The Unchosen Alpha, the Self-Crowned Queen Chapter 07

The Unchosen Alpha, the Self-Crowned Queen Chapter 07

Blackridge winters were colder than I expected.

I instinctively pulled my coat tighter. Through the exit gates, a tall man scanned the crowd-my uncle Elias, in a dark wool coat and burgundy scarf, holding a crooked cardboard sign with my name scrawled in chicken scratch.

[Maeve Blackwood]

He took my suitcase, hefted it. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

He didn’t push.

On the drive back, he handed me a bag. “From the grocery store. No idea if it’s any good.”

I opened it – a box of spicy smoked chicken wings and a bottle of hot sauce. My nose stung

suddenly.

Elias was the only one in the family who remembered I liked heat.

He lived in Blackridge’s west end—a wine shop on the ground floor, and a tiny attic room above the

storage cellar. One single bed, a desk, a skylight. Maybe twenty square meters.

“Bare bones, but it works.”

“Bigger than my old room.”

It was true. Lyanna’s “guest room” had been half this size.

Three days in, my old number’s voicemails started trickling in via email alerts.

Lyanna: 47 calls. Evander: 23. Nerys: 11.

The last one was Lyanna’s voicemail transcribed:

[Maeve, get your ass back here. You think running away works? You stole that passport. I can report it. I can drag you back anytime I want.]

Elias looked over my shoulder, scanned the screen. “Your mom’s good at talking tough. Her heart, though—not that hard.”

He leaned against the doorframe, sighed. “She loves you, Maeve. She just loves your sister a little more. And she’s terrified you’re not gonna play along. That’s why you’re the pawn. I told her years

ago-she needed to be fair. She said you’d be fine, that you could handle it.”

“Your sister? Spoiled since birth. If they’d sent her to the altar, she’d come crying home in three

days. So you were the one they picked.”

I didn’t answer.

Not because I had nothing to say. Because I’d already figured all this out. The harsh training, the etiquette lessons–they all pointed to the same destination: Silvercrest Pack’s bottom line.

I was just seventeen years late seeing it.

School was boring but clean.

No one woke me for etiquette drills. No one watched me pick at a sad plate of salad. No one whispered “heirs don’t do that” in my ear. I slept in. Ate baguettes with chili oil from street carts. Wore jeans and sneakers along the river.

The air tasted sweet.

I applied to the Royal Wolf Academy with my grades and got in. Half the tuition waived, the other half paid for with my part-time job at my uncle’s wine company-packing, labeling, sorting client

lists. He didn’t give me any special treatment.

“If you want to live off me, buy a ticket back and get married.”

“Not going back.”

“Then get to work.”

He had a sharp tongue. But every time I worked late, a box of microwaved spicy chicken wings

would appear on my desk.

Classes weren’t easier than combat training-just different. In my sophomore year, I got top marks in a business management course. The professor stopped me after class.

“Maeve, your case analysis is better than some of my MBA students. Any internship experience? A friend of mine runs a food group here in Blackridge. Hiring interns.”

This time, the choice was mine.

“Professor, I’d like to try.”

Walking out of that office building in the drizzle, I called Elias.

“I got the offer.”

“Yeah? What are we eating tonight?”

“Wings. Spicy.”

“I’m in.”

He hung up.

I stood in the rain and laughed for a long time.