Claimed by My Bestie's Alpha Daddy novel Chapter 25

Now he was here. Brazen, confident, watching.

I was assigned to process David’s team for entry. Jason didn’t approach me directly-didn’t have to. His silence said enough.

David, though, wasn’t as quiet.

He caught me just outside the east wing elevator, voice slick with false charm.

“You’re getting quite cozy with the King,” he said, his voice slow and dripping with mock concern. “It’d be a shame if the press got ahold of the rumors I’ve heard-about the way you look at him. Makes one wonder what kind of qualifications you really needed for the job.”

I said nothing. The worst part was that I knew staying silent wouldn’t protect me. But I couldn’t give him more.

He leaned in slightly. “I could ruin you with one whisper. They’ll hear Clearwater, then we’ll both find out what they remember.”

Before I could figure out what that meant, Richard stepped into view from a side corridor.

“Is there a problem?” His voice was ice.

David turned, all smiles. “Not at all. Just catching up.”

David left like he hadn’t just threatened me.

Richard didn’t follow. He looked at me instead. “Are you alright?”

I nodded once. Tight. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he said.

“Then don’t let him near me again.”

Word of the confrontation spread around our team faster than I expected. No one brought it up to my face, but I saw it in the way people stood closer around me. Nathan brought me into his logistics team without explanation. Emma didn’t ask questions—she just started walking me from meeting to meeting.

Solidarity didn’t always come loud. Sometimes it was a coffee on my desk or a printout already highlighted before I could ask for it.

But the whispers kept growing.

One evening, as I stepped out of Richard’s suite and back into the corridor, the butler caught my eye. His mouth twisted. “You must think you’re clever.”

I didn’t even flinch. Just looked him straight in the eye. “I’m just dropping off a file.”

The next morning, David started hovering. It was subtle. Intentional. He brushed too close in passing, always just enough to make it look accidental. He leaned in when he didn’t need to, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck as he commented on files he had no reason to be reviewing. He paused behind me when I was seated, standing just a second too long before pretending he’d been called away.

It wasn’t just about power-it was about showing me he could take up space around me whenever he wanted.

That he knew no one would stop him unless I made a scene.

And every time he lingered too close, I caught the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Like he knew the rumors too. Like he wanted to make me question what people were already whispering: that I was Richard’s pet, that I was hopelessly in love with him. That one day he might take advantage of that.

I logged every instance. Documented it cleanly. Then sent the file to Emma and Nathan.

Richard called me in not long after.

“I can pull you off that post,” he said.

“If I leave that post, he wins.”

He didn’t respond, but something flickered behind his eyes. Pride, maybe. Or guilt.

That night, while reviewing the updated summit debate schedule, I found my name moved. A last-minute change.

Assistant Liaison. Final Debate. Seated directly beside David’s representative.

I grabbed a red pen from my folder, circled it once, then underlined it twice.

“Let’s see who blinks first,” I whispered.

The day of the final debate arrived far too early.

I got in before anyone else, the main chamber still dim and quiet, chairs not yet filled with the sharp angles of power. I set up at the central table with Richard’s talking points in hand-a clean folder of annotated printouts, highlighters tucked into the pocket like they’d do something to settle my nerves.

I was seated at the table beside key pack representatives, right in the line of fire. Directly across from David’s lead advisor. The seat hadn’t been random.

The first half of the debate was an exercise in restraint. Every question from David’s camp had teeth, thinly veiled behind policy jargon and polite smiles. They prodded at Richard’s leadership-“emotional instability” this, “internal favoritism” that. The word “transparency” was wielded like a knife, thrown again and again with just enough plausible deniability to avoid outright accusation.

A representative from the Western Border Pack leaned forward, fingers steepled. “There’s been talk of accelerated promotions,” he said. “Unusual access. Assignments that don’t reflect traditional protocol. Can the King explain how those decisions were made?”

Richard kept his voice measured. “During a staffing shortage, we relied on individuals willing to go above and beyond. Any appointments made reflected urgency and capability.”

The representative turned to me next, clearly not finished. “And do you feel your current position was earned by merit alone, Miss-”

“Yes,” I said before he could finish. I straightened. “We were short-staffed. I volunteered. I’ve worked double shifts, handled high-clearance logistics, and coordinated emergency response while others backed away.

That’s leadership, not favoritism.”

He blinked, taken aback by the clarity. “And your proximity to the Alpha King? You believe that had no impact?”

I could smell the sexism.

“I don’t have any access that a man in my position would not also be granted,” I replied flatly. “Ask the people I work beside. Every step I’ve taken, I’ve earned.”

There was a pause. Murmurs. Then one councilwoman nodded. “That aligns with what we’ve observed.”

Richard didn’t turn, but I saw the side of his mouth twitch, the tension in his shoulders ease.

David sat still across the table, smiling with too many teeth, like he was already planning his next move.

A representative from one of the border packs raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. “We’ve heard reports of certain… irregularities in the selection process for key summit roles,” he said. “Some have suggested personal relationships are factoring into assignments. Care to respond?”

I saw Richard’s jaw tighten, but before he could speak, I leaned toward the mic.

“We were short-staffed,” I said calmly. “I volunteered. That’s leadership, not favoritism.”

“I believe I earned my place by stepping up when others didn’t,” I replied. “Ask anyone who’s worked beside me.”

The room stilled. A few council members exchanged looks. One even nodded faintly. But the questions kept coming, their wording different but their aim the same.

It was like these people couldn’t comprehend a pretty young woman in a position of power without assuming she was sleeping with her boss. And, okay-technically, I was sleeping near him. But that wasn’t the same thing, and either way, it was none of their damn business.

Again and again, they returned to the idea of favoritism, of personal bias, of Richard’s so-called instability. It felt endless-each inquiry bleeding into the next like a deliberate attempt to wear us down. What had started as a debate turned into an interrogation, the same handful of accusations dressed up in different vocabulary.

It went on for what felt like hours.

By the time the moderator finally called for a recess, my neck ached from holding myself so straight, and my fingers had cramped from gripping my notes. But I didn’t let any of that show. I didn’t give them the satisfaction.

At the break, I slipped out the side doors, needing air. The garden walk was quiet, filtered sunlight flickering through the iron trellis and summit moss. I found Richard there, standing with his hands braced on the stone railing.

“You didn’t need to defend me,” he said without turning.

“Maybe not,” I replied. “But I wanted to.”

The silence stretched just long enough to become something else before Emma’s call buzzed through.

There was a discrepancy in the summit’s financial logs—an archive glitch tied to older documentation. I left the garden and headed to the subfloor records room, where the problem unraveled faster than expected. The error traced back to a file batch Jason had originally uploaded-months ago.

Nothing definitive yet. But my stomach turned.

That evening, the tension hung low over everything. I reviewed Richard’s closing remarks while he pushed food around his plate. He didn’t finish it.

Later, when I checked on him, he looked worse. Warm skin, shallow breathing. The symptoms were subtle, but I knew what they meant.