After One Night with the Alpha (Brad and Elle) novel Chapter 23

**The Billionaire Who Claimed My Heart and Who Broke Fate for Me**
**Chapter 23**

**Elle’s POV**

The atmosphere around the table had taken a decidedly lighter turn, the air filled with laughter and casual banter, when suddenly, Sophia raised her glass high, a glint of mischief in her silver-gray eyes. “A toast!” she declared, her voice ringing with authority. Instantly, the servers sprang into action, rushing to fill each crystal flute with a shimmering amber liquid. My heart began to race, a nervous flutter taking residence in my stomach as I watched a glass being placed before me.

I stared at the delicate glass, the liquid inside swirling like a tempest, while my anxiety twisted my insides into knots.

“A toast,” Sophia repeated, her head tilting slightly, catching the light just so, illuminating her hair like a halo.

I hesitated, my hand hovering uncertainly halfway to the glass. What was the appropriate response in this situation? Would it be seen as rude to refuse her toast?

In the frantic days leading up to this meeting, I had scoured every piece of information on werewolf etiquette I could find, yet nothing had prepared me for this moment of social minefield.

“Tell me, Ms. West,” Sophia continued, her voice a melodic yet subtly menacing undertone, “how does it feel to be the Alpha Brad’s mate?”

My throat went dry, and I felt the weight of every gaze at the table settle upon me. Sweat began to bead at my hairline, the pressure palpable.

“She’s carrying my heir,” Brad interjected before I could even begin to formulate a response. His tone was frigid, as if he were dismissing both Sophia’s inquiry and my own presence in one swift motion.

I flinched at his words, though by now, I should have been accustomed to his bluntness.

“We have the Council meeting this afternoon,” Brad continued, glancing at his watch with a sense of urgency. “She’s not drinking alcohol in her condition.”

With a nod, he signaled to Alex, who appeared at my side almost instantly, replacing my untouched glass with a vibrant concoction that resembled cranberry juice. “Stone heath berry juice,” Alex whispered quietly, a conspiratorial smile playing on his lips.

I mouthed a silent “thank you” to him, my heart swelling with gratitude for his subtle kindness. The tension in my shoulders eased slightly as Sophia raised her glass once more, a smile gracing her lips.

“To the Rayne heir, then,” she amended smoothly, her voice dripping with honeyed intentions.

As the negotiation resumed around me, I found myself picking at my food, a carefully prepared, human-friendly version of the raw meat that the werewolves devoured with relish. Brad kept glancing at my plate, occasionally nudging certain dishes closer to me as if to encourage me to eat.

“The salmon has omega-3s,” he murmured during a brief lull in the conversation, his voice low and intimate. “Good for the baby’s brain development.”

I nodded absently and took a bite, though my appetite had long since fled under the watchful eyes of so many werewolves. Every time I dared to look up, someone seemed to be scrutinizing me, evaluating, judging. I found myself eating more than I wanted, simply to have something to occupy my hands and divert my gaze.

“Regarding the timber rights,” Sophia asserted, her voice shifting back to business, “we’re prepared to accept a two percent reduction in our harvesting quota.”

Brad’s expression remained impassive. “Five percent maintains the balance of sustainable forest use for both our territories. Anything less would compromise the long-term viability of the ecosystem.”

I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, focusing intently on cutting my food into smaller and smaller pieces. This was their world—territorial negotiations, pack politics, resource management. I was merely an awkward human observer, my usefulness limited to carrying the next generation.

When the meeting finally concluded, I felt a wave of relief wash over me, nearly collapsing under its weight. Brad and Sophia exchanged formal goodbyes, their words laced with promises of future collaboration and invitations to visit each other’s territories.

Once back in Brad’s office, I spent the remainder of the afternoon sifting through reports and preparing materials for his evening meetings, my mind buzzing with exhaustion.

My stomach growled loudly, breaking the tension in the silence. I hadn’t eaten much at lunch, too fraught with nerves under those expectant gazes. I made my way to the kitchen, opening the enormous refrigerator to reveal an overwhelming array of food options.

I decided on pasta—simple comfort food that I could prepare without overthinking.

“Would you like some dinner?” I called out, unsure if werewolves even enjoyed pasta. “I’m making spaghetti.”

No response came, but I shrugged it off and began chopping onions and garlic, the rhythmic motions soothing my frayed nerves. The kitchen knife felt solid in my hand—purposeful and reassuring. At least cooking was a domain I understood, a realm where I could wield control.

I heard Brad’s footsteps behind me as I stirred the sauce, glancing back to find him standing in the doorway, his intense amber eyes fixed on me.

“Dinner’s ready,” I announced, setting two plates on the counter. I had added a small portion of cooked ground beef to his pasta, uncertain if he would partake otherwise.

Brad settled at the table, eyeing the simple meal with clear distaste. I pushed his plate toward him, a wave of defensiveness rising within me about my cooking.

He took one careful bite, chewed slowly, and then set down his fork with a definitive clatter.

“It’s awful,” he declared flatly, his tone devoid of any pretense.

I stared at him, a hot flush of embarrassment and anger flooding my cheeks.

Of course it wasn’t up to his high standards. Nothing about me ever was.