Page 1 of The Alpha's Crimson Vow (Eternal Oath Saga #2)

Katherine

Chris Winters is already seated when I arrive at the restaurant. He stands as I approach—a tall guy, decent-looking in a bland, forgettable sort of way. Maybe six feet tall, with neatly trimmed blonde hair and a face that suggests a losing battle with growing a beard.

Polite enough, I suppose, as he circles the table to pull out my chair. But there’s no warmth in the gesture, just a practiced air, like he’s following some kind of manual on “How to Impress a Woman.”

“Mr. Winters. Good evening,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, my defenses already on high alert.Men like him always bring that side out of me.

There’s just something about the way he looks at me—like everything I’ve worked for, all my accomplishments, even being the CEO of Pinnacle Group, somehow doesn’t matter. Like I’m just something to be looked at, something to stir his fantasies.

Before this date, I looked him up, and he’s not the kind of guy I’d ever be excited to sit down to dinner with.

He smiles, but it’s more a display than a genuine expression. “Let’s not be so formal. Just Chris will do, Katherine.”

I nod and take my seat. Before I can settle in, Chris snaps his fingers at a nearby waiter like he’s calling for a dog. The waiter steps forward promptly but apparently not quickly enough for Chris’s liking.

“Hurry it up!” he barks, his sharp tone making my eyebrow lift ever so slightly. I don’t say anything, though.

“We’ll have the Lasagna alla Bolognese and a bottle of wine,” Chris says.

The waiter jots down his order, then turns to me with a professional smile. “And for you, ma’am?”

I reach for the menu, but before I can even open it, Chris cuts in. “I already said we’ll have the Lasagna alla Bolognese. Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

The waiter pauses, clearly thrown off by the abruptness but still trying to maintain his composure. “Apologies, sir,” he says with a slight bow before heading off.

I glance at Chris, a mix of amusement and irritation bubbling under the surface. “You didn’t let me order,” I say, my voice steady but pointed.

Chris shrugs, flashing an awkward smile. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

The waiter returns shortly with the wine, pouring Chris a glass first. When he moves to pour mine, I raise a hand to stop him. “No, thank you. I’ll just have water.”

The waiter nods and leaves, returning moments later with a glass of water that he pours carefully.

Chris watches the exchange, then leans back in his chair, a smug expression creeping onto his face. “You strike me as the type of girl who doesn’t like being told what to do… or doing what she’s told,” he says, a faint chuckle in his voice like he’s trying to come off playful.

“Evidently,” I reply, my tone flat, not bothering to entertain whatever joke he thinks he’s making.

"It must be overwhelming," he says, swirling his wine. "Such a big company for someone so... inexperienced."

I take a sip of water, wishing it was something stronger. "I assure you, I'm quite capable."

"Of course, of course." His smile feels phony. "But surely you understand the need for a strong guiding hand. Someone to help you navigate the complexities of leadership."

"You mean someone like you?" I arch an eyebrow.

"Well," he preens, "I do have extensive experience in corporate leadership. My father always said women in business need.."

"Let me stop you right there," I interrupt, placing my napkin on the table. "I don't need guidance, Christopher. I need respect. And you clearly aren't capable of providing that."

"A woman in your position needs someone to handle the real challenges so you can...focus on what you're good at," he continues, his eyes trailing over me in that familiar way that makes my skin crawl.

I've seen that look a thousand times. Men who think my model-worthy features somehow negate my Harvard MBA.

“What I’m good at?” I echo, leaning forward. “And what might that be, Mr. Winters?”

“Managing the details. Socializing. Looking pretty.”

The glass in my hand is dangerously close to shattering. I take a deep breath, forcing a smile. “That’s fascinating. Tell me, what exactly do you bring to the table?”

His smile falters, but he recovers quickly. “Connections. Influence. The kind of power your family wants in a partnership.”

“Well,” I say, grabbing my purse. “It’s been enlightening. But I don’t think you and I are a good fit. So I’m afraid your ‘partnership’ is off the table.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I get to my feet. “What I meant by that, Mr. Winters, is that this foolish date is over.”

The finality and command in my tone stuns him into a gaping silence. I almost smile. He looks better when he has nothing to say.

I drop a couple of hundreds on the table and turn away, my louboutins click-clacking against the marble floor as I leave.

“That arrogant bitch! Who the hell would ever marry a woman who thinks she can act like a man?!”

I hear his furious complaints on my way out, but I couldn’t care less as I stride out of the restaurant.

What a total waste of my time.

