Claimed by My Bestie's Alpha Daddy novel Chapter 36

I watched her retreat. And then I walked back inside.

Emma and I took over the data room that afternoon. We pulled our chairs close, logged into the internal systems, and ran security audits until our eyes stung and our spines ached. We didn’t talk much–just low murmurs, shared glances, the occasional muttered curse when a line of code didn’t match what we expected.

The script was buried deep–an elegant trap tucked between system pings and automatic updates.

But we found it.

A backdoor script, firing off silent updates every few hours to an off–site IP.

“Where does it go?” I asked, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

Emma typed fast, eyes flicking across the screen. “One of David’s shell companies,” she said. “He barely masked it. Probably thought no one would get this far.”

I stared at the glowing screen. “Then let’s keep going.”

We worked in silence, the rhythm of typing broken only by murmured confirmations, file names, and timestamps. We pulled each thread, matched each timestamp, watched the puzzle pieces lock together with quiet horror and growing purpose. By the time we compiled the logs, the code trails, and the routing maps, we’d built a bomb wrapped in truth.

Nathan arrived just before sunset, summoned without ceremony. He took the folder we handed him and read it standing up, flipping through pages with increasing intensity.

When he finally spoke, it was with the quiet fire of someone who had been waiting for this.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said. But then he looked up, meeting my eyes. “You’ve done more in two weeks than most do in two years.”

I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t need to. I just nodded.

We weren’t finished yet.

The rooftop meeting space felt like standing at the edge of the world. Clean lines, glass walls, and an unobstructed view of the trees stretching into dusk. The wind was brisk, almost biting, but it carried a strange stillness with it–like the air was waiting, holding its breath.

The final strategy session of the summit was set for golden hour..The skyline gleamed. Light danced along the table.

Richard was already there, flipping through briefing materials. He looked calm. Controlled. But the moment I walked up, he set a folder down and slid a sheet of paper toward me.

My name was there. Beside his.

“Contributor credit,” he said. “You earned this.”

I stared at it. Not because I didn’t believe it. But because seeing it printed–final, official–made my chest tighten.

“They’re going to talk,” I said.

“They already do,” he replied. “Let them talk about the truth for once.”

The session lasted nearly two hours. I spoke twice. Both times, no one interrupted. That was new.

They listened. Really listened. Even the ones who had once side–eyed me in hallways or looked past me in strategy sessions. They looked at me differently now–warily, maybe, but with respect.

When it ended, everyone filtered out slowly, voices low and tired. Richard and I stayed behind.

The city lights were beginning to blink on, one by one. The air had cooled, crisp and sharp. I leaned against the railing, arms folded, fingers chilled.

“If we win,” I said, voice low, “what happens to me?”

He came to stand beside me. Not touching. But close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the way his presence made the cold recede just slightly.

“Whatever you choose,” he said softly. “But I hope you stay.”

I looked at him then. The lines of his face caught in shadow and light. The quiet reverence in his voice made something flutter in my chest.

Finally, a silver–haired elder with a smirk said, “You speak well. But at the end of the day, you’re still just another pawn on the board.”

I looked him dead in the eye.

“Then it’s time someone flipped the board.”

The room fell silent. His lips parted, but no words came. The others looked at one another, unsure if they’d just witnessed a misstep or a declaration of war. One of them looked almost amused. I didn’t wait for either. I left them in the echo of my words.

The butler–Samuel, I’d learned–was polishing a brass railing near the service entrance when I found him. He looked up with a soft smile, already knowing why I’d come.

“You had a question,” he said.

I nodded. “The woman in the photo.”

He set the cloth aside gently. “Elena Clearwater.”

My breath caught. The name. It had always felt like she lived in the negative space between facts. A ghost with no label. But here it was, spoken aloud like something sacred.

“She was a medic,” Samuel said. “Brave. Brilliant. She didn’t just treat wounds. She changed people.”

“How?” I asked, the word fragile in my throat.

“She made them believe healing was possible. Even when the war made monsters out of men.”

I swallowed. “Did you know her well?”

“Well enough to remember how she carried herself,” he said. “With purpose. With conviction. Like she wasn’t afraid of the blood because she believed in the people underneath it.”