The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 41: His Gift

​Aurora’s POV

​A sharp pain bloomed in my chest as I looked at him. He didn’t remember. The way he had held me, the kiss—it was all gone. To him, it was nothing more than a missing piece in a drunken night. To me, it was a memory that had rewritten my entire perception of him.

​It’s for the best, I told myself, clutching the edge of his oversized shirt. It’s better this way. If he didn’t remember, I didn’t have to explain why I had kissed him back with such desperate hunger. I didn’t have to admit that I had wanted him to keep going.

​But God, it still hurt.

​"You have to leave," Oliver said, his voice stripped of the warmth it had held last night. He didn’t look at me; his eyes were fixed on a point somewhere above my head. "I have an early meeting with my council, and I can’t have distractions."

​The word "distraction" felt like a slap.

​"I understand, Alpha," I whispered.

​I turned and walked toward the massive bathroom. My reflection in the mirror was a mess—my red hair was wild, and my lips were slightly swollen from a kiss he didn’t even know he’d given me. I moved like a ghost, peeling off his clothes—the fabric still smelling so strongly of him—and slipped back into my silk party gown. It felt cold and restrictive now.

​When I stepped back into the bedroom, the change in the atmosphere was jarring. The intimacy of the night before had been scrubbed clean. Oliver was already seated at a desk near the window, the glow of his laptop illuminating his sharp, handsome features. He looked every bit the powerful, cold King again.

​He didn’t look up as I approached. He didn’t even pause his typing.

​"My driver is waiting downstairs. He will take you home," he said, his tone clinical. "I expect the reports for the northern trade agreement on my desk by tomorrow morning. See you then."

​"Yes, Alpha," I said, my voice barely audible.

​I waited for a second, a foolish part of me hoping he’d look up, hoping he’d see the hurt in my eyes and offer a small sign that he was still in there—the man who I had drunk with last night was still there. But he stayed silent, his fingers clicking rhythmically against the keys.

​I turned and walked out, the heavy doors clicking shut behind me. As I walked toward the elevator, I realized tears were gathering in my eyes.

​What was I expecting? Alcohol had made him friendly; it had made him human for a few hours. But the sun was up now, and the cold King was back on his throne.

​I reached my small apartment, the silence of the rooms feeling heavier than usual. Maybe I had already grown used to the feeling of Alpha Oliver’s space around me.

I immediately stripped off the silk dress and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw, desperate to wash away the scent of cedar and rain—his scent—but it felt like it was branded into my pores.

​After a lonely lunch that tasted like cardboard, I collapsed onto my bed, exhaustion finally pulling at my limbs. I just wanted to sleep until the memory of his cold, clinical gaze this morning faded.

​But a sharp knock on the door jolted me awake.

​I moved to the door, peering through the peephole to see a delivery man holding a sleek, black box tied with a heavy silk ribbon. I opened it cautiously.

​"For you, Aurora Sterling," he said, handing it over.

​"From whom?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat.

​"The sender didn’t leave a name on the manifest, Miss," he replied with a polite nod before turning to leave.

​I sighed, carrying the weight of the box into my living room. I sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled the ribbon. When the lid came off, I gasped. Inside was a set of gold jewelry—a necklace and matching bracelets that looked like they cost more than my entire apartment building. The gold shimmered under the light, intricate and breathtakingly expensive.

​Instantly, my mind went to Oliver. He was acting cold only to send me this? Was this his way of apologizing for the blackout? Or was it a "thank you" for the night he didn’t remember?

​I picked up the small, cream-colored envelope tucked into the velvet lining. My fingers trembled as I pulled out the letter.

​"I was going through some items online and realized this would suit you..."

​I started to smile, a tiny flicker of hope warming my chest. Maybe he did care. Maybe the cold King was just a mask. But then my eyes dropped to the signature at the bottom of the page, and the blood drained from my face.

​It didn’t say Oliver.

​It said Dom Raymond.

​The box slipped from my nerveless fingers, the gold jewelry clattering onto the floor with a hollow, metallic sound that echoed through the room. My breath hitched in my throat as the room seemed to spin.

​Dom Raymond. The masked man from the club. How did he have my full name? And more importantly... why did he send me these?

​I frowned, my fear slowly curdling into a hot, defensive anger. How dare he? How dare he send me gifts after destroying my life?

​"Once I get to the club, I’m reporting him," I decided, shoving the jewelry back into the box with trembling hands.

​By 6 PM, I was at the club. The air was thick with the usual scent of expensive cologne, drinks, and sex. I stood behind the bar stand, mechanically mixing drinks and serving patrons, my eyes constantly scanning the masked faces in the crowd. Every time the heavy doors opened, my stomach did a nervous flip. I was waiting for him.

​Finally, at 8 PM, he appeared.

​I spotted him immediately. Dom Raymond was seated on a plush velvet couch in the VIP section, surrounded by a group of other masked Doms. They were laughing and clinking glasses, radiating an aura of untouchable power.

​My blood boiled. I grabbed the black box from under the counter, marched across the floor—ignoring the startled looks of the submissives nearby—and stopped right in front of him. Without a word, I threw the box directly onto his lap.

​The gold jewelry rattled inside. A collective gasp echoed from the other Doms. The music seemed to fade into the background as the tension in the booth spiked to a dangerous level. I didn’t care.

​"Dom Raymond," I said, my voice projecting a strength I didn’t feel, "please don’t ever send me gifts again. Don’t come close to me, and don’t ever send anything to my home. If you do, I will report you to the club management immediately."

​I didn’t give him a second to respond. I didn’t want to hear that gravelly, hauntingly familiar voice. I turned on my heel and walked away, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

​I retreated to the safety of the bar stand, my heart racing so hard I thought it might burst through my ribs. My hands were shaking as I reached for a cloth to wipe the counter. What I had just done was insane. In a world of predators, I had just slapped the face of a man who I knew to be a high-level assassin—or worse.

​I looked back toward the booth, expecting him to be coming after me, but he hadn’t moved. He was just sitting there, the gold box still in his lap, his masked face tilted in my direction. Even from a distance, I could feel the weight of his gaze. It wasn’t angry. It was something far more terrifying.

​It was intrigued.

​Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and realized it was the hospital calling.

​I moved away from the bar, the pounding bass of the club vibrating in my chest. "Give me a minute," I shouted to my colleague over the noise, gesturing toward the exit.

​The cool night air hit my face as I stepped into the alleyway behind the club. I pressed the phone to my ear. "Yes, doctor, I’m here. Please, tell me—"

​Before he could speak, I felt a heavy tap on my shoulder. I spun around, the word "hello" dying in my throat. Standing before me was a masked Dom—not Raymond, but one of the men who had been sitting in his circle.

​Before I could even process his presence, he moved.

​SLAP.

​