Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Four years later… “Daddy!” A sweet, little voice echoed through the panoramic office of Reaper’s global shipping and defense conglomerate. Reaper’s head snapped up from his paperwork, the harsh lines on his face instantly softening at the sound of his daughter. “Oh, there’s my princess,” Reaper said, a genuine smile breaking across his face as the security guard stepped aside and allowed the little girl to burst into the room. He pushed his chair back and caught her in a hug. “How was the ride with Uncle Soren?” “Fun! We got ice cream!” “You did?” Reaper chuckled, wiping a stray trace of chocolate from her cheek. “We sure did,” a smooth voice called out from the doorway. Reaper looked up to see his Beta, Soren Frost, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a fond smirk on his face. “I appreciate you bringing her, Soren,” Reaper said, pulling his Beta into a firm handshake and a brief, brotherly hug. “Of course, man. Anytime,” Soren replied, clapping him on the back. He leaned against the heavy mahogany desk and surveyed the stacks of documents. “How are things holding up here?” “Busy.” Reaper leaned back in his executive chair, resting one hand lightly on his daughter’s head as she settled onto his lap and busied herself with a stack of blank sticky notes. He gestured toward the glow of three widescreen monitors dominating his desk, each displaying complex supply-chain routes and flagged manifest lists. “We just locked in three new international contracts this morning—two out of Eastern Europe and a massive private security retainer for a tech conglomerate in Singapore. They’re paying double our rate for guaranteed passage through high-risk corridors.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, though a glint of cold satisfaction showed in his eyes. “That means an absolute influx of shipments coming through our coastal hubs starting at midnight tonight. Armored transport units, heavy hardware, sensitive cargo—the works. Talon’s already got the perimeter guards working overtime, but with this volume of freight moving under our name, every border checkpoint is going to be under a microscope.” Soren stared back at Reaper, his expression utterly nonchalant, a slow, playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "So... business as usual?" he quipped. Reaper’s face remained completely deadpan, unmoving as stone. "What?" Soren held up his hands in mock defense, a chuckle slipping out. "You explain this stuff to me like I’m supposed to track every line of trade logistics. Reaper, I literally just asked how you were doing. I didn't ask for the full corporate play-by-play." Reaper held his cold, unblinking stare for two agonizing seconds—before the corner of his mouth twitched, and he let out a heavy, tired exhale that finally broke his stoic mask. "You're an i***t," Reaper muttered, though there was zero heat behind the words as he adjusted his daughter on his lap. Soren just grinned, pushing off the mahogany desk with an easy grace. "Maybe. But I'm the i***t who brought your kid back in one piece—and sugar-loaded." “Yeah, thanks for that,” Reaper flatly replied, casting a wary glance down at the tiny girl on his lap. A flash of pure, unadulterated terror crossed the Alpha's face as he braced for impact. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before the sugar fully kicked in, leaving her bouncing off the walls of his pristine office. “Of course. I’ve got a client to check in with, so I’ll see you back at the packhouse later,” Soren said with a casual wave, turning on his heel toward the door. “Bye, Uncle Soren!” Zara chirped, waving her tiny hand frantically. “Bye, Zara!” Soren called back over his shoulder, not slowing his stride for a second as he slipped out into the hallway, leaving his Alpha alone to face the impending sugar rush. "Daddy! Let's have a tea party!" Zara squealed, suddenly bouncing up and down on his lap with terrifying, sugar-fueled energy. "I'm sorry, Zara, but Daddy has to finish his work before he can play with you," Reaper told her gently, trying to steady the stack of documents she was currently threatening to crush. Zara’s joyful expression vanished in an instant. Her lower lip thrust out into a dramatic, world-ending pout, and her big, glossy eyes looked up at the terrifying Alpha of the Grimwood Pack with sheer, manipulative betrayal. Reaper froze, staring into the face of a threat no amount of military training or wolf instinct could prepare him for. “Zara…” Reaper sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. In almost any other circumstance, he would have instantly caved under the weight of that tragic, lethal pout. Today, though, the multi-million-dollar defense manifests on his screen demanded his full focus, and he forced himself to hold his ground. “I have to work,” he said, keeping his tone firm but gentle. “So I’m going to have you go sit with the guard outside until I’m done, okay?” “NO!” Zara immediately rejected the idea, her voice ringing off the reinforced glass walls. “Zara, now is not the time to act out,” Reaper warned, leaning back to eye her with absolute Alpha authority—even if it was delivered in a warm, fatherly wrapper. “I will call Soren right back to take you home, and you will sit in time-out until dinner. Is that what you want?” “Hmph!” Zara crossed her tiny arms over her chest, buried her chin in her sweater, and turned her head away in an exaggerated, dramatic pout. It was her version of total surrender. As much as she hated being brushed aside, there was one thing she loathed even more than not having her way: time-out. To a four-year-old, four minutes was an eternity—a cruel and unusual punishment that felt like four excruciating hours. Reaper watched her for a beat, suppressing the urge to chuckle at her tiny, simmering rebellion, before carefully lifting her off his lap and setting her on her feet. Reaper scooped up the small, plush toy bag Soren had left by the couch and set it in the corner of his office, right on the plush carpet. “Now, you can either go outside into the hallway with the guard, or you can sit on the floor quietly and play with your toys,” Reaper said, crouching down so he was eye-to-eye with her. “I don’t care if you make noises, but you have to leave Daddy alone until he’s done.” “Hmph.” Zara crossed her arms tighter over her chest, letting out a sharp, dramatic breath as she looked anywhere in the room except at him. Reaper knew this was just her way of giving up, though she made sure to broadcast every single ounce of her deep, four-year-old disappointment. Satisfied the crisis had been temporarily managed, Reaper stood up, walked back to his desk, and dropped heavily into his executive chair. He pulled the digital logistics manifests back onto his central monitor, determined to power through the high-stakes defense contracts before his daughter found a way to weaponize her sugar rush again. Outside the glass facade of Blackthorne Enterprises, a young woman paused to adjust the strap of her messenger bag. The sleek lettering on the doors confirmed she was in the right place. Taking a quiet breath, she pushed through into the polished lobby and stepped up to the front desk. "Good afternoon, welcome to Blackthorne Enterprises," the receptionist said with a warm smile. "How can I help you today?" "Good afternoon. I'm here for an interview for the maid position." "Name, please?" "Maelle. Maelle Auclair." The receptionist checked her screen. "Ah, yes, Ms. Auclair. You're scheduled with the head of house services at three o'clock. You’re a bit early, but I’ll let her know you’ve arrived." "Thank you. Apologies for showing up so soon—the bus schedule was tricky, and the next one would've made me late," she said, offering an apologetic smile. "Not a problem at all. Feel free to take a seat over in the waiting area, and someone will be right with you." Maelle offered a polite smile before walking across the marble floor toward the waiting area. The lobby of Blackthorne Enterprises was imposing—all sleek obsidian glass, soaring ceilings, and steel accents that hummed with quiet, high-stakes authority. It felt less like a defense contracting firm and more like a fortress disguised as modern corporate luxury. She smoothed down the front of her modest dress she got the day before at Goodwill, and clutched her messenger bag tight against her side as she sank into one of the plush leather armchairs. Sitting early meant sitting with her nerves, and the building’s quiet intensity did nothing to subside them. Everyone walking through the lobby seemed to move with a sharp, militaristic purpose. Maelle adjusted her bag again, her fingers tracing the worn strap, completely unaware that the executive floor far above her held both a stoic Alpha drowning in supply chain contracts and a four-year-old currently weaponizing her stuffed animals in a silent protest.