When My Alpha Finds I didn't Kill His Father

“Name?”

“Stella Hart.”

“Possessions?”

“Duffel bag. No cash.”

The guard nodded, stamped a form, and slid it through the slot beneath the glass.

“You're free to go.”

Free. The word echoed like a foreign language.

Stella stepped through the iron gates, blinking at the vastness of sky. No sirens. No buzzers. Just air—unfiltered, untouched, too bright. She tightened her grip on the fraying handle of her bag.

The bus idled at the end of the cracked lot, steam curling into the morning chill. She climbed aboard and took the rear-most seat. Only one other passenger—a wrinkled woman knitting with red yarn.

Her phone buzzed once. A single text.

FROM: CATHERINE

*Don't contact us again.*

She stared at the message for a full minute before deleting it.

The bus rattled to life.

---

“You sure about Greenridge, miss?” the driver asked as they pulled off the highway. “Not many go there willingly.”

“I don’t have anywhere else,” Stella said quietly.

“Suit yourself.”

Trees lined the winding roads, summer leaves just starting to crisp. Every bend brought her closer to the place she swore never to see again.

“You were the nanny, right?” the woman with the yarn asked suddenly.

Stella stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“Greenman family. I saw your face on the news. Said you seduced that Alpha.”

“I didn’t.”

The woman gave a small shrug. “Didn’t think you did. Men like that… don’t need seduction.”

Silence stretched. Stella turned toward the window. Memories clawed through glass—Alpha Greenman's sweaty breath, the grasping hands, Victoria's broken whisper: *If this gets out, the whole pack falls.* And the courtroom, where no one cared what she said.

---

The bus screeched to a halt.

“Greenridge,” the driver grunted.

Stella stood. The duffel’s weight pulled at her shoulder, but she didn’t flinch. She stepped off.

The air smelled like pine and old mistakes.

“Welcome back, murderer,” someone hissed from a bench. Two teenage boys snickered.

She ignored them and walked toward the employment center.

Across the street, a black SUV sat idling. The windows were tinted, but behind one of them, a man watched her every move.

Joseph Greenman tapped his finger against the steering wheel.

“She looks smaller than I remember,” he muttered.

“She was eighteen, sir,” said the Beta beside him. “People tend to grow thinner in prison.”

Joseph’s jaw flexed. “Don’t make excuses. She killed my father.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to know. I watched her lie in court.”

“She didn’t say much at all, if I recall.”

“That’s the lie,” Joseph snapped. “She said nothing. No denial, no defense. Just silence.”

He opened the door. “Stay here.”

---

The employment office stank of ink and sweat. Stella filled out the form under flickering fluorescent light.

“Felony?” the clerk asked without looking up.

She hesitated. “Yes.”

He stamped the application. “Nothing available. Maybe next month.”

“I just need anything. Cleaning. Lifting. Kitchen work—”

“Not for ex-cons.” The man leaned back in his chair. “Try the shelters.”

Stella turned away, throat tight.

She didn’t make it to the door before a familiar voice stopped her cold.

“Miss Hart.”

She froze.

Luna Victoria stood near the coat rack, pristine in pearl gray, her silver hair swept into a regal knot.

Stella turned. “Luna Greenman.”

“I thought you might be here. Walk with me.”

They stepped into the sunlight. Victoria’s heels clicked on the pavement.

“I’ve arranged a temporary position,” she said. “Housekeeping. The packhouse.”

Stella inhaled sharply. “There’s nothing else?”

“You’ll be paid. Meals included. It's that or the shelters.”

“I assume it’s conditional,” Stella said flatly.

“Confidentiality agreement. Extension of the original. No speaking of what happened.”

“What happened,” Stella repeated. “You mean the truth?”

Victoria’s expression never changed. “Do you want the job or not?”

Stella’s hand trembled as she signed the agreement.

---

The mansion looked the same.

Stella paused at the front gates. Shadows of memory danced across the lawn—the sound of children laughing, the heavy fall of Alpha Greenman's boots.

The door opened before she knocked.

Joseph stood in the doorway.

“I see the charity program is working overtime,” he said coolly.

“Joseph,” Victoria chided.

He stepped aside without another word.

Inside, the house echoed with coldness. Stella followed Victoria through polished halls until they reached the servants' wing.

“Your room,” the older woman said. “Shift begins at six a.m.”

She left.

Stella opened the door to a cramped attic space beside humming boilers. A cot. A rusted mirror. One bare bulb swinging from the ceiling.

She sat. Pulled a photo from her duffel—her mother, smiling in a sunlit garden.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I’m still standing.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall.

Joseph’s voice drifted through the door.

“She’s back. Just like nothing happened. And I swear to God, I’ll make her pay.”

Stella lay back on the cot, eyes wide open, spine pressed to the wall.

Outside, a storm gathered in the distance.