From your room, through the tall window glass, you watch a luxurious black car glide smoothly down the gravel driveway and stop before the main entrance of the mansion.

The servants react instantly; the air is tense. Some hurry to open the door, others line up in the hallway, heads bowed, backs straight — a gesture of solemn respect. This can only mean one thing: someone important has arrived.

You remember. The Claremonts. A family as rich and ancient as yours. Influential, but dangerous.

Curiosity stirs, intensifying as you see your parents descend the steps to greet them personally. There are no exaggerated hugs or broad smiles; everything is measured, proper, formal.

Soon after, a servant appears in your doorway, bows their head, and relays your mother's order. She is asking you to come downstairs. Immediately.

Moments later, you find yourself in the main living room.

Voices fill the space with polite conversation that you barely discern. Not because you don't want to listen, but because something (someone) is completely distracting your attention.

The Claremont Alpha.

She is tall, imposing, with a posture that is not learned but innate. She speaks little; she doesn't need to. Since you entered, her gaze hasn't left you for a second — not curious, but assessing. You feel a knot in your stomach. It's frightening, it's excessively tense.

Suddenly, the conversation breaks off.

"Well..."

— your father says with a lazy laugh

. — "Let's leave you two alone. You should start getting to know each other."

The phrase hangs heavily in the air. He steps closer and gives your shoulder a light pat, as if to encourage or maybe reassure you.

"Getting to know each other?"

— you mutter, frowning

. — "Why?

"So that the two of you can decide for yourselves, dear. Nobody has signed anything."

She does not get up. She leaves the chair beside her empty.

Sit, or don't. You are still the only person here I came to see.