CHAPTER 19

Xander’s POV

The office was eerily silent. Everywhere felt as if I was in a burial ground. Let me use this period to analyse myself. “Was I really harsh to my employees?” I asked myself. Well, it's a me—to—me conversation; I can't get to know the truth like that.

I leaned back in my chair, my eyes narrowing as I flipped through the latest financial reports. Something seemed off.

No matter how I tried to work, there was always a nagging pain at his claw che

And I knew exactly what it was.

Beatrice...I don't even understand again, or am I falling for her? 

That annoying woman.

She had been a Thorn to me since she stepped into my life and this company.

And yet, for reasons I couldn’t understand, I couldn’t look away.

I told myself it was hatred. That I wanted her to suffer. I needed to remind her what she was—an omega, a weakling, a woman who had suffered from her ex-husband and never got the respect she needed from the pack.

But then why did I feel this tightness in my chest every time I saw her? It always feels like a heart seizure.

Why did I find myself watching her, noticing how she bit her lip in concentration and how her fingers moved when she was nervous?

Why did her voice's sound still stir something deep inside me?

I gritted my teeth, annoyed at my thoughts.

Then, deliberately calm, I reached for my phone and pressed a button.

“Pearl.” My voice was cold, commanding. “Send Beatrice in.”

I leaned back in my chair, bracing myself.

A few minutes later, she stepped into my office, her expression carefully neutral, but I could see the exhaustion hidden beneath her composed mask.

She was good at pretending.

But I was better at seeing through it.

“You needed me?” she asked, her voice steady.

I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, watching her, waiting.

She shifted slightly under my gaze, but she didn’t look away.

Good.

At least she still had some fight left in her.

“I need the proposal completed by tomorrow morning,” I finally said, sliding a thick folder across the desk.

Beatrice’s brows furrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue. She took the folder forward, her fingers brushing against mine briefly.

It was enough to send a jolt through me.

Damn it.

I pulled my hand back too quickly, scowling as if just irritated by her presence.

She tucked the folder under her arm and gave a curt nod. “I’ll have it done.”

I should have dismissed her then. I should have let her walk away without another word.

But something inside me refused to.

“Sit,” I ordered.

Her shoulders stiffened. “Is there something else you need? 

But I wasn’t going to let her. Not this time.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” I said quietly.

Her grip on the folder tightened.

I shook my head. “You always do that when you’re lying. Clenching your fingers like you’re trying to hold yourself together.”

She exhaled sharply. “Why do you care, sir?”

The question caught me off guard.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Why did I care?

Why did I feel this ache when I looked at her? Why did I hate seeing her like this—exhausted, barely holding on?

I could tell myself it was just unfinished business, that I wanted closure, that I needed answers.

But deep down, I knew it was more than that.

I hated that it was more than that.

“I don’t,” I finally muttered, leaning back in my chair.

Beatrice let out a hollow laugh. “Right.”

She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. “If that’s all, I have work to do.”

I should have let her go.

Her jaw tightened slightly, but she remained silent.

Coming back to reality..“I expect it to be perfect,” I continued, my voice laced with cool indifference. “No mistakes.” 

She picked up the folder and flipped through it. I knew she was calculating how long it would take and how much sleep she would lose.

I was already feeling her pity this time, and then, without a word, she reached for her phone.

I arched an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away slightly, pressing her phone to her ear.

Her voice softened as she spoke.

Did she ignore me? My body was brewing with rage. Who dares ignore me—XANDER THANE!

Before I could even think further, I was interrupted by her voice, and my attention immediately shifted to her.

She smiled and showed a glint of sadness at the same time.

Was I hard on her? Maybe I should actually forgive her. She's even my mate, so why should I be angry? I planned to apologise to her after the call until I heard a statement.

“Hey, babe( looked like she was taking turns)…momma is going to be a little late tonight, okay?”

I froze.

The tightness in my chest expanded into something unrecognisable. Wait, was she texting her lover in front of me?

Well, nothing concerns me, but why does my heart ache so much? Is that jealousy? I asked myself.

She wasn’t just texting some random man.

She was calling her lover.

She was calling… him, or so I thought.

Her voice trembled slightly. “I love you so much. Be good for me, alright?” I'll make sure to get your favourite pizza for you when I'm coming...she said 

There was a soft murmur from the other end of the line, more like a male horny voice responding.

Beatrice let out a small, sad laugh. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Then she hung up.

I felt something shift within me—something I didn’t want to name.

My grip on the desk tightened.

Had she forgotten I was her mate? Had she replaced me so soon? I was so angry that beads of sweat came rushing down my face.

I had assumed she was calling some man, but instead, it was some pathetic excuse of a lover who had replaced me.

A lover?

The realisation sent a sharp, unwanted pang through my chest.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my expression to remain impassive.

Beatrice turned back to me, her face unreadable. “I’ll get to work now.”

I could have said something.

Could have acknowledged what I had just overheard.

Instead, I let my anger win, vouched not to help her and made tonight's work worse than the other days. 

I let my pride burn through the softness that had tried to creep into my heart.

“You’ll work on it here,” I commanded, gesturing to the empty seat.

She hesitated, clutching the thick folder to her chest like a shield. “I can take it to my desk—”

“No,” I cut her off, my voice sharp and unyielding. “You’ll work here. I want to see every move you make.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, but she didn’t argue. With a stiff nod, she moved toward the chair across from me, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled out her laptop and powered it on.

I leaned back in my chair, watching.

Minutes stretched into hours.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of her keyboard, the faint rustle of papers as she flipped through reports, and the occasional sigh that slipped past her lips when she struggled with a calculation.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t offer to help.

I just watched.

Watched as exhaustion crept into her posture, her shoulders slowly slumping, her eyes fluttering shut for barely a second before she forced them open again. Watched as she bit her lower lip in frustration when the numbers on her screen refused to align.

Watched as her fingers clenched around the edges of the papers, her knuckles turning white as if sheer willpower could bend them into submission.

And I liked it.

I liked seeing her struggle.

I liked knowing that she was trapped here under my control, that she had no choice but to push herself past the point of exhaustion because I demanded it.

It should have satisfied me.

But it didn’t.

Because somewhere between the satisfaction and the cruelty, something else stirred. Something I didn’t want to name.

It was in the way the dim glow of her screen illuminated her face, casting shadows under her tired eyes. The way she chewed on the inside of her cheek when deep in thought was a habit she probably didn’t even realise she had.

The way she refused to break.

Even as exhaustion dragged her down, even as frustration mounted, she kept going.

She wasn’t the same woman I had once known.

And for the first time, I wondered if I had been wrong about her all along.

She should have broken by now.

She should have begged for mercy.

But she didn’t.

And it frustrated me.

More than that, it… intrigued me.

At some point, she leaned back, pressing her palms against her tired eyes.

She was exhausted.

I knew she was.

But still, she kept going.

Something inside me twisted uncomfortably.

I shouldn’t care.

I didn’t care.

So why did I feel this strange pull toward her?

Why did watching her like this—watching her fight through the exhaustion—make my chest feel tight?

I clenched my jaw, gripping my pen until my knuckles turned white.

This was a mistake.

Letting her back into my life was a mistake.

I should have thrown her out when she walked through my office doors that first day.

Instead, I was here.

Watching her.

Wanting to break her.

But also…

Not wanting her to break.

I hated this feeling.

I hated her.

And yet, as the night stretched on, and she continued to work despite every obstacle I threw her way, I realised something that made my blood run cold.

I hated her.

But I might have loved her more.