The Price of an Alpha’s Betrayal

Elena picked up a lock of blond hair, held it under her chin, and shook it.

"Mom, look. Don't I look like a caveman?"

My mother took a sip of wine. "Throw it out. Don't get it on the rug."

Elena grabbed the phone she'd propped up by the fireplace and kept taking pictures. She'd said she wanted to record herself doing my hair, so the phone had caught the moment she used the scissors too.

I put my hand over the lens. "Stop filming. And delete what you just got."

"Come on, sis, a look like this is one of a kind. I want something to remember it by."

I reached for the phone, but Vincent stepped in front of her first.

"It's just a few pictures, Olivia. What, you're going to get physical now?"

The next second, my phone started buzzing.

Elena had posted the pictures on Instagram.

In the pictures, my blond hair hung to my waist on one side and stopped at my ear on the other. My eyes were still red.

The comments quickly filled up with laughing emojis.

Someone joked that I must have ticked off my hairdresser. Someone else said I should keep the look for my wedding.

"Delete them, Elena. Don't make me say it again."

She flopped back on the couch. "The madder you get, the funnier they think it is."

Finally my mother spoke up. "Elena, that's enough. Put the phone down. Olivia, go fix your hair. The guests are almost here."

"She cut off my hair right in front of you, then posted the pictures online." I looked at my mother. "And you're going to pretend you didn't see any of it?"

My mother set down her glass. "I already told her to stop. This isn't the time to keep fighting."

My father slammed his cigar cutter down on the table so hard that the bodyguards outside glanced in.

"Shut the door," he ordered, and only then did he look at me. "Everyone coming tonight is important. Do you have to make sure the whole world knows about this?"

"Elena's the one causing trouble! I'm the one whose hair got cut!"

"I said that's enough. I'm not saying it twice."

He didn't even glance at the hair on the floor.

There was no point arguing. I wiped my tears away.

After I was born, my parents were too busy running their company, so they left me with my grandmother. I wasn't brought home to the house on Long Island until I was five.

By then, Elena was already the spoiled little princess of the house. My mother gave her whatever she wanted. The second she cried, even my father would drop what he was doing to calm her down.

But the first thing my mother taught me was to know my place.

"You're the big sister. You have to let your little sister have her way."

When she broke my things or took my presents, I had to let it go.

Once, I went to my father to tell on her. He just asked, "You're older than she is. Why do you have to fight with her?"

After that, at home or in public, I learned to do as I was told and back down, hoping my parents would be proud of me just once.

During dinner, my mother brushed the loose hairs off my shoulder and told me to stop crying.

When I was little and sick, she'd brushed my hair back just like that. For a second, I almost thought she finally felt a little sorry for me.

Then she said, "We have a video call with your grandfather tomorrow. Don't let him see there's been any trouble at home."

Vincent rubbed the short ends of my hair between his fingers and laughed under his breath. "Honestly, it doesn't even feel as nice anymore."

I pulled away from his hand. "Don't touch me."

His smile faded. "She cut off some of your hair. She didn't kill you."

"So as long as I'm not dead, I'm supposed to smile and thank her?"

People nearby were looking over. Vincent lowered his voice. "Do you have to do this at the dinner table? Your father's still entertaining guests."

Elena tried to jump in, and he handed her a glass of champagne.

"You keep quiet too. If you really set her off, I'm the one who has to calm her down."

Elena raised her glass. "Guess that proves you're a good fiancé."

Vincent smiled, raised his glass, and clinked it against hers.

Halfway through dinner, I got an email from an art trust in London.

They offered me a five-year contract to run their European auctions for twice the pay.

I'd already turned the job down twice. My mother didn't want me living in Europe long term, and Vincent said our Christmas Eve wedding was set and both families had already made their plans.

When I was 21, after Elena tore up my recommendation letter, Vincent was the one who took me for a drive to get me away from the house.

He held my hand and said, "Olivia, she ruined your letter, but you still have me. I'm not going anywhere."

All these years, every time I got hurt, he was the one who comforted me. So I forgave him, again and again, thinking somebody was finally on my side.

The email ended with, "If you reply by midnight tonight, the position is still yours."

Elena was leaning against Vincent. They were talking about something I couldn't hear, and they started laughing again.

I looked back down at the reply box and typed, "I accept."