Claimed by My Bestie's Alpha Daddy novel Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Word travels fast at the summit. By morning, I was a headline in the rumor mill.

I could feel the stares before I’d even stepped off the elevator-curious, cautious, some admiring, others skeptical. People paused mid-conversation when I passed, their eyes lingering, voices lowering to just above a

whisper.

The echo of my defense from the night before was still rippling through the halls. Apparently, standing up at a council dinner and calling out political optics made me either a hero or a liability, depending on who you asked.

Emma intercepted me halfway down the corridor, holding a sleek folder and grinning like she’d just won a bet.

“You’ve got media training,” she said, shoving the folder into my arms.

I blinked. “What?”

“Beta’s orders. Just in case someone shoves a mic in your face again.”

I flipped open the folder, scanning the bolded bullet points. “Well tell Nathan it wasn’t supposed to be a speech.”

“Yeah, and yet here we are. Look at you, local legend.”

Her tone was teasing, but the pride behind it was real. I couldn’t quite bring myself to smile back.

Inside the training room, a communications expert with perfectly gelled hair and too-white teeth ran through

the basics-eye contact, controlled breathing, strategic pauses.

I scribbled down the notes automatically, nodding at the right moments. But my mind was elsewhere. Still

tangled in the way Richard’s eyes had locked onto mine across that banquet hall. The way they held steady,

unflinching, like I was the only thing he could see.

Across the estate, Richard was handling the fallout. He rejected Serena’s proposal a second time-this time in

writing. The document was clear, restrained, but unyielding: any future alliance would need to be built on

mutual respect, transparency, and equal footing-not on coercion or image management.

There were no names mentioned, no overt accusations or melodramatics, just steady, unequivocal language

that stripped the glamour from Serena’s offer and left only its mechanics.

But it didn’t need names. Everyone knew who the message was for. The phrasing was too deliberate, the tone

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And that alone sent its own ripple through the summit halls: not just a rejection, but a public one. Serena Linwood hadn’t just been turned down-she’d been dismissed. Officially. Strategically. Thoroughly.

Serena didn’t take it well.

By noon, she was gone.

Packed her things, slipped out without ceremony, no goodbyes, no formal withdrawal. Just a power vacuum and

the scent of perfume left behind in the hall. The whispers were instantaneous. Richard had made his choice. I

had something to do with it. The word “influence” got passed around like candy, never loud enough to confront

but just loud enough to sting.

The optics weren’t great.

In the afternoon, I was summoned to help draft the summit’s public response-an official statement

summarizing progress, mutual commitments, and areas for future development. I was paired with Simon,

whose first words to me were: “Try not to make it sound like a high school valedictorian speech.”

We worked in silence for nearly two hours before he finally said, without looking up, “You’ve got a knack for

cutting through political crap.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not a compliment. It’s a liability. But right now, it’s useful.”

Somehow, that felt like the highest praise I’d gotten all week.

That evening, I was called to a private strategy session with Richard’s inner circle. The room was narrow, the

walls lined with projection screens and paper files that looked like they’d been handled too many times.

Everyone looked tired. Coffee cups outnumbered people.

Richard stood at the head of the table, flipping through data graphs with furrowed brows.

“David’s smear campaign is gaining traction in the outer territories,” Nathan said. “He’s using social rumors,

anonymous tips, half-true stories. It’s not just politics anymore. It’s narrative warfare.”

I started speaking on pure instinct, “He’s spent the entire summit trying to fracture us from the top down. Let’s flip it. We build from the ground up.”

A pause. Then Richard asked, “How?”

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“We organize a community forum. Not Alphas. Not council members. Minor pack leaders. Civilians. Local trade

reps. Make it public, make it grassroots. Let them see unity happening in real time. Not because we told them to

-but because they chose to.”

There was silence. Simon shifted in his chair. Beta rubbed his chin. Finally, Richard nodded once.

“Do it. Coordinate the first phase. Pull whatever resources you need.”

The meeting dissolved into soft murmurs and the rustling of papers. Advisors filed out with new assignments

and old doubts. I stayed behind to gather my notes.

Richard lingered.

“You’re doing more than anyone ever asked of you,” he said quietly.

I froze. My fingers clenched around my notebook.

He stepped closer.

“And it matters.”

I turned, slowly. My voice barely above a whisper.

“So does the way you look at me when you say it-like there’s something you’re not saying out loud. Like

maybe this is more than just politics to you.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away.

Later that night, I was pulled from sleep by a soft knock at the connecting door.

I blinked blearily at the clock, then padded barefoot across the carpet. When I opened it, Richard stood there,

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