I don’t even know how I’ve managed to put up with all of this nonsense. It’s taking every ounce of patience I have. The world seems to be overrun with men like Chris Winters, and honestly? It’s pathetic.

And me? Lately I’ve had the displeasure of crossing paths with guys like him way more often than my stomach can handle, all because The family elders won’t stop breathing down my neck. They’re always harping on about the importance of marriage—how I’m “not getting any younger” and how crucial it is for someone in my position to “secure the family legacy.”

Chris Winters is just another one of their handpicked suitors, another one of their golden ducks they’ve wheeled out for me to endure an awkward encounter with. In a way, I get it—on paper, it makes sense. The Winters family has been a solid partner to Pinnacle Group for years, and Chris is the heir to their empire. Of course the elders see him as the perfect match.

What they’re not considering, though, is that he’s an absolute dickhead.

It’s exhausting. It’s only been six months since Mom and Dad passed away, six months since I took over the company. And in that time, the elders haven’t even let me breathe. Not one week of peace without their constant nagging about this apparent need for me to marry urgently. It feels like they’d love nothing more than to have total control over every aspect of my professional and personal life.

I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the storm of thoughts swirling in my head as I drive through the city streets, their glow softened by the golden haze of streetlights. A quick glance at the sleek watch on my wrist tells me it’s nearly 9 PM. A dry laugh escapes my lips.

What a joke. That so-called “dinner date” was annoying enough all by itself. But the fact that I could’ve been prepping for tomorrow’s board meeting or finishing up on some work pricks at me even more.

The drive back to the office is smooth, my thoughts a little less chaotic as I pull into the near-empty parking lot. The cool night air greets me as I step out. Without hesitation, I head straight for the building.

The automatic doors part with their familiar hum, and I stride inside, offering a quick nod to the reception staff as they gather their things to leave for the night.

“Goodnight,” I say, my tone polite but clipped.

“Goodnight, ma’am,” one of them replies, her voice warm but cautious.

I keep walking, my lips curving into a faint smile. Good for them, heading home to their families or whatever peaceful lives they’ve built for themselves. Me? I’d rather be here. Working.

Home isn’t much of a draw for me these days. Sure, I’ve got a spacious apartment, more luxurious than I’d ever need, but it feels more like a showroom than a home. I’ve even started keeping a rotation of clothes in my office. Most nights, I crash on the leather couch in the corner, finding its familiar firmness oddly comforting during those brief hours I allow myself to sleep.

It’s better this way. Being at home only amplifies the loneliness, even though it really isn’t anything I can’t handle—I’ve been used to that for years. It’s the unproductive stillness that gets to me, that gnawing sense of wasting time when there’s always something that needs to be done.

And there’s always something. Between the relentless demands of running the company, the family elders’ endless schemes to marry me off, and the subtle but unmistakable doubts I see in the eyes of certain board members, there’s no room for error.

Not for me.

I can’t falter. Can’t slip. Every move has to be calculated, every decision sharp. Because any hint of a mistake from me will surely been seen as weakness.

I walk past the stairway, my eyes catching on the steps for just a second—long enough to pull me back to that night. That one night when everything was too much. That night when I couldn’t be strong and the emotions pierced into my heart.

I’d just heard about my parents accident. The words still rang in my ears. I’d tried to hold it together, tried to make it out of the building unnoticed, but I didn’t make it far. The stairway became my refuge, and I crumpled there, sobbing harder than I ever had in my life.

I thought I was alone. I needed to be alone. But then someone saw me.

That janitor .

He didn’t say much. Just sat there, quietly, like he understood. At one point, he offered a soft word I don’t even remember now, and then, oddly enough, his sandwich. It was the strangest thing, but in that moment, it felt so real, so human—an act of kindness from someone who had no reason to be kind.

The world could use more people like that, I remember thinking that day. People who don’t want anything, who just… care. But the world isn’t full of people like him. The world is full of boardroom politics, endless work, and family elders who won’t let me breathe.

The thought of that janitor, the one I never saw again after that night, lingers for a moment before slipping away as I reach the elevator. A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, focusing on the cold feel of the button under my finger as I press it.

I hate elevators. Being trapped in a metal box, the walls always feeling a little too close, it’s never been something I’m comfortable with. But I manage. I always do.

It’s just a few seconds. I remind myself. Still, every time without fail, there’s that flicker of unease, that quiet voice in my head whispering nerves.

As the doors begin to slide shut, a voice cuts through the stillness.

“Please, hold the door.”

