The Cursed Alpha's Contract Bride

Angel                                                                  

The heat outside was a heavy weight. I pushed through the glass doors of Stellar Media, and the sudden blast of cold air made me shiver. I stood in the quiet lobby, my fingers tracing the edge of my folder.

Politeness opens doors that anger shuts.

My father’s words echoed in my mind, his voice sounding thin and tired, just like it had on the phone earlier this morning. Don't let your words become a blade today, Angel. Secure this job. For both of us.

"I’ll be a saint, Papa," I whispered to the empty air. "I promise."

I forced a smile and walked toward the big marble desk. The receptionist was busy typing, her eyes fixed on her screen. She didn't even look at me.

"Name?" she asked.

"Angel Molley. I’m here for the junior storyteller interview."

"Take a seat in the lobby. We’ll call you."

I sat on a velvet chair that felt too soft, surrounded by other applicants who looked anxious. My heart was a drum, beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. The nervous energy in my gut turned into a sharp nudge from my bladder. I stood up and walked back to the desk.

"Excuse me, where is the restroom?"

The receptionist pointed a long, quiet hallway. "Third door on the left. Don't wander."

I hurried away, clutching my folder to my chest. I needed to hear the words aloud. I needed to know they were real before I stood before the board.

"I am the best choice for this role," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the polished floor. "My scripts bring life to the screen. I don't just write scenes; I build worlds. I give the voiceless a tongue. I…."

BAM.

I hit something hard. My folder flew out of my hands, and my pages scattered all over the floor. "Watch it!" I snapped. The "saint" I had promised my father vanished in a heartbeat. "Are you blind?"

The man didn't stop. He was tall, dressed in a Kiton suit. He had a phone pressed to his ear, his profile sharp. He kept walking, stepping over my hard work as if it were common trash.

"Hey!" I shouted, scrambling to my feet. "I’m talking to you!"

He stopped. He turned slowly, his eyes a dark void of emotion or empathy. He didn't lower the phone. He just watched me, silent and still.

"You bumped into me," I said, stepping directly into his path. "A normal person would apologize. Or is the word too heavy for your tongue?"

He finally pulled the phone away. A flash of genuine surprise crossed his face, followed by a look of sheer disbelief. It was as if a pebble had just demanded an apology from a landslide.

"You were the one talking to a wall, Miss," he said. His voice was a deep, low rumble that vibrated in my chest. "I suggest you pay attention to the path, not your ego."

"My ego?" I let out a sharp, dry laugh. "You have no manners at all. I know your mother taught you better than to walk over people, but clearly, you refused to learn. It’s pathetic."

He stared at me. He didn't blink. He didn't utter a single word. He just watched me. The silence was heavy, but I refused to be the first to break it. I turned on my heel and marched back to the lobby, my face burning with a mixture of rage and adrenaline.

"Angel Molley. The board is ready."

The secretary led me into a boardroom that felt like a sanctuary for the powerful. Seven interviewers sat behind a curved mahogany table. The man in the center, a director with a silver name tag that read Director Miller, gestured to the lone chair facing them.

"Sit, Ms. Molley. Show us why your stories deserve our time."

I took a breath, forcing the image of the man in the hallway out of my mind. "I believe a script is the heartbeat of a film," I began, my voice gaining strength. "If the heartbeat is weak, the story dies before it reaches the audience."

"And your heartbeats?" a woman at the end of the table asked, her eyes narrowing.

"They are strong," I said, leaning forward. " If you can, please look at page one of my script. The dialogue there isn't just filler. It’s a confession. People don't go to the cinema to see actors; they go to see the parts of themselves they’re too afraid to name."

Director Miller nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips as he looked at the others, who scanned the first page of my script, which I had already sent via email. "I like that. You have a very... direct way of speaking, Angel. It’s refreshing in a room full of people who only say what they think I want to hear."

The atmosphere shifted. The tension bled out of the room. They were smiling. I could feel the job, my future, within my grasp.

Then, the heavy doors behind me opened with the force of a gale.

Every single person at the table stood up instantly, their chairs shrieking against the floor. Director Miller’s face went from impressed to ghost-white in a second.

Mr. Drake…Mr. Crane!" Director Miller stumbled over his words, his voice high and nervous. "We... we didn't think you were coming. Welcome, sir."                                                                                                          Drake Crane. I had heard of the name before. There were many Cranes in this city, a whole dynasty of wealth and influence, but his name was the loudest among them.                                                                                       I didn't turn around yet, but the air in the room suddenly felt different. I watched the director, the same people who had been smiling a second ago, turn pale. They scrambled to their feet so fast their chairs screeched against the floor. And then I turned, it was him. The man from the hallway.

He didn't acknowledge the board. He walked to the head of the table with a predatory grace. The director scrambled out of his seat, backing away as if he were clearing a path for a king or a god.

Drake Crane sat down. The name hit me with the weight of a falling star. The Cranes weren't just wealthy; they controlled many tech and writing companies in the city, they have built strong legacy over the years.

And I had told him his mother hadn't raised him right.

He didn't look at my manuscript. He didn't look at the directors. He looked straight at me, his jaw tight, his eyes pinning me to the chair like a specimen in a jar.

"Please," he said, his voice a chilling silk that made the room feel smaller. "Continue, Ms…

“Molley,” I said.

 I want to hear more about how you intend to deal with clients. I find the topic... fascinating."

The silence that followed was deafening. I looked at the directors, but they were staring at their feet, terrified to even draw breath.

"I will.. I will treat clients with respect and make sure we are able to satisfy them with our writing," I managed to say, though my throat felt like it was filled with sand.

"Respect," Mr. Crane repeated, leaning back and tenting his fingers. "A rare trait. Especially when one doesn't know who is listening.

Tell me, do you always speak with such... courage? Or was that performance in the hallway just a rehearsal?"

The board members shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between us. They knew. They didn't know what had happened, but they knew the wolf had found a lamb to toy with.

"I speak the truth as I see it, Mr. Crane," I said, my sharp tongue moving before my brain could stop it.

"The truth," he mused, a dark, dangerous tilt to his head. "And what is the truth of this moment?. At that moment, I knew the job was gone.

Angel

Silence enveloped the room for some seconds, and then he said

"The door," His voice was a low, dry rasp.

I felt my heart stop. "Sir?"

"Use it," he added.

I stood up, my legs feeling like water. My folder felt heavy, filled with pages that were now useless. I didn't say a word. I couldn't. I turned and walked out, the click of my shoes sounding like a funeral march against the marble floor.

Once I reached the street, the humid air hit me. I walked away from the glass tower of Stellar Media, my vision blurring. I didn't cry for my pride. I cried because of the promise I made to the man waiting for me at home.

I hailed a cab, my mind spinning. How am I going to tell him? I thought. I needed that money. The medicine, the rent, the debt, it was all resting on a job I had just lost because I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

When I got home, the smell of old wood and sickness greeted me. I walked into