Claimed by My Bestie's Alpha Daddy novel Chapter 38

David stood, every movement of his body slow, deliberate. “This is slander,” he said, voice rising with practiced outrage. Manipulated data. Fabricated nonsense from a camp that’s losing ground.”

I didn’t flinch. “If you’re so confident,” I said, my voice steady but sharp, “release your internal comm logs.”

He stared at me, a beat too long. His hands curled slightly at his sides.

Then he turned and left. No fanfare. No rebuttal. Just the heavy slam of the chamber door as the silence swallowed everything he left behind.

The silence that followed was volcanic.

Back in the strategy room, I spread out the latest folder Richard had brought. The fire crackled in the corner, the warmth completely at odds with the chaos we were sorting through. Coded messages, fragmented reports, half–legible scrawl from intercepted field notes.

Again and again, the same phrase: Echo Sector–Phase Four.

My spine prickled. I reached for the folder we’d archived from Sector Delta, flipping through until I found the map fragment. There it was–bottom right corner, almost erased by time. Same words.

“We’ve been looking in the wrong place,” I said, pushing the pieces together. “It’s not about what happened. It’s about what was supposed to happen next.”

The phrase wasn’t a memory.

It was a plan.

And it was still in motion.

Richard leaned over my shoulder. “This might be bigger than anything we’ve thought.”

I looked up at him. “Then we need to make it louder.”

“I think it’s time we stop hiding,” I said later, as Richard joined me on the balcony outside the strategy room. Rain pelted the glass. The city below flickered with lightning.

He studied me for a moment. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “If we wait, we lose the narrative. And if we lose the narrative, we lose the chance to protect people before they become collateral.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. His trust was wordless and complete. But his gaze lingered, longer than it needed to. A question behind it. One he didn’t ask.

With his blessing, I called a press briefing. Last–minute. No spin. No time for it. The announcement sent tremors through the summit–there was no precedent for this kind of direct transparency. But we didn’t have the luxury of precedent anymore.

The forum chamber lights buzzed overhead as I stood beneath them, the board we’d once kept in secret now behind me in full display–maps, strings, photos, documents. The investigation laid bare.

I walked them through it all.

The photo of my mother. The Clearwater name. The tampered drafts. The spyware. The surveillance. The war records. The threats. The disappearances. The map. The words that kept coming back–Echo Sector.

It was the first time I’d ever spoken her name in front of a crowd.

“Elena Clearwater was more than a medic,” I said. “She was a witness. And for that, someone made her disappear.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

When I finished, I let the silence hang. I didn’t fill it. I let them sit in the weight of it, because they needed to. Because I needed them to feel how heavy truth can be.

Then Richard stepped forward.

“We stand for truth,” he said, voice firm. “Even when it’s dangerous. Especially then.”

Flashbulbs burst. Reporters scrawled furiously. I could see the shift begin–eyes changing, postures adjusting. Some of them were still unsure. But some of them believed.

We walked offstage together, side by side.

Just before the corridor split, Richard slowed.

“There’s no turning back now,” he murmured.

I stopped, turned to face him.

“Good,” I said. “I’m tired of hiding.”

We stood there for a moment longer, close enough to feel the electricity in the air–not just from the storm. Something had shifted. Not in the room. Not on the board, between us.

The final day of the summit dawned under a brittle sky, the storm having passed in the night, leaving behind puddles that mirrored the gray light overhead. Inside the compound, the atmosphere was no less charged. Council members moved through the halls with clipped footsteps and hushed tones, the weight of the impending vote pressing down like fog, heavy and all- consuming.

I started my morning in the logistics office, shoulder to shoulder with Emma and the summit aides as we double–checked delegate badges, reconfigured seating for last–minute arrivals, and looked for any irregularities. The press was corralled to the designated wing, their excitement buzzing louder than the security scanners. It all had to run flawlessly. I barely had time to breathe between signing clearances and fielding quick, whispered questions from aides who looked like they hadn’t slept.

Emma handed me an updated attendance list. I scanned it once, twice–something didn’t track.

“Serena Linwood’s missing,” I said quietly.

“She checked out last night,” Emma replied, her brow furrowed. “No explanation. Just gone.”

My stomach coiled, but I tucked it away. There was too much left to do. Doubt and fear could wait.

At the same time, Richard was handed a sealed note from Beta. I saw the flicker in his eyes before he passed it to me.

Jason has disappeared.

A cold prickle slid down my spine, followed by the slow crawl of adrenaline.

“He’s not going far,” I said. “He has to be trying to clean something up.”

“Where would he go?” Richard asked, voice low.

“The east wing,” I said without hesitation. “That’s where the old records are stored. If he’s trying to plant something–or destroy it—it’ll be there.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Take Simon. Go now.”

We moved quickly, silently, Simon keeping pace beside me as the corridors narrowed. The eastern wing was unnaturally quiet, dimly lit, the buzz of the summit feeling miles away. The silence pressed in around us.

As we rounded the final corridor, Simon held up a hand. One of the secured archive doors stood slightly ajar.

Inside, the room buzzed with the hum of a laptop–its screen lit with a progress bar creeping toward completion. A single blinking cursor danced in the corner, signaling something active, something alive.

Simon moved fast, cutting the power. The lights died, the upload stalled.

I was already moving. I stepped around him, yanked the drive free, and cradled it like something fragile. It was still warm.

“What was he trying to upload?” Simon asked.

I didn’t answer. I was already deep in the folders.

One file caught my eye: Clearwater Doctrine.

I hated the dark.

Before I could call out, the door burst open.

“Amelia?”

Richard’s voice, low and steady.

A beam of light cut through the dark. It found me.

“I think I hurt my ankle,” I said, trying to joke but failing.

He was beside me in an instant. His arm slid around my waist. I leaned into him.

“You’re freezing,” he said, pulling off his coat and wrapping it around my shoulders.

In the quiet hallway, I pressed against him, warmth slowly returning.

“I hate the dark,” I whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “I remember.”

He helped me down the hall, step by careful step. In the main wing, he lowered me onto a bench and knelt in front of me.

His hands were warm, firm but gentle as he lifted my foot.

“You’ll be alright,” he said.

I looked down at him, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Why do you keep saving me?”

He looked up. “Because you’re the only one I trust to do the same.”

Something inside me snapped loose.

I leaned forward. So did he.

This time, no one pulled back.

The kiss was fire. A slow, searing ignition of everything we’d buried. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing against my cheekbone as he deepened the kiss. I clung to him, fingers fisting the lapels of his coat. He tasted like heat and memory, like the moments we’d almost broken before but hadn’t. His breath caught as I pulled him closer, and he groaned against my mouth like the release of something long denied.

My back hit the wall gently as he pressed closer, his body aligning with mine like a second skin. I felt every inch of him–the tension in his shoulders, the shiver in his breath. My hands roamed up his chest to his neck, desperate to memorize him, to carve this into something permanent.

When we finally pulled apart, our breaths still tangled, his forehead rested against mine. His hand stayed cradled at my neck. “This is gonna change everything,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I hope so,” I breathed.

The hallway stayed quiet, lit only by emergency lights. The storm had passed outside.

Inside, something else had just begun.