Page 18 of His Problem Alpha

"Excellent." Richard stands, extending his hand. "My assistant will send over the contract details this afternoon. We'll need a comprehensive timeline, of course, but I trust you can handle that."

I shake his hand, my mind reeling. "Absolutely. Thank you for this opportunity."

"No need to thank me. Your work speaks for itself." He walks me toward the door, then pauses. "You know, I was skeptical when Lawson first mentioned you. But seeing what you've done for my son and Kole's website, and now this... well, I'm impressed."

I feel a warm rush hearing about my friends. "How are they? And little Noah?"

Richard's face completely transforms, softening in a way I wouldn't have thought possible.

"Thriving. Noah's sitting up on his own now, babbling up a storm.

It's... extraordinary, watching your child become a parent.

" His eyes get a distant, wistful look. "It changes your whole world, seeing your son become a father. "

His words hit me hard. This sudden longing comes out of nowhere, so intense I have to grab the back of a chair to steady myself. The room spins for a second, and I suck in a sharp breath.

"Devon?" Richard's voice sounds far away. "Are you alright?"

I blink hard, trying to focus. "Yes, sorry. Just a little lightheaded. Probably low blood sugar—I skipped breakfast."

Richard frowns. "You should take better care of yourself. Can't have my new design lead collapsing on me."

"I'll grab something on the way home," I promise, desperate to get out of there before I do something else weird. "Thank you again for this opportunity."

Outside, the bright morning sun feels like needles in my eyes. I lean against the cool brick of the building, trying to get my bearings. What the hell was that? Why did a simple comment about Lawson’s baby make me feel like I’d been punched in the gut?

I pull out my phone and text Alex, my thumbs moving on autopilot:

Got the contract. Full rebrand. Coming home now.

His reply is almost immediate:

Knew you would. Proud of you. I'll be waiting.

My throat tightens reading those simple words. Proud of you. When was the last time anyone said that to me?

I head for the subway when the nausea hits again—worse this time. Shit. I barely make it to a coffee shop bathroom before everything comes up. When I emerge, pale and shaky, the barista gives me a sympathetic look as she slides a glass of water across the counter.

"Rough morning?" she asks.

"You could say that," I mutter, taking the water with a grateful nod.

"You look like my sister did when she was pregnant," she says casually, wiping down the counter. "Same green tinge."

I choke on the water, sputtering. "I'm not—that's not—" I stammer, but the words die in my throat as the pieces start clicking into place with horrifying clarity.

Morning sickness. Exhaustion. A sense of smell so sharp it’s a liability. The weird mini-cycle. My missed period, which I’d so conveniently blamed on stress.

No. No fucking way.

My hands are trembling as I pull out my phone and type "early omega pregnancy symptoms" into the search bar. The list that appears makes my gut clench like I’ve been punched.

- Nausea (especially in the morning)

- Fatigue

- Heightened sense of smell

- Emotional sensitivity

- Missed cycle

- Mini-cycles or hormone fluctuations

Check. Check. Check. My heart pounds so hard I can feel the frantic beat in my throat.

This can't be happening. We were careful.

Mostly. Except for that first time, during the raw, desperate haze of my heat.

And maybe a few times since, when we got carried away and forgot everything but the need to be closer.

Fuck.

I need to get home. I need a test. I need to think.

The subway ride is a blur. My mind is a chaotic storm of possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. A baby.

Alex's baby. A tiny person with his intense green eyes and my sarcastic mouth.

A permanent, undeniable link between us that would shatter the flimsy pretense of our "practical arrangement" forever.

Not with Alex. Not when we're just pretending this isn't real.

Not when I've spent my whole life avoiding exactly this kind of permanent connection.

By the time I reach our building, I can't even sort out what I'm feeling. I'm scared shitless. This can't be happening. And yet... fuck. Some tiny part of me actually feels... hopeful? What the hell is wrong with me?

I unlock the door with shaking hands. The apartment hits me with a wall of garlic and herbs, rich and savory, mingling with the lingering scent of Alex—coffee and that earthy alpha smell I've come to associate with home.

Any other day, the aroma would make my mouth water.

Today, it hits my hypersensitive nose like a physical assault.

Alex is in the kitchen, his back to me. He's wearing headphones, the expensive ones I’m not supposed to touch, and he's humming softly, stirring something on the stove.

The scene is perfect in a way that hurts—my surly, brooding alpha, cooking dinner for us after my big meeting, lost in his own world of sound.

I open my mouth to call out to him, to say his name, but the smell intensifies. My stomach heaves. I clap a hand over my mouth and bolt for the bathroom, the portfolio I was holding so proudly just moments ago clattering to the floor.

I barely make it to the toilet before I'm violently ill again.

The heaving is brutal, leaving me empty and trembling.

I slump against the cool tile wall, my cheek pressed against the porcelain, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead.

I can hear the muffled bass of Alex's music through the closed door, a low, steady thrum that feels like it’s coming from another universe. He can’t hear me. He doesn’t know.

I’m completely alone with this.

The pieces are all there, a horrifying mosaic spelling out a truth I can’t ignore anymore. The sickness. The exhaustion. Richard Shaw’s words about fatherhood hitting me like a freight train. The barista’s casual comment. It’s not stress. It’s not the flu.

A baby. A tiny life growing inside me, half me, half Alex. The ultimate complication.

What will he do when he finds out? Will he run? Will he stay out of some misplaced sense of obligation, his resentment a poison between us? The thought of either option makes me feel sick all over again.

I close my eyes, picturing his face just before I left this morning. The concern in his eyes. The softness of his kiss. The possessive way he scented me. Is any of that real enough to survive this?

My hand, slick with cold sweat, rests on my still-flat stomach. A single, terrifying thought cuts through the nausea, sharp and clear and undeniable.

Oh, fuck.