There are three immutable truths in the entertainment industry:
Coffee is currency.
Somebody is always watching.
An alpha's temper changes the weather.
This morning, all three collided outside the break-room door. My cup of life-sustaining espresso was still steaming when Alessia Ryvenhart swept past, atmosphere dropping five degrees in her wake. She didn't snarl. She didn't flirt. She didn't even sneer. She just looked at me—eyes like iced steel and kept walking, heels cracking thunder down the corridor.
And I, certified hater of everything Ryvenhart, felt… off-balance.
Because last night I watched her dump a herd of paparazzi-bait friends like rotten produce, and today she'd doubled down with legal threats so scary even the office printers were jittery. Half the rumor blogs deleted their posts before lunch; the other half were apparently consulting lawyers about bankruptcy.
Villains weren't supposed to defend their privacy. Villains thrived on scandal. That was the rule. So what was she playing at?
I let the break-room door swing shut behind me, trying to refocus on practical things like the mountain of work Alessia had dumped on my desk with her unnervingly courteous "You'll have my backing." Translation: Succeed or I'll personally barbecue your career over a slow flame.
Inside, people were gossiping in decibels they hoped passed for whispers.
" she threatened a lawsuit for a meme "" board is losing it "" shh! She'll hear you "
When they noticed me, they scattered like roaches under fluorescent light. Great. I was now the unofficial ambassador to the Big Bad Alpha.
I ignored them and headed back to my actual-windowed office still so new I half-expected security to reclaim it. The east-facing glass framed a grey skyline that matched my mood, and the potted plant seemed to judge me for every negative thought. I set down my coffee, booted my workstation, and tried to drown the chaos in synthesizer riffs.
It lasted maybe four minutes.
My phone buzzed with a message from Nova best friend, fellow omega, lavender-haired dispenser of unsolicited advice.
Nova:Saw the morning feeds. Your boss is trending #PsychoAlpha. You alive?
Me:Bruised ego, intact body. Coffee critical.
Nova:We meeting for lunch or arranging your funeral?
Me:Let's decide at noon.
She replied with a skull emoji and a heart, because that's our brand of encouragement.
I tried , tried to concentrate on my demo track. The new single needed crisp percussion, soaring strings, vocals that cut straight through the algorithmic sludge of pop playlists. But Alessia's stare kept infiltrating the beat. Sharp, assessing, almost… confused? No. Wishful thinking.
At 10:00 a.m. the building held a mandatory "fire drill." Perfect timing. HR said coincidence; I said corporate omen. Everyone filed into the stairwell like cattle with smartphones, venting theories in a dozen languages. Halfway down, the CFO hissed at his assistant that shareholders were jumpier than squirrels on Red Bull. Someone else muttered about a hostile takeover rumor.
I kept my eyes forward. Don't engage. Don't react.
Outside in the drizzle, employees huddled under the awning. You could practically taste the pheromones—stress-spiked beta musk, a faint peppery bite from anxious alphas, sugared ozone from omegas trying not to hyperventilate.
Then the wolves arrived: a line of black SUVs at the curb, windows tinted like moral ambiguity. Alessia stepped out of the first one, flanked by legal counsel who looked as though they'd been carved from suit fabric and contempt. She spoke to nobody, but every umbrella tilted her way.
HR reps scrambled to greet her; she waved them off and strode straight toward the entrance. The crowd parted. Eyes widened. My heart did an embarrassing little salsa.
Because this Alessia wasn't swaggering. She was… bristling. A queen minus her court, crown sharpened into a weapon. And for the tiniest second, as she passed me, our scents mingled my citrus mutiny against her winter-cold pine and I caught something raw beneath the frost. Anger, obviously. But also exhaustion. Maybe even hurt.
Nope. Probably indigestion from last night's ramen.
She vanished inside. The building swallowed her whole. The HR team followed like ducklings, papers flapping in terror. Someone near me whispered, "She's going nuclear." Someone else tweeted it.
By noon I'd done as much productive work as a hamster on a wheel. Nova met me at a noodle stall two blocks away, shoving a bubble tea into my hand.
"Caffeine and sugar," she declared. "You need both if we're discussing your nightmare boss."
"She's not my boss," I corrected. "She's the apex overlord of all this." I gestured vaguely toward the Ryvenhart tower, which loomed like a poorly written prophecy.
Nova poked her chopsticks at me. "And yet she gave you an office, praised your report, and apparently sent half the tabloids running for cover just so people would stop talking trash."
"It's self-preservation," I argued. "Her brand can't survive another scandal. She's protecting herself, not me."
Nova arched a brow. "But you benefit."
"I also benefited from a paper shredder once. Doesn't make it my friend."
Nova slurped soup, thinking. "Maybe she's changing."
"Maybe I'm a unicorn in disguise."
"Hush. I'm serious. Could be she realized fake friends were bleeding her dry. Could be she almost had a burnout. Could be the world's ending, sure, but sometimes alphas have epiphanies."
