”

He never looks at me when he asks. Never.

I don’t answer anymore. I go to the kitchen: one expired yogurt, three eggs. Great. In the bedroom, Liam—fourteen—is asleep in his hoodie because they cut the heat again. His sneakers are trashed, soles held together with gray duct tape. My little brother fixes his shoes in secret so I won’t worry.

That’s when it hits me. The weight. We’re already underwater, and I can feel the next wave getting ready to drown us.

My phone buzzes. Security alert from the firm. 1:45 a.m.

“Fuck, not now…” I mutter, rubbing my burning eyes.

I open the app. The image is grainy. Wood’s private elevator opens. A man steps out. It’s not Eric. This one’s in a hoodie, but he moves like a predator who knows the place by heart.

He doesn’t steal anything. He walks straight to Eric’s desk and drops a bright red folder on the marble. Then, with deliberate slowness, he opens the first page and slams it against the camera lens.

In block letters, my name cuts across the page: CATHERINE FERMON.

Right below it, a blank line. Waiting. A contract. A pact.

The stranger looks up. You can’t see his face, just a smirk catching the infrared. His fingers tap my name twice. Slow. Like a countdown… then his lips move in slow motion toward the lens: