Please Divorce Me, Alpha! {BL}

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Three days after my dad announced that I was somehow the family’s latest offering to the mafia, I found myself committing my first serious crime.

You could say I was... practicing for the role! Heh, get it?!

Technically, it was theft, but under the circumstances, I also liked to think of it as some aggressive financial planning.

Those three days had been mostly spent brainstorming escape plans, but every clever idea hit a wall at the same annoying hurdle: money.

Imagining running away sounded super easy from the comfort of my room, but trains, hotels, food, passports, and all those pesky details of living...yeah, they all fucking cost cash.

And I had nothing. My father made sure of that.

So, around two in the morning, while the rest of the Sinclair family was blissfully snoozing in their fancy beds, I found myself sneaking down the hallway to my dad’s study like the most unqualified burglar ever.

My father finally freed me from my confinement. So naturally, I was going to make him regret it.

My ribs still throbbed when I moved too fast, my cheek had faded from purple to a gross yellow bruise, and the cut on my lip had finally stopped bleeding...though it stung like crazy every time I smiled. Not that I was smiling much lately.

The mansion was nearly silent. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting pale silver rectangles across the shiny marble floors.

Every little sound echoed in the dark, from the grandfather clock ticking down the hall to the soft creak of the wooden staircase beneath my feet.

I paused by my dad’s study and listened. Nothing...good. I quietly turned the handle. The door opened with a soft click, and I slipped inside.

The familiar scent of my father’s study hit me: leather, pricey cologne, old paper, and that heavy Alpha scent of his that seemed permanently embedded in the furniture. It was the kind of room that made visitors feel small even before anyone spoke.

Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, and his huge desk was so polished I could see myself in it. Framed photos showed my dad shaking hands with politicians, business moguls, celebrities, and people who probably had enough cash to buy small countries. No pictures of me, though.

Not that I was shocked.

I shut the door behind me and took a deep breath.

"Alright, Alex," I whispered to myself. "You’re not stealing. You’re redistributing wealth."

My conscience, however, wasn’t convinced at all.

I approached the desk. The first drawer was full of paperwork, the second held pens, and the third was crammed with expensive fountain pens that could probably keep me fed for a good three months if I found the right buyer.

But I didn’t want to explain how I had suddenly acquired a collection of limited-edition writing instruments belonging to Richard Sinclair, so I skipped that.

Then I spotted the watch. It sat in a velvet box hidden behind some documents...an exquisite gold timepiece that likely cost more than everything I’d ever owned put together. I stared at it, and it stared back.

"Sorry," I whispered before snatching it up.

Next were a pair of gold cufflinks and then a lighter. I nearly left the lighter behind until I remembered that desperate people can’t afford to be picky.

I stuffed everything into the inside pocket of my jacket and stood there, staring at the desk.

That was it. All I could find without doing something foolish.

As I turned to leave, I heard footsteps. My entire body turned cold. Someone was coming down the hallway. Great!

Apparently, dying of embarrassment wasn’t enough for the universe, it wanted me to experience actual death too.

I rushed toward the door and had just stepped into the corridor when my father’s voice called out.

"What are you doing?"

I nearly dropped my heart somewhere between the second floor and heaven.

Slowly, I turned around. Father stood at the far end of the hallway, wearing a dark robe over his clothes, looking suspicious.

For a horrifying second, I thought he could hear the stolen watch ticking against my ribs. My heart was pounding so hard I was surprised it hadn’t filed for independence.

"I couldn’t sleep," I managed to say.

My dad squinted at me. "At two in the morning?"

"Insomnia is quite committed."

He stared me down. I stared back. This was the part where I was supposed to look innocent...too bad innocence had never been a strong suit of mine.

A long silence stretched out, and I could practically hear my funeral music playing in my head. Finally, Dad sighed in irritation. "Your stepmother is expecting you up and ready early tomorrow. Don’t be late."

I nodded. "Of course."

He walked past me without saying another word. I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall before I finally let myself breathe again.

Then I rushed back to my room, locked the door behind me, leaned against it, and stared at the ceiling.

I had almost been caught stealing from my own dad. This was going swimmingly. At least I had a bunch of stuff I could sell when I ran away.

Now, I had to find a perfect place to hide them...

The next morning, Lydia showed up at my bedroom door shortly after breakfast.

She didn’t knock, she never did. The door swung open, and there she stood, dressed in a cream-colored suit, her hair perfectly styled, and her expression already annoyed by my mere existence.

"Get dressed."

I glanced down at myself. I was in an old sweater and loose trousers. "I am dressed."

Her eyes roamed over me. "Properly."

"Ah." I nodded. "Apparently, clothes have standards now."

Her lips tightened. "We’re leaving in forty minutes."

To meet...him.

My stomach dropped, right. The mafia, my future husband, Dracula, the guy I had publicly dissed over a piece of cake.

The one who had supposedly made two previous fiancés vanish, though nobody had ever produced a body, a police report, or even a reliable witness to confirm they were actually dead due to my research.

I thought that distinction was pretty important.

Lydia turned away. "And fix your face."

I touched my cheek. "It’s healing."

"You look pathetic, put on something to hide those bruises."

"Thanks. I’ve been working on it."

She shot me a disgusted look. "Do you think this is funny?"

"No." I paused. "Not particularly."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You will behave today. You will apologize. You will be polite. You’ll make sure he understands you’re suitable."

I almost laughed...suitable. That was the word they kept throwing around, as if I were a piece of furniture being inspected by a potential buyer.

"And if I don’t?"

Her eyes turned cold. "You know what happens."

Unfortunately, I did. The bank manager. My alternative future husband. The guy who’d looked at me at the charity gala like I was an interesting acquisition rather than a person. I shuddered, suppressing it.

"Right," I murmured. "The charming alternative."

Lydia’s expression hardened further.

"Don’t ruin this." Then she left.

I stared after her, then glanced at the watch hidden beneath my mattress.

"Well," I whispered, "at least I have a backup plan avoid being the third missing fiancé."

It was a terrible backup plan, but it was mine.

The drive was as pleasant as being carted off to my own execution. Lydia sat next to me in the back of the car, staring out the window, while I sat on the opposite side, trying to stop myself from bouncing my knee.

"You’re fidgeting."

"I’m nervous."

"You should be."

I glanced at her. "That was surprisingly comforting."

She ignored me. "You embarrassed this family once already. Don’t do it again."

"I’ll pencil it into my schedule."

She finally turned to me. "Alex." Something in her tone made me stop smiling. "If Castelli refuses you because of your behavior, your father won’t tolerate another failure."

I looked back out the window. The city zoomed past in a blur of glass buildings, traffic, pedestrians, and regular folks living their ordinary lives.

People who could get up in the morning and decide where they wanted to go. People who could leave their houses without needing permission.

People who could earn their own money. The thought stung more than I expected.

"I’ll behave," I murmured.

Lydia looked satisfied. "Good."

I didn’t tell her that behaving was the least of my concerns right now. I was just trying to survive.

There’s a difference.

The restaurant was the kind of place where I suspected the chairs had better bank accounts than I did.

We entered through a private entrance into a secluded dining room with dark wood walls, huge windows, and soft golden lighting.

Everything was elegant yet devoid of warmth, which felt fitting for the Castelli family.

Two men stood near the far wall...bodyguards. I recognized one of them immediately. Indoor sunglasses. Of course.

This guy seemed to have committed to wearing sunglasses indoors. He looked at me. I returned the gaze. His expression flickered slightly.

Recognition...oh, great. I wanted to turn around. Unfortunately, Lydia placed a hand between my shoulder blades and nudged me forward.

"Lorenzo is waiting."

And there he was, sitting at the head of the table. Lorenzo Castelli. He looked almost exactly like I remembered from the gala, only somehow more intimidating in the quieter setting.

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