The Board Meeting

Monday morning arrived like a storm.

I had barely slept. Lydia's text replayed in my head on a loop: "I know what he did to Elena. And I know what you are." What did she mean by what I am? I was a rejected Omega. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I dressed carefully—the navy sheath dress, the heels that didn't pinch, the gold necklace Alistair had given me at the gala. I stared at my reflection and made a decision.

I will not be afraid.

When I arrived at Blackwood Tower, Alistair was already in his office. I made his coffee—black, no sugar—and knocked.

"Come in."

He stood by the window, his back to me. He wore a charcoal suit, perfectly pressed, his hair combed back. He looked every inch the billionaire CEO.

But when he turned, his eyes were tired.

"You didn't sleep," I said.

"Neither did you."

"Lydia texted me. Saturday night."

His jaw tightened. "What did she say?"

I handed him the coffee and recited the message from memory. "Enjoying your evening, cousin? Don't get too comfortable. I know what he did to Elena. And I know what you are."

Alistair set the coffee down without drinking it. "She's trying to scare you."

"It's working."

He crossed the room and took my hands. His touch was warm, grounding. "Listen to me. Lydia is a snake, but she's also a coward. She attacks from the shadows because she knows she can't win in the light. Don't let her into your head."

"Too late."

"Then let me in instead." He lifted my chin with one finger. "Whatever she says, whatever she does, you come to me. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kissed my forehead—soft, brief, surprisingly tender. Then he stepped back.

"The board meeting is at ten. Derek will be there. Lydia will probably be with him." His expression hardened. "Keep your face neutral. Don't react to anything they say. And if Derek touches you again, I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Noted."

---

The boardroom was already half-full when we arrived.

I took my usual seat against the wall, notebook in hand, pen poised. Alistair sat at the head of the table, his presence filling the room like smoke.

One by one, the board members filed in. Old men in expensive suits. A few women with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Victoria, the Chief of Staff, sat at Alistair's right hand.

Then the door opened, and Derek walked in.

He looked better than he had at the gala—less haunted, more composed. His suit was dark gray, his tie silver. He had shaved, and the shadows under his eyes had faded.

But when he saw me, his composure cracked.

"Clara," he breathed.

"Mr. Ashford," I said, my voice perfectly flat.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but Lydia appeared behind him, her hand on his arm.

"Derek, darling, don't monopolize the help." She smiled at me—sweet, poisonous. "Hello, Clara. That dress is lovely. Is it new?"

"Clothing allowance," I said. "From Mr. Blackwood."

Lydia's smile flickered. "How generous."

She pulled Derek to the opposite end of the table, as far from me as possible. But Derek's eyes kept drifting back.

Alistair noticed. His knuckles went white around his pen.

---

The meeting began.

Financial reports. Quarterly projections. A proposal to acquire a smaller tech firm. I took notes mechanically, my mind only half on the words.

Derek spoke twice. Both times, his voice was steady, professional. But every time he looked at me, something raw flickered in his eyes.

Regret. Longing. Guilt.

I ignored it.

Then Lydia raised her hand.

"Mrs. Ashford," Alistair said coldly. "You are not a board member. You do not have a vote."

"I'm aware. But I do have a concern." She smiled. "About the new executive assistant."

Every head in the room turned to me.

"What about her?" Alistair's voice was ice.

"She has no college degree. No corporate experience. And yet she sits at your elbow, takes notes at board meetings, and wears a necklace that costs more than most people's annual salary." Lydia tilted her head. "People are talking, Mr. Blackwood. They're saying she's more than an assistant."

The room went silent.

Alistair set down his pen. "Let me be clear, Mrs. Ashford. Clara Vance is my employee. Her qualifications are none of your concern. Her salary is none of your concern. And her necklace was a gift from me, which she is free to accept or decline without your input."

"How generous," Lydia said again, her smile never wavering.

"It's not generosity. It's necessity." Alistair stood. "Clara Vance is the best assistant I have ever had. She works fifteen hours a day. She has never made a mistake. And she does not gossip, scheme, or spread lies about her coworkers."

He looked directly at Lydia.

"Which is more than I can say for some people in this room."

Lydia's smile finally faltered.

Derek shifted in his seat. "Mr. Blackwood, I'm sure my wife didn't mean—"

"I don't care what she meant." Alistair's eyes flashed gold. "This meeting is adjourned. Everyone out. Except Clara."

The board members filed out quickly, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire. Victoria raised an eyebrow at me but followed.

Derek hesitated at the door. He looked at me, then at Alistair, then at Lydia.

"Derek," Lydia hissed. "Now."

He left.

The door closed.

Alistair turned to me. His eyes were full gold now, blazing.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"I'm fine," I repeated. "She's trying to rattle me. You said so yourself."

