The Lost Evelyn

Chapter 1

I glanced at the petite cake in my hands, its frosting swirled perfectly. "Hey, don't worry about it. The cake you sent is amazing. It's more than enough to make today special," I reassured her, even though a part of me wilted at the thought of spending the day without her.

Zara was the one person at school who truly understood me. On days she was absent, the hours dragged like chains. Yet, I held back from telling her; she didn't need any added guilt.

"I missed my first shift last night. So technically, it might not even be my real birthday yet," I tried to joke, clinging to a sliver of hope. 

In our world, being an orphan meant your past was shrouded in mystery. No knowledge of your real birth date or whether you were born an Alpha or a Beta. Our kind — werewolves — typically shifted for the first time on our eighteenth birthday, at midnight. But last night, nothing happened for me.

Today, according to the adoption papers, was supposed to be my eighteenth birthday, September 5th. It was just a date picked by some official who probably didn't think twice about it. But to me, it meant everything and nothing all at once.

I wasn't exactly Alpha material with my shy, bookish nature, and frankly, I didn't care whether I turned out to be a Beta or an Omega. All I wanted was to find my own path to happiness and fulfillment. Yet, the anticipation of shifting, of finally having a piece of my identity revealed, kept me on edge.

Eighteen also marked the end of my legally bound obedience to my adoptive family. I had been saving every penny from my part-time job, planning for the day I could finally stand on my own two feet — away from those who never really wanted me.

With a sigh, I walked through the back door into the house that never quite felt like a home. The silence was a stark reminder of my solitude. I set the cake down on the kitchen table, the colorful candles mocking me in their cheerfulness. 

In that quiet kitchen, the weight of my unresolved future pressed down on me, yet the hope of discovering who I really was flickered like the flame of a birthday candle.Clara stood hesitantly at the threshold of the dining room, clutching the cake with trembling hands. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribcage, a mix of hope and old hurt swirling in her chest. The room before her buzzed with the warm chatter of her family—her family by name, if not by feeling. 

"Clara, is that you?" Ophelia's voice sliced through the hum, sharp yet oblivious. "Hurry into the dining room. We’re about to eat dinner."

As she moved forward, the murmurs hushed, replaced by a palpable tension. She knew that look well—the surprise, the fleeting guilt that flashed across Ophelia’s features, then Arlo’s, and lastly, Eliandra’s. It was the same every year, each forgotten birthday etching a deeper notch in her heart.

Setting the cake on the table, Clara forced a smile. "Zara ordered me a buh... birthday cake," she stuttered, the familiar hitch in her voice making her wince inwardly. She hated that part of herself, the way her words would tangle up like knotted strings when her nerves frayed.

The room fell silent, every pair of eyes fixed on her. For a moment, Clara felt the old, gnawing pain of being the outsider—the adopted one. But as she met their gazes, something shifted. Maybe it was the way the candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows that smoothed the hard lines of judgment, or maybe it was her own resolve hardening, the realization that she deserved this moment, no matter their past neglect.

Eliandra cleared her throat, a small crease forming between her brows. "We... we didn't forget, Clara. It's just been hectic with mom’s new job and all..."

Clara nodded, letting the excuse wash over her. She knew the real truth lay in their actions, year after year. But tonight, she decided, would be different. She would claim this slice of joy, however brief.

"Let’s just enjoy the cake," Clara said, her voice steadier now. She sliced into the soft, spongy layers, distributing pieces around the table, her movements deft and sure. As they ate, laughter slowly seeped back into the room, filling the spaces between them.

Maybe, just maybe, this birthday wouldn’t be stored away with the others. Maybe this year, the cake wouldn’t taste of forgotten promises and hidden tears. Maybe this time, it would taste just like hope.The tension in the room thickened, palpable as the silence that enveloped us. Eliandra’s eye roll was a silent storm, brewing discontent. It was evident; they had forgotten. Their indifference stung more sharply than the cold slice of neglect.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” Ophelia’s voice sliced through the quiet, her apology as frigid as her gaze. “My day’s been a whirlwind. Completely slipped my mind that it’s your birthday. I managed to grab a pizza—that's dinner sorted. We could hit a restaurant, though, if you’re up for it?”

“No way,” Eliandra interjected, her head emphatic with dissent. “I’m not in the mood to go out, Mom. Besides, pizza’s perfect.” Her challenge was clear, eyes locking with mine, unspoken words hanging between us. “And really, why fuss over Clara’s birthday? It’s not like she even knows her real birth date.”

“P… Pizza is fine, Ophelia,” I managed, my words stumbling awkwardly as I set the birthday cake at the table’s heart. “We can sh… share the c… cake later.” 

Inside, frustration simmered. My stutter, always more pronounced under stress, mocked me. Why did I let them, of all people, fray my nerves? I was always there, a constant in their chaos, never once forgetting a birthday or a need.

Ophelia’s smile was strained, barely touching her eyes. “Alright then, Clara. Let’s plan something special after your first shift, okay?”

I nodded, a quiet acquiescence, and took my seat. The pizza was merely a prelude to the sweetness of the cake, a small solace in the evening’s awkward orchestration. After we ate, I cleared the debris of our meal and washed the dishes, the mundane task a refuge from the earlier tension.

Joining the family in the living room, we settled into the rhythm of the evening news. The lead story captured our attention—a tale of loss and longing. Eli Jenkins, a billionaire at the helm of the United Association of Alphas, was grappling with a personal tragedy amidst his battle with cancer. Years ago, a devastating car accident had torn his daughter Evelyn from his life. His search for her had become more desperate, time his cruel adversary.

As the anchor delved deeper into Jenkins' plight, a pang of sorrow twinged within me. To think of him, possibly leaving this world without a final embrace from his daughter, was a heartache no one deserved. The story lingered in the room, a ghostly presence among us, as we absorbed the weight of such enduring hope and love.In the dense canopy of twilight, the air hummed with a palpable tension that enveloped the werewolf community. Their leader, a figure both revered and feared, orchestrated a frantic search for the missing Alpha Princess. The stakes were astