Claimed by My Bestie's Alpha Daddy novel Chapter 28

The summit estate had become a living, breathing organism. Everyone moved fast and spoke faster-radio chatter echoed through every hallway, clipboards passed between hands like lifelines. I barely had time to think.

I was on my feet from before dawn until well after dark, coordinating guest movements, confirming speaking schedules, troubleshooting transport routes. Every minute was accounted for, and still it felt like we were behind.

My voice had gone hoarse from repeating the same instructions. I rubbed my temples between calls and snapped at an aide who misspelled a delegate’s name badge for the third time. I apologized. Then did it again two hours later. The pressure sat behind my eyes like a second heartbeat, dull and relentless.

Late in the afternoon, during a final walkthrough of the main auditorium, I noticed a woman standing alone near the stage. She looked striking-tall, dark curls pulled into a sleek twist, eyes sharp and assessing. Her posture screamed authority, her body language all calm confidence. She wasn’t just standing there-she was claiming the space.

She turned when I approached, her smile slow and practiced.

“Serena Linwood,” she said, offering a hand. “Old classmate of Richard’s.”

I shook it. Firm. Professional. I kept my expression neutral even as my pulse picked up.

“You must be Amelia.”

The way she said my name made it feel like something to be tested, like she was measuring how I’d respond.

“I’ve heard… things.”

I didn’t ask what. I just nodded and moved on. But the comment lodged itself in my brain like a splinter.

Later, I caught her and Richard in the courtyard outside the west wing. They were standing closer than I liked, her hand brushing his arm as she laughed. He didn’t laugh, but he smiled. And that was enough to make something ugly twist in my stomach. His body was turned toward her, relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen in days. It felt familiar. Too familiar.

Emma, standing beside me with two files in her arms, nudged me with her elbow.

“Jealousy’s not a good color, babe.”

I didn’t answer. Just gripped the edge of my clipboard like it was going to float away. My fingers itched to snap the pen in half.

That night, the council dinner was formal and ceremonial-the kind of thing with long tables and matching napkin folds and speeches no one really listened to. The wine was poured too freely, and the food was plated in absurd towers of garnish and overpriced subtlety. I barely touched mine.

I spent most of the meal trying to avoid looking at Serena, who sat two seats down from Richard, chatting animatedly with one of the councilors in a voice that carried just enough to be heard without seeming intentional. She laughed often, tilting her head toward Richard in that practiced way people do when they want attention without asking for it outright. Every time she reached for her wine glass or leaned slightly forward, I caught Richard glancing-quick, reflexive, but it happened.

I picked at the garnish on my plate, trying to focus on the food, the conversation, anything else. But her presence was impossible to ignore. She had this polished sort of gravity, like everything she said mattered more because of how she said it. It wasn’t just confidence-it was calculation.

And what twisted the knife wasn’t just her poise-it was how Richard responded to it. He wasn’t laughing, but he was engaged. Focused. At ease in a way I hadn’t seen in days. It felt like watching someone step back into a version of himself I didn’t know-one that belonged to another time, another life, one where I didn’t exist.

It was strange, watching him look so alive in the company of someone from his past. Like I was a guest at a table I wasn’t supposed to be seated at, pretending not to notice the ease with which they shared the air.

And that otherness burned. I wasn’t part of that world. I wasn’t someone who belonged in his history. I was a variable. Temporary. A detail born of crisis.

And it wrapped around the table like static, humming just under my skin. I could feel her there without even looking.

Near the end, she stood to make a toast.

“It’s clear this summit has marked a turning point,” she said, voice projecting effortlessly across the room, but soft enough to command silence without shouting. “We’ve spent days debating borders and balance, influence and intention-but what we need now is something greater than treaties. We need something visible.

Something lasting.”

She let the silence hang just long enough.

“Unity must follow. And what better way to show that than a symbolic alliance-between my pack and

Richard’s?”

She smiled then, slow and deliberate, and turned toward him with a tilt of her chin that made it feel rehearsed, practiced. Like she had known all along this moment would be hers to orchestrate.

She smiled. Turned toward him.

“A marriage.”

The air went still.

Richard’s expression didn’t change at first. Then his brows pulled together. “What?” he asked, not loudly, but with unmistakable surprise.

Serena’s smile didn’t falter. “A marriage would help stabilize both our packs. It would signal strength. Unity. It wouldn’t be a difficult partnership.”

His jaw locked, and his voice cut across the silence like a blade.

“I will never use my relationships as a bargaining chip.”

A few heads turned. Someone coughed. Glasses clinked nervously.

From two rows down, David’s voice drifted up, slick and mocking.

“Seems he already has.’

The words hit harder than I expected. It was a weapon disguised as a whisper, and it struck exactly where it hurt.

I stood before I even knew I was moving. My chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“Richard’s the only Alpha here who cares more about people than optics,” I said. My heart thundered in my chest, but I didn’t look away.

Every head turned.

Serena’s expression was unreadable. Her lips curled in something that might’ve been amusement-or challenge. David leaned back like he’d just thrown popcorn into a fire.

Richard didn’t speak. But his eyes were on me. Watching. Unmoving.

After the dinner, as the others drifted away in groups, Richard found me in the hallway near the coatroom. The space was quiet, dimly lit by wall sconces. My heart was still beating too fast.

“That was risky,” he said.

His tone was careful, but I heard something under it. Something warm. Protective.

“So is everything else we do.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne, warm and smoky and grounding. “You didn’t have to defend me.”

“I wanted to.”

He didn’t smile. But he looked at me like he was seeing something new. Or maybe something he’d been trying not to.

“I meant what I said,” I added.

He nodded. “I know.”

We stood there a beat too long. I wanted to reach for him. I didn’t.

Back in my suite, the exhaustion hit all at once.

I peeled off my boots, dropped my clipboard to the floor, and stared at the map pinned above my desk. Red thread linked a dozen clues, all centering around one name: Clearwater.

I picked up my pen and wrote something new at the bottom corner.

They’ll never play fair.

So neither can I.

Word travels fast at the summit. By morning, I was a headline in the rumor mill.

I could feel the stares before I’d even stepped off the elevator-curious, cautious, some admiring, others skeptical. People paused mid-conversation when I passed, their eyes lingering, voices lowering to just above a whisper.

The echo of my defense from the night before was still rippling through the halls. Apparently, standing up at a council dinner and calling out political optics made me either a hero or a liability, depending on who you asked.

Emma intercepted me halfway down the corridor, holding a sleek folder and grinning like she’d just won a bet.

“You’ve got media training,” she said, shoving the folder into my arms.

I blinked. “What?”

“Beta’s orders. Just in case someone shoves a mic in your face again.”

I flipped open the folder, scanning the bolded bullet points. “Well tell Nathan it wasn’t supposed to be a speech.”

“Yeah, and yet here we are. Look at you, local legend.”

Her tone was teasing, but the pride behind it was real. I couldn’t quite bring myself to smile back.

Inside the training room, a communications expert with perfectly gelled hair and too-white teeth ran through the basics-eye contact, controlled breathing, strategic pauses.

I scribbled down the notes automatically, nodding at the right moments. But my mind was elsewhere. Still tangled in the way Richard’s eyes had locked onto mine across that banquet hall. The way they held steady, unflinching, like I was the only thing he could see.

Across the estate, Richard was handling the fallout. He rejected Serena’s proposal a second time-this time in writing. The document was clear, restrained, but unyielding: any future alliance would need to be built on mutual respect, transparency, and equal footing-not on coercion or image management.

There were no names mentioned, no overt accusations or melodramatics, just steady, unequivocal language that stripped the glamour from Serena’s offer and left only its mechanics.

But it didn’t need names. Everyone knew who the message was for. The phrasing was too deliberate, the tone.

And that alone sent its own ripple through the summit halls: not just a rejection, but a public one. Serena Linwood hadn’t just been turned down-she’d been dismissed. Officially. Strategically. Thoroughly.

Serena didn’t take it well.

By noon, she was gone.

Packed her things, slipped out without ceremony, no goodbyes, no formal withdrawal. Just a power vacuum and the scent of perfume left behind in the hall. The whispers were instantaneous. Richard had made his choice. I had something to do with it. The word “influence” got passed around like candy, never loud enough to confront but just loud enough to sting.

The optics weren’t great.

In the afternoon, I was summoned to help draft the summit’s public response-an official statement summarizing progress, mutual commitments, and areas for future development. I was paired with Simon, whose first words to me were: “Try not to make it sound like a high school valedictorian speech.”

We worked in silence for nearly two hours before he finally said, without looking up, “You’ve got a knack for cutting through political crap.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not a compliment. It’s a liability. But right now, it’s useful.”

Somehow, that felt like the highest praise I’d gotten all week.

That evening, I was called to a private strategy session with Richard’s inner circle. The room was narrow, the walls lined with projection screens and paper files that looked like they’d been handled too many times.

Everyone looked tired. Coffee cups outnumbered people.

Richard stood at the head of the table, flipping through data graphs with furrowed brows.

“David’s smear campaign is gaining traction in the outer territories,” Nathan said. “He’s using social rumors, anonymous tips, half-true stories. It’s not just politics anymore. It’s narrative warfare.”

I started speaking on pure instinct, “He’s spent the entire summit trying to fracture us from the top down. Let’s flip it. We build from the ground up.”

A pause. Then Richard asked, “How?”

“We organize a community forum. Not Alphas. Not council members. Minor pack leaders. Civilians. Local trade reps. Make it public, make it grassroots. Let them see unity happening in real time. Not because we told them to -but because they chose to.”

There was silence. Simon shifted in his chair. Beta rubbed his chin. Finally, Richard nodded once.

“Do it. Coordinate the first phase. Pull whatever resources you need.”

The meeting dissolved into soft murmurs and the rustling of papers. Advisors filed out with new assignments and old doubts. I stayed behind to gather my notes.

Richard lingered.

“You’re doing more than anyone ever asked of you,” he said quietly.

I froze. My fingers clenched around my notebook.

He stepped closer.

“And it matters.”

I turned, slowly. My voice barely above a whisper.

“So does the way you look at me when you say it-like there’s something you’re not saying out loud. Like maybe this is more than just politics to you.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away.

Later that night, I was pulled from sleep by a soft knock at the connecting door.

I blinked blearily at the clock, then padded barefoot across the carpet. When I opened it, Richard stood there, shirt clinging to him, brow damp with sweat.

“I can’t sleep,” he said, voice rough. “It’s bad tonight.”

He didn’t have to explain. I stepped aside, let him in. He didn’t hesitate.

He crossed into my room and climbed into my bed like he’d done it a hundred times. But he hadn’t. Not once.

He’d never imposed like this before, never crossed that line-not into my space, my world. It had always been me entering his, me reaching out.

But now he was here, in the room I called mine, breaking a boundary he’d always been careful not to touch. This time, he didn’t try to keep his distance.

I curled into the space beneath his arm, my head resting lightly against his shoulder.

We didn’t speak.

But under the blankets, his hand found mine. His fingers were warm, careful-like he wasn’t sure if I’d pull away. I didn’t. I turned my palm to meet his, our fingers threading together slowly, deliberately. There was a pause in his breath, the kind that comes when something matters.

He didn’t say what he needed. He didn’t have to. This wasn’t just about healing.

I curled closer, my knee brushing his. He tensed for half a second-then relaxed. We lay like that, barely touching but completely connected.

I wanted to say something. To ask if he’d thought about me the way I’d thought about him. If he remembered the kiss. If he wanted more.

But I stayed quiet.

Because I already knew.

And so did he.. Warm. Solid. Familiar.

And I held it like it was the only thing keeping me grounded to the world.