"I did." He walked to me and pulled me to my feet. "But I didn't expect her to do it in front of the entire board."

"She's bold."

"She's stupid." He cupped my face in his hands. "You handled yourself well. Better than well. You didn't flinch."

"I've had practice."

His thumb traced my cheekbone. "I don't want you to have practice. I want you to be safe."

"I'm safe with you."

Am I? The question hung unspoken between us.

He kissed me then—quick, fierce, possessive. A claim. A warning to anyone who might be watching through the glass walls.

When he pulled back, his eyes were still gold.

"Come to my penthouse tonight," he said. "We'll order dinner. We'll talk. No board meetings, no Lydia, no Derek."

"Just us?"

"Just us."

I nodded.

He smiled—that rare, small smile that made my heart stumble.

"Good. Now get back to work. I have a company to run."

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

I answered emails. I organized files. I avoided Victoria's knowing looks and the whispered speculation of the other employees.

At five o'clock, I was packing my bag when Derek appeared at my desk.

"Clara. Please. Five minutes."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know. But I couldn't—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I couldn't let you think that I agree with her. What Lydia said in there... that wasn't me. I would never—"

"You rejected me in front of two hundred wolves," I said flatly. "You called me worthless. You threw me out like trash. So forgive me if I don't care what you would or wouldn't do."

Derek flinched. "I was wrong. I've said that."

"And you think saying it makes it better?"

"No. But I'm trying to—"

"Derek." I stood. "Go back to your wife. Go back to your pack. Leave me alone."

"She's not—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Lydia and I... it's not real. It hasn't been real for a long time."

"That's not my problem."

"I know." He stepped closer. "But what if I could help you? What if I could give you information about Viktor? About what Lydia is planning?"

I went still. "What do you know?"

"Not here. Not now." He glanced at Alistair's closed door. "Meet me. Tomorrow. Lunch. The café on 47th Street."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because I loved you once. And even though I destroyed it, some part of me still—" He closed his eyes. "Just meet me. Please."

Before I could answer, Alistair's door opened.

"Derek." Alistair's voice was quiet. Deadly. "You're on my floor again."

"I was just leaving."

"You were just talking to my assistant. About what?"

Derek looked at me. I shook my head slightly.

"Nothing," Derek said. "Old memories."

"Keep them to yourself." Alistair walked to my side, his hand settling on my lower back. "If I see you near Clara again without my permission, I will remove you from this building. Permanently."

Derek's jaw tightened. But he nodded.

He walked to the elevator, and the doors closed behind him.

Alistair turned to me. "What did he want?"

"To apologize. To explain." I hesitated. "And to offer me information about Viktor and Lydia."

"What kind of information?"

"He didn't say. He wants me to meet him tomorrow. At a café."

"Absolutely not."

"Alistair—"

"No." His hand gripped my waist. "He's dangerous. Not because he's strong, but because he's weak. Weak men do desperate things."

"Or maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe he really wants to help."

Alistair stared at me for a long moment. "If you go, I go with you."

"You can't. He won't talk if you're there."

"Then you don't go."

I pulled away from him. "You said you wanted to court me. You said no secrets. That means trusting me to make my own decisions."

His eyes flashed gold. "I trust you. I don't trust him."

"Then come with me. Wait outside. If anything goes wrong, you'll be there."

He was silent for a long moment.

"Fine," he said finally. "But if he tries anything—anything at all—I won't hold back."

"Understood."

He pulled me back into his arms, his forehead resting against mine.

"You're going to be the death of me, Clara Vance."

"Probably," I whispered. "But not today."

---

That night, in his penthouse, we didn't talk about Derek or Lydia or Viktor.

We ate Thai food out of takeout containers, sitting on his couch, watching the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He told me about his father—a stern, cold man who had raised him to be a killer. I told him about my mother—a maid who had loved me fiercely until the day she died.

"I used to dream about her," I said. "After Derek rejected me. I would dream that she was still alive, and she would hold me, and everything would be okay."

"What changed?"

"I realized she couldn't save me. Only I could."

Alistair set down his fork. "You're the strongest person I've ever met."

"I'm not strong. I'm just too stubborn to die."

He laughed—a real laugh, warm and unexpected. "Stubborn. Yes. That's the word."

He kissed me then. Slow. Deep. His hands in my hair, my hands on his chest.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathless.

"Stay," he said. "Tonight. Just... stay."

I should have said no. I should have remembered that he had killed his last mate.

Instead, I said, "Okay."

He carried me to his bedroom—gentle, almost reverent—and laid me on the bed. Then he lay down beside me, pulled me against his chest, and wrapped his arms around me.

"Sleep," he whispered. "I'll keep you safe."

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in three years, I slept without nightmares.