When My Alpha Finds I didn't Kill His Father

– Contract of Servitude

“You’ll report to kitchen duty at six. Laundry at ten. General scrubbing after that.”

The head maid, Greta, rattled off instructions without glancing up from her clipboard. Her tone was sharp, efficient, devoid of pity.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stella replied.

“You’ll wear this.” Greta handed her a plain brown uniform and pointed toward the staff bath. “You’ve got ten minutes. Alpha doesn’t like delays.”

Stella shut the door behind her and slowly changed, her fingers stiff. The fabric was coarse, slightly too tight across the shoulders. She stared at herself in the cracked mirror.

The bruises from prison had faded, but nothing could erase the wear in her eyes.

---

Downstairs, Joseph stood in the foyer, flanked by several pack members—warriors, administrators, even his girlfriend Rebecca in a fitted red coat.

When Stella entered, silence fell.

“She’s the new help?” someone muttered.

“Parole charity,” Joseph said loud enough for everyone to hear. “The pack council insists we do our part. So here she is—murderer turned maid.”

Stella kept her head down. She would not give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Take a good look,” Joseph continued. “This is what leniency looks like.”

Rebecca gave a theatrical shiver. “And what does she look like? Still thinks scrubbing floors is beneath her, I bet.”

“I’m here to work,” Stella said quietly.

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “Speak up, Hart. Or has five years dulled your voice?”

“I said,” she repeated, lifting her head, “I’m here to work.”

Their eyes locked. For a moment, the room blurred. Her face was thinner, paler than he remembered. But those eyes—still defiant.

“Very well,” he said coolly. “Greta, show her to the attic. She doesn’t need to mix with the regular staff. Give her the boiler room slot.”

Rebecca smiled. “You’re too kind, darling.”

“She doesn’t deserve kind,” Joseph muttered.

---

The attic room was hotter than she remembered. The boiler’s clunking heat filled the air, making sleep a challenge. Stella sat on the edge of the cot and carefully unpacked what little she had. A worn sweater. Toothbrush. The photo of her mother.

She stared at it for a moment, tracing the smile with her thumb.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered. “I should’ve run that night.”

A knock startled her.

She stood and opened the door.

Luna Victoria.

“May I come in?” the older woman asked.

Stella hesitated. “Of course.”

Victoria stepped inside, her gaze scanning the room with faint disapproval. “We offered better quarters, you know.”

“Joseph overruled it.”

Victoria didn’t deny it. She glanced at the photo still in Stella’s hands.

“You were never meant to return,” she said softly. “But the pack demanded charity cases be reintegrated. I used it as a pretext.”

“Why?” Stella asked. “Why bring me back?”

“To keep an eye on you.”

“Because I’m dangerous?”

“Because you know too much.”

They stared at each other.

“I kept your secret,” Stella said. “I lost five years for it.”

“And I’ve paid in silence every day since.”

“Your son thinks I murdered his father.”

“He’s wrong.”

“Then tell him.”

Victoria’s expression hardened. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Then we’re done here.”

Victoria turned to leave but paused at the door.

“You’re not the only one carrying a burden, Stella. But remember: silence can protect, and it can destroy.”

---

Hours later, Stella knelt in the grand hallway, polishing the ancestral swords. Her hands moved methodically over the gleaming metal. One slip, and—

“Still polishing?” Joseph’s voice rang out behind her.

She stood, stiff-backed. “You assigned me this.”

“I thought you’d give up halfway.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

He stepped closer, staring at her.

“These blades belonged to our founding Alphas. One wrong touch, and they say ghosts haunt you.”

“Better ghosts than liars,” she said quietly.

His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

She held her ground. “Nothing.”

“I could make this worse for you.”

“You already have.”

A tense silence.

Joseph studied her for a long moment, then leaned in. “Why didn’t you defend yourself in court?”

“Would it have mattered?”

“Yes.”

“Not to people like you.”

“People like me?” His voice turned dangerous.

“Rich. Powerful. Protected. You think you see everything, but you don’t.”

His jaw clenched. “I see enough to know you don’t belong here.”

“Then stop dragging me back.”

Another silence. He turned to leave, then paused.

“You’ll be serving dinner tonight,” he said. “Rebecca’s joining me.”

She gave a slight nod.

“And wear something that doesn’t scream ex-convict.”

“I wasn’t given options.”

He looked at her, then abruptly turned away and stalked down the hall.

---

That night, she stood at the edge of the dining room, dressed in the standard brown maid uniform, hair pulled back tightly. She served plates in silence while Joseph and Rebecca laughed over wine.

“She doesn’t speak much, does she?” Rebecca asked sweetly.

“She didn’t speak much at her trial either,” Joseph said, eyes fixed on his glass.

“She’s learned her place then.”

“No,” he murmured. “She’s just hiding it better.”

Stella didn’t flinch. She poured water. Cleared dishes. Endured.

When the dinner ended, she returned to the attic.

The boiler rattled in the corner. She lay down, sweat-drenched, exhausted, but wide awake.

Outside her door, she heard footsteps pause.

Joseph’s voice, low. “Let’s see how long you last, Hart.”

Then silence.

She turned to the wall and whispered, “Longer than you think.”