I stared at her. "I watched her almost maul an intern six months ago."
"True. But last night she rejected bottle service, publicly cut ties with her VIP leeches, and looked like someone stole her puppy." Nova shrugged. "Doesn't erase what she's done, but it's weird."
"Dangerously weird," I muttered into my tea. "Wolves don't become vegans because they tasted kale. They starve or they hunt."
Nova leaned forward, voice soft. "So what's your plan? Keep hating her forever?"
"That was the plan, yes."
"And if she keeps acting… human?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. My ramen cooled.
Back at the office, HR blasted a company-wide memo:
Notice: Unauthorized dissemination of defamatory content regarding Ms. Ryvenhart or Ryvenhart Entertainment will result in immediate disciplinary action.
The tone was medieval heads-on-pikes meets legalese. Employees around me gulped. One beta quietly deleted his meme folder.
I shut my door and tried again to work. The strings built, faltered, built again. Alessia's threat-a-gram sat heavy on my mind. Intimidation was supposed to reaffirm why I disliked her. Instead, it twisted into curiosity: was it fear or pride? Was she clamping down because she couldn't stand ridicule, or because she genuinely wanted a clean slate?
I startled when someone knocked light, nervous.
"Come in?"
A junior intern peeked inside, cheeks flushed. "Miss Lin? The uh CEO asked for an updated demo progress report by end of day. She said to take your time but she's… eager."
"Eager," I echoed, stunned. The Alessia I knew never admitted eagerness. She demanded, commanded, or stole. Eagerness belonged to toddlers on Christmas.
"Thank you," I told the intern, who practically sprinted away.
I sat back, spinning my chair. On the sill, the potted plant rustled in the AC draft. Behind the glass, afternoon clouds bruised the sky.
"Fine," I whispered to nobody. "I'll play along."
If Alessia Ryvenhart wanted to pretend she was a responsible alpha committed to artist growth, I'd give her the best track she'd ever heard then watch how she handled the spotlight. Because sooner or later, the mask would crack. And when it did, I'd know whether to keep my window office… or install iron bars.
The day ground on. At six, most of the floor emptied. I stayed, layering strings under synth pads, weaving in my own vocals soft at first, then bolder, an anthem smoldering under the corporate fluorescent hum.
Around eight, I ventured to the kitchenette in search of caffeine. I nearly dropped the mug when I found Alessia already there, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, staring into the flickering glow of the vending machine like it held the secrets of the universe.
She didn't see me at first. Her shoulders, ordinarily rigid, slumped; her expression was strangely gentle, half-formed, as if she'd allowed herself exactly three seconds to be vulnerable in the presence of potato chips.
Then she sensed me alphas always do and straightened so fast I heard vertebrae protest.
I lifted a hand in cautious greeting. "Evening."
A curt nod. "Working late?"
"Demo deadlines don't respect circadian rhythms."
Her lip twitched almost a smile. "Machines ate my dinner schedule."
I pointed at the dubious sandwich spiraling behind glass. "That turkey melt qualifies as a war crime."
"I've committed worse." She inserted coins anyway, retrieved the sandwich like a condemned soldier accepting rations.
Silence.
I cleared my throat. "Heard your memo."
"Which one?" Dry humor, unexpected.
"The 'spread rumors and die' one."
She exhaled, not quite a sigh. "Collateral damage."
"Bit extreme."
"Life's extreme." She looked at me then really looked, like she was weighing honesty against risk. "I'm tired of spectators picking my bones. I chose blunt force over polite requests."
I sipped lukewarm coffee. "Sometimes a scalpel works better than a hammer."
Her eyes flickered to the vending machine window. "I was born with hammers."
For a heartbeat, the hallway hummed with something fragile. I wanted to ask why, how, what now but the gulf between us yawned wide, filled with old grudges and unspoken apologies.
Instead, I offered the nearest olive branch: sarcasm.
"If you die of vending machine poisoning, HR will bury us in paperwork."
Her laugh quick, surprised was nothing like the silky purr she used to charm investors. It was real. Rough around the edges. Human.
"I'll try to survive the turkey."
She left, sandwich in hand, wolf mask slipping back into place as she turned the corner. I watched her go, heart drumming a rhythm I couldn't parse half warning, half question, wholly inconvenient.
Back in my office, I played the track one more time, vocal soaring over trembling strings. It sounded… hopeful. I wasn't sure when I'd last written something hopeful.
I saved the file, attached the report, and hovered over "send." Alessia's name glowed in the recipient field. My thumb hesitated.
Wolves don't become vegans, I'd told Nova. Maybe that was still true. But sometimes they stopped hunting long enough to ask why the forest hated them.
I hit send.
Tomorrow the sky could fall, or gossip blogs could crown her queen of petty litigation, or she could flip back to leering tyrant by breakfast. But tonight, I'd laid down my piece of the battlefield music, honesty, and enough curiosity to be dangerous.
The plant rustled again, as if approving.