99 Times for Alpha’s Bestie novel Chapter 69

Turned out, I didn’t have to wait long since the break room incident. Queenie was proving to be perdictable as ever!

I hadn’t even finished my coffee when Queenie marched up to my desk.

“Claire. My office. Now.” Queenie’s face was dark, her tone sharp and absolute.

“Of course.” I tensed instinctively but rose smoothly and followed her into the office.

Queenie sank into her oversized crimson leather chair, studying me critically.

There stood I, a newcomer straight from homemaking. I kept my attire simple; I wore a plain work suit, with no designer labels or anything showy.

Yet facing me, I knew she had felt like she was confronting an unshakable presence as I watched

Queenie’s grip tighten on the armrests.

I noticed that a lot with elite families within packs. It didn’t matter the pack, I’ve been within three in my life. Our families, Luciens and most recently, Liams. They were all the same. The elite are striving to the top undeservingly so. Someone like me, in Queenie’s eyes, should be trembling before her or kissing her arse like I witnessed half the office doing already.

It’s ate at her that I didn’t. That she felt inferior to me.

She cleared her throat sharply, slamming both hands on the desk. “Claire. What exactly do you design?”

“Furniture.” Three syllables, calm as still water. I arched a brow to add insult.

Queenie’s eye twitched. That blunt simplicity made her question sound foolish. She straightened, spine rigid, and drilled me with a glare.

“Claire! Is that how you address a superior? It shouldn’t be a surprise, I suppose. How could a sheltered rejected housewife know basic professionalism if-”

“Ms. Taylor,” I interjected, voice steady, “my personal life is not appropriate to be discussed so distastefully. Did you need me for a work assignment?”

Queenie’s mouth snapped shut.

I knew that she’d called me in solely to humiliate me. But my unflappable composure left her floundering, her anger with nowhere to land.

Then a flash of inspiration. Queenie’s eyes drifted to the folder on her desk.

She snatched it up and flung it across the room at me, like it was garbage.

“Fine! Since you’re the furniture expert, you’re handling this. High-profile private commission. Demanding client-notoriously difficult. The original deadline was two weeks. But to be frank, I want you to crumble under the stress of it, so you’ve got seven days.” Her lips curled.

“No draft by then? Get the hell out of Moonves!” She spat the last word.

I picked up the folder from the floor without reaction.

Opening it, my gaze landed on the bold, sweeping signature at the bottom.

“Lucien?” My jaw twitched almost imperceptibly.

Wait! My eyes focused in on the stated commission for completion. If I accepted this task, this would be my personal commission?

I remembered seeing Lucien here during the exhibition a few weeks back. Had his appearance at Moonves’ exhibition booth that day not been as a silent investor, but as a client ordering furniture?

A sliver of suspicion prickled at my thoughts.

Queenie, mistaking my silence for intimidation by the outrageous specifications, couldn’t resist sneering.

“What’s wrong, reject? Where’s that confident act you put on from before? Too tough for a poor, pathetic, rejected housewife playing designer? If you’re scared, you can quit right—”

I ignored her baiting.

“I will be expecting this commission for the work.” I cut her off, my voice like tempered steel. “Expect the draft in seven days. Unless there’s more, I’ll get started.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel, the file clutched like a gauntlet thrown down.

Queenie shrieked in frustration as I walked away.

With a furious sweep, she sent papers cascading across the floor. “Claire! Deliver in seven days or I swear.

Her shriek shattered through the glass partitions.

Let them see her true face; it was only a matter of time before Queenie stepped out of line too far, and until then, I would happily accept this golden egg of riches.

I had rushed to my seat, fingers flying across the keyboard as I mapped out my battle plan.

The contract’s astronomical sum is easily tenfold the market rate.

However, the requirements for this design read like Satan’s personal shopping list:

A sofa forbidden from using leather or fabric, its surface deceptively smooth yet engineered for maximum discomfort; a bed designed for visual perfection at the cost of restful sleep; chairs and tables with razor-sharp corners designed to pierce skin at the slightest touch.

My brow furrowed as I reached the final clause.

What malicious intent drove Lucien?

This wasn’t furniture for living. It was a carefully constructed hell, designed to torment its occupant in every possible position.

This was practically furniture designed for someone you hate. I smirked at the thought that maybe he was buying me a housewarming gift.

I carefully reviewed the dense confidentiality clauses in the contract, my suspicions growing stronger. Yet I couldn’t imagine who could possibly make Lucien spend a fortune on such bizarre, intentionally uncomfortable furniture.

After studying the contract, I had a rough plan. I dialled the number on the contract to schedule a site visit first, then tailored the dimensions to meet those unusual requirements.

The call connected immediately. “Hello, who’s speaking?”

The voice froze me in place, my blood running cold.

I nearly jumped from my seat. That was unmistakably Bart, the Thorne family’s longtime Head Omega for the packhouse.

Bart had been the only one besides Emeric who’d shown my genuine kindness during my years there. He’d been my comfort, almost like a father to me, after I lost mine.

My throat tightened as I nearly blurted out “Bart”, but I caught myself just in time.

“Hello? Still there? I’ll hang up if there’s no response.” He promoted. The long silence must have confused him.

I took a deep breath to steady myself.

“Hello, I’m a designer from Moonves. We’ve received your custom furniture order, and I’d like to visit the site for measurements before drafting the designs. Would you be available to arrange a time?”

A brief pause, then his tone returned to normal. “Of course. When would you like to come?”

Apparently, years had made him forget my voice.

“Would tomorrow at 4 PM work? Please text the address to this number. Thank you.”

“Certainly. I’ll send it shortly.”

After hanging up, I finally let myself collapse into my chair with a shaky exhale. But the real shock came when Bart’s text arrived moments later.

The address on my phone screen made me shoot up from my seat.

This was unmistakably The Crown of Thornes packhouse.

It never occurred to me that Lucien’s custom order was intended for their packhouse.

Which meant tomorrow’s visit would take me straight back to, my former home.

I wouldn’t even need Lucien’s permission to cross that threshold again.

Tomorrow, I might be able to grasp this opportunity to reclaim what was rightfully mine.

The thought set my blood ablaze. But then questions swarmed my mind.

Why would Lucien go through such trouble furnishing a home we’d lived in for years with such horrible, uncomfortable, and borderline sadistic furniture?

Unless-

A shocking thought flashed through my mind.

My eyes widened in disbelief, my heart clenching with indescribable pain.