There's something deeply humiliating about waking up to a crisis you didn't even get to enjoy. Some people dream of champagne-soaked scandal. Me, I get cold congee leftovers, a headache, and the world's most passive-aggressive notification from the system.
[Congratulations, Host. You've made the morning news. Trending #2 in Entertainment. "Alpha CEO Dumps Pack of Parasites Is This the End of Ryvenhart's Reign of Scandal?" Would you like to read the comments?]
"I'd rather eat glass," I groaned, blindly smacking at my phone until the screen lit up.
It was everywhere. Everywhere.
Screenshots, videos, blurry photos of me on the sidewalk last night, standing in the middle of a circle of ex-friends looking like I'd just declared war on fun itself. Tabloid banners screamed in every font:
PLAYBOY CEO DUMPS HER ENTOURAGE NEW LEAF OR NERVOUS BREAKDOWN?
IS RYVENHART GOING SOFT? OMEGAS REJOICE, ALPHAS MOCK
EXCLUSIVE: SOURCES SAY SHE THREW AWAY HER "INNER CIRCLE" LIKE LAST SEASON'S HEELS
I scrolled, horrified. My phone kept buzzing emails from PR, calendar notifications, three missed calls from the head of HR, and a string of increasingly hysterical texts from my assistant.
Miss Ryvenhart, should I release a statement?There's a reporter at the gate…The finance director would like to know if you've joined a cult.Please advise. Also, your coffee is ready.
I dragged myself out of bed, fumbled for my robe, and tried to will myself into a version of existence that didn't make me want to scream. My brain was already preparing an apology tour for my own reflection.
The system never subtle chimed in again.
[On the bright side, your reputation for drama just increased. On the downside, you are now the alpha equivalent of a runaway bride. Shall I order more sweatpants?]
I shot it a glare in the mirror. "I'm not going soft," I muttered, but even I could hear the uncertainty in my voice. My image stared back, equal parts intimidating and exhausted. The worst part? I wasn't even sure if I was playing a role or finally showing something true.
I showered, dressed another crisp suit, masculine cut, no-nonsense colors, hair slicked back in "don't ask me questions" mode and made my way downstairs. The household staff pretended not to stare, which was a first.
The kitchen TV was already tuned to some morning gossip show.
"—and in a shocking turn of events, Alessia Ryvenhart, infamous alpha CEO and heartbreaker, publicly ditched her entourage of party regulars last night. The business world is abuzz with questions: has the wolf finally gone vegan? Or is this just another PR stunt—"
The chef looked up, eyes wide. I grabbed my coffee and ignored the world. Carbs first. Catastrophe second.
[Recommendation: Prepare a statement. Deflect, downplay, or rebrand. If not for yourself, then for the shareholders who are now convinced you've joined a monastery.]
I pressed my temples, feeling the start of another headache. "I thought going solo was supposed to make me less interesting."
[For a normal person, perhaps. You, however, have made solitude into an act of corporate rebellion.]
Of course. Even my existential crisis came with a brand.
My phone buzzed again. This time, a message from an unknown number:
Congrats on the culling, boss. About time you dropped those leeches. Some of us are rooting for you to go full Bond villain this year.—A
I had no idea who A was, but I appreciated the energy.
At the office, the drama level had cranked to eleven. I stepped out of the car and instantly felt the eyes security, receptionists, even the janitors glancing, whispering, calculating.
Some staff looked terrified. A few, especially the braver omegas, smiled at me as if I'd just announced free donuts and triple overtime. An older beta from HR stopped me in the hall. "Rough morning, Miss Ryvenhart?"
"You could say that."
He hesitated. "If you'd like a referral to an executive coach…"
"I'll let you know," I said, managing not to snort.
My assistant greeted me with the look of a man whose week had been ruined by someone else's TikTok account. "The board is asking if you're planning to change company policy to 'no fun allowed,' Miss Ryvenhart. Also, the entertainment division wants to know if you're quitting and becoming a nun."
I considered it for a second. "Maybe in the next life."
He thrust a tablet at me. "Media requests. Rumors. A meme of you in a doghouse with the headline, 'Bad Alpha, No More Treats.' We need a statement."
The elevator doors closed, cocooning me in steel and silence. For a split second, I wished for malfunction, blackout, apocalypse anything to delay facing the circus I'd woken up to. Instead, I stared at my reflection in the glossy doors: an alpha CEO with insomnia in her eyes and something unhinged burning beneath the surface. Villainess chic, accessorized with corporate dread.
I jabbed at my phone. "Call legal," I snapped. "Now."
Within seconds, my assistant patched through, voice trembling. "Yes, Miss Ryvenhart?"
"I want every single rumor, meme, and tabloid post gone by noon," I said, enunciating each syllable like a curse. "I want cease and desist letters sent to every outlet, every blogger, every drunk fool with a Wi-Fi connection. Any employee caught spreading these stories will be fired, sued, and blacklisted."
A pause. "Uh yes, Miss Ryvenhart. Immediately. Should I ?"
"Draft a statement: 'Ryvenhart Entertainment pursues legal action against malicious defamation. Any continued propagation will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.' Make it official. Make it scary. Make them wish they'd gone into accounting."
"Yes, ma'am. Right away." He hung up so fast I almost heard the terror.
I let the villain mask settle over my features, cold and precise. That was the trick, wasn't it? I couldn't control what people thought but I could control what they feared. No one respects a fallen alpha, not in this world. So fine let them see the monster. Let them tremble. Let them gossip in whispers.
My phone buzzed with notifications as the orders went out. Legal would bury them in paperwork. PR would slam doors. The old Alessia's claws still worked, even if I'd stopped wanting to use them.
The elevator chimed. Time to make an entrance.
I strode out into the executive floor, each step crisp, deliberate, telegraphing power and wrath. The air felt different; every whisper vanished as I passed, replaced by the hush that follows a thunderclap. People straightened. Some even pressed themselves to the wall, as if I might spontaneously combust and take them with me.
A trio of betas in the hall tried to look busy, studiously pretending they weren't doomscrolling my name. An omega paused mid-conversation, eyes wide, scent spiking with anxiety. The fear was so thick I could have cut it with the sharp edge of my persona.
Perfect. Let the whole world know Alessia Ryvenhart was still the apex predator.
I was halfway to my office, already imagining the joy of shutting the door on humanity, when fate intervened. Sera Lin rounded the corner, coffee in hand, jaw set like she was preparing for war. She saw me and didn't stop; she just met my eyes with the cold, flat look of someone who would rather walk barefoot over thumbtacks than speak to me.
Her glare was surgical, stripping me down to marrow. No curiosity, no fear just loathing so pure it could have been bottled and sold as "Anti-Alpha Serum." It stung, but I held my ground, giving her the full weight of my "I could ruin your month with a phone call" stare.
We passed within inches. Neither of us said a word.
In that brief, silent collision, I realized something almost laughable: she didn't care if I was a monster, a victim, or a punchline. She only cared that I was in her way. To her, I was still the same wolf, teeth bared no matter how loudly I howled about changing.
She walked on, leaving behind a faint trace of citrus and resentment. My chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with reputation or lawsuits.