The words are polite, but there’s something else about the voice that makes my hand shoot out to stop the doors without hesitation. Something familiar.

He steps into view, my eyes widening with shock at the sight before me.

The janitor.

He fills the space with a presence so commanding, so powerful, that I feel momentarily dwarfed. It makes no sense for a man like this to be a janitor. His broad shoulders nearly brush the sides of the elevator, and his dark, sharp eyes flick to mine briefly before darting away. His frame is towering, but there’s a quiet gentleness to the way he moves, like he’s acutely aware of how much space he occupies.

“Sorry, Ms. Lockhart,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant, as though he doesn’t want to intrude. And then there’s that accent I can’t place. Both his voice and his appearance do not suit his job.

I manage a small smile. “It’s no trouble.”

He nods, stepping into the elevator, and the doors glide shut.

A part of me is thankful for his presence—at least I’m not alone in here.

My gaze flickers to him briefly. The first time I saw him, I hadn’t really taken him in—too consumed by my own whirlwind of emotions to notice much of anything. But now, for just a moment, I allow myself to really look.

His face is all sharp angles and rugged strength. He could probably be a model if he wanted, with that chiseled jaw and those steady, thoughtful eyes.

My eyes trail down to the small tag pinned to his chest, catching the name printed there.

Alex.

So that’s his name.

“Long day?” he asks, his voice breaking the silence.

I blink. “You could say that.”

He nods, as though he understands more than he lets on. “It’s always the long days that remind us to rest,” he says, his tone simple but oddly profound.

And then, just as I am forming a response, the floor beneath me jolts violently.

The lights above us flicker wildly, bathing the small elevator in a strobe of bright flashes and sharp shadows. My stomach lurches.

Alex’s eyes go wide, a look of shock crossing his face, but it doesn’t compare to the sheer terror that grips me. My hands shoot out, grasping at the cold, smooth walls of the elevator, clawing for anything solid to hold onto as the steel box around us shakes like it’s caught in an earthquake.

The elevator jerks to a sudden stop, and everything goes still.

The tiny, enclosed space is suffocating, the only sound the ragged gasp of my breathing as I collapse to the floor. My mind is spinning, my body trembling. The walls seem to close in, inch by inch, until I feel like they’re pressing against my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.

My throat tightens. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe.

Tight spaces have always been my worst nightmare, my one unshakable fear since childhood. It’s irrational, I know that, but knowing doesn’t help when the panic is this all-consuming. The memories flash through my mind—locked away in closets from being forced into stupid games of hide and seek with my cousin, the trapped feelings, the helplessness—and I feel like I’m that scared little girl all over again.

My mind spirals out of control, latching onto the fear, feeding it until it feels like it’s going to swallow me whole.

Is this how I die?

My breaths come faster, more erratic, until I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.

And then, his hand grabs mine.

It’s warm, rough, and firm, but not in a way that hurts. It’s grounding, steady, and so impossibly real that it pulls me back from the edge of that dark, spiraling abyss.

“Ms. Lockhart,” Alex says, his deep, accented voice cutting through the fog in my mind. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

His tone is calm but commanding, the kind of voice you can’t ignore, no matter how lost you are in your own panic. I look up at him, and his face comes into focus through my blurred vision. He’s crouched down now, his tall frame somehow folding into the cramped space.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice softer now. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just like this.”

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly, and I can’t help but try to mimic it. My first attempt is shaky, my breath hitching halfway through.

“Again,” he urges gently. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. You’ve got this.”

I try again, and this time, it’s a little easier. His eyes stay locked on mine the whole time. The crushing weight in my chest starts to ease, just a little. The walls don’t feel so close anymore.

“There you go,” he says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing great. Just keep going.”

I focus on the rhythm of his breaths, matching it, until the panic starts to ebb away. My hands stop shaking, and the tight band around my chest loosens.

Just then, a booming voice echoes from outside the stifling confines of the elevator. “Hey! Is anyone in there?”

“Yes!” Alex’s voice cuts through, “Ms. Lockhart is in here. Can you get the doors open?”

The atmosphere outside turns immediately, the rush of footsteps and the clatter of tools reaching my ears as soon as my name is mentioned. I can hear the urgency in their movements, the sound of metal scraping against metal.

Soon, there’s a gap, as the steel doors are pried open. It’s just small enough that the workers can fit two crowbars in to keep the gap opened. One of the workers peeps in through the slightly open door to see me.

“Don’t worry Ms. Lockhart, we’ll fix this in no time,” he says.

This doesn’t bring me any comfort. The doors are just barely open and it feels like it’s been too long already.

“Let me try to help,” Alex says as he stands up. He rolls up his sleeves and slips his fingers into the space between the doors. Like that, he begins to strain, working with the two outside to force the doors open.

I watch the muscles in his back and arms bunch up through his uniform as he pushes the doors apart. It’s ridiculous, but there’s something about the way his body moves, the controlled power in his every motion. Like he’s holding back, like he’s capable of so much more.

His forearms flex as he grips the metal, his shoulders flexing beneath the fabric of his overalls. A loud creak fills the air, and the doors finally part.

Alex turns to me, his hand extended. “Come on, Ms. Lockhart,” he says, his voice steady and calm, like we didn’t just survive a life-threatening ordeal together. “Let’s get you out of here.”

His grip on my hand is steady enough to keep me grounded but soft enough not to hurt.

I step out quickly, exhaling a deep breath as my feet touch solid ground. Relief washes over me. The technicians mutter their apologies, but I barely register them. I nod absentmindedly, my focus already on distancing myself from the rattling metal box that nearly pushed me over the edge.

As they move toward the elevator with their tools, I turn and walk toward my office, feeling Alex’s presence just behind me. His voice cuts through the stillness.

“I’m sorry about that, Ms. Lockhart. Are you alright?”

He apologizes as if it’s his fault the elevator had a mind of its own. I exhale again, steadying myself. “I’m fine. Just hungry,” I say, surprising even myself. Normally, I would’ve just said I’m fine and left it at that.

His response, however, surprises me even more. “I could get you something from the vending machine,” he offers, his tone sincere.

For a moment, I’m stunned. The kindness in his offer reminds of that night when he’d given me his sandwich. It’s a simple gesture, just as that one was, but it somehow feels meaningful.

“I’d appreciate that,” I reply, my voice steady, maybe even a little too formal.

When we reach my office door, he lingers, his gaze on me as though he’s still worried I might stumble or collapse. It’s oddly endearing. Cute, even.

The truth is, I am still shaken. My fingers twitch slightly, and my heart hasn’t quite slowed to its normal rhythm. All I want is to sink into the couch and breathe for a minute. But I keep my usual strong front.

“I’ll be back soon,” Alex says, his tone light but reassuring. “It’ll only take a sec.”

I watch him as he walks down the hall toward the vending machines, his figure disappearing around the corner. Then I turn the handle, step inside my office, and immediately drop onto the couch.

The soft leather cushions seem to absorb my tension as I let out a long breath, leaning back and closing my eyes for a moment.

I feel a quiet bloom of gratitude. Alex had been calm when I’d started to spiral. Just like that night in the stairwell, his presence felt grounding in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

“Come in,” I say, my voice already softer, knowing exactly who it is.

Alex steps inside quietly, holding a steaming pack of ramen in one hand and an energy drink in the other.

I gesture toward the small table in front of me, and he sets everything down carefully, the steam rising in soft curls from the ramen.

He straightens and nods, his expression curt yet warm, like he’s genuinely glad I’ll eat something. No words, no unnecessary small talk. Just that quiet, steady presence. He turns toward the door, clearly intent on leaving me to it.

But something stops me. Maybe it’s the lingering nerves from earlier, the way my hands still feel unsteady. Or maybe it’s the simple gratitude welling up in me for how kind he’s been. Whatever it is, the words are out before I think too hard about them.

“Could you stay for a moment? I’d like to share.” I gesture toward the food, my voice soft but audible enough.

He pauses, turning back toward me. For a moment, his eyes linger on mine, as if he’s weighing the request. Then, a gentle smile crosses his face. “Thank you, Ms. Lockhart,” he says, stepping closer and lowering himself into the chair across from me.

The air in the room seems to change as he sits. It’s subtle—a kind of quiet safety that wraps itself around me. It feels warm, comforting, like sitting with an old friend even though I barely know him.

I pick up the ramen, breaking apart the chopsticks from the side of the pack. As I hand him the energy drink, I can’t help but reflect on the irony.

My evening had started with a fancy dinner at an upscale restaurant, where I sat across from a man who couldn’t have been further from the definition of “gentleman.” And now here I am, sharing a box of instant ramen with a janitor I barely know.

And yet, this moment feels more real, more human. Chris Winters and his designer suit are nothing compared to Alex and his simple kindness. A kindness that, in this moment, a small part of me hopes I will come to see more of.