Chapter one
Chapter one.
Alexander pov.
“Too hot.”
“Too cold.”
“Too much sugar.”
“Do you even know how to make a decent cup of coffee, Kingsley?”.
Brandon—my boss, personal tormentor, and the reason my blood pressure has skyrocketed—finally snapped at my fifth attempt to meet his absurd coffee standards. I clenched my jaw, counting to five in my head like my therapist suggested.
I needed this job.
Badly.
I’d already lasted longer than the last six assistants combined. That had to mean something.
“Sorry,” I muttered, snatching the offending coffee mug from his desk. “Next one’ll be just right, Goldilocks.”
He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t. Alpha Brandon Cole didn’t laugh. He barely blinked. The man was made of cold brew and caffeine and 14-hour workdays. I was convinced the only thing that flowed through his veins was pure espresso.
But unfortunately, he was also stupidly hot.
Wickedly high cheekbones. Sharp jawline. Hair always perfectly in place, even when he ran his hands through it in frustration—which was often, thanks to me. He wore suits like he was born in them. Dark ties, crisp white shirts, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins on his forearms. I hated how often I noticed.
I hated that about him.
Not just that he was hot, but that he knew it. And he still treated everyone like they were wasting his time by existing.
But no matter how unfairly attractive he was, Brandon was still the worst. He barked orders. He never said thank you. He worked late and expected everyone else to do the same. He’d gone through six assistants in six months before me. I was lucky number seven. The miracle survivor.
The only one who hadn’t quit yet.
The only one who stayed.
Not because I liked him. Hell no. Well, I may or may not have a little crush on my cold and heartless alpha boss.
But because being a Beta meant I was exactly what he wanted—someone stable. Neutral. No pheromone shifts. No inconvenient heats. No sick days. No scent clashes. Just the right flavor of invisible.
Omegas got time off for heat. Alphas got special training and leniency during rut cycles. Betas?
We got to be the ideal support staff.
Forever running on caffeine and not enough sleep. All work no play.
“Kingsley,” he said sharply, I took a sharp breath, trying to ignore the way my name sounded on his lips. “You’re staring.”
“No, I’m not.” I turned too fast, sloshing a bit of coffee onto my shirt. Great. Now I was scalded and embarrassed.
“You have five minutes,” he added, already refocusing on his laptop. “And skip the sugar this time. I’m not five.”
Could’ve fooled me, I thought bitterly. I stomped down the hallway toward the kitchen, muttering under my breath. “Maybe if I pour the coffee directly from the hands of God, he’ll approve.”
I dreamed about quitting daily, and the only thing keeping me here was the obscene paycheck and the even more obscene rent on my apartment. At least he was good at paying his employees.
I remade the coffee—black, no sugar, one cube of ice to cool it down just enough. The “Brandon Special.” I knew it by heart now. I should’ve known better than to try improvising earlier. I should’ve known better than to think I could win even a little with him.
The office kitchen was small but sleek, all white marble countertops and chrome appliances. Definitely not designed for making five coffees in under an hour, but here I was—resident barista slash verbal punching bag.
As I waited for the espresso shot to finish brewing, I looked up—and met eyes with Mia, the receptionist, who walked in to grab her tea.
She winced. “Fifth time today?”.
“Sixth,” I muttered.
She gave me a look of sympathy. “You deserve hazard pay.”
“I deserve a shrine. Or a plaque on the break room wall. Alexander Kingsley: the Beta who survived Brandon Cole longer than anyone else.”
She laughed quietly and mouthed, Hang in there, before slipping back out.
I exhaled a laugh under my breath. I was used to Brandon’s torments. But that didn’t mean they didn’t get under my skin.
Still, I grabbed the mug, took a breath to steel myself, and headed back into the lion’s den. Brandon didn’t look up when I entered. His eyes flicked to the coffee as I set it down on the coaster—because God forbid I place it directly on the desk—and then went back to his laptop.
He sipped. Didn’t make a face. Didn’t complain.
“Acceptable,” he said.
“High praise.” I crossed my arms. “Should I get it notarized?”.
His eyes finally lifted to meet mine. There was something about that gaze—sharp, cool and unreadable, like he could see straight through me and still not care what he found.
“You’re feeling bold this morning.”
“I’ve been here six weeks. I think I earned one sarcastic comment.”
He didn’t respond. Just turned back to his laptop and muttered, “Schedule the quarterly meeting with Legal. And don’t double-book this time.”
“That was once,” I snapped. “And I had the flu.”
“You’re a Beta,” he said dryly. “You don’t get the flu.”
I stared at him. “I can still be human.”
He didn’t respond to that either.
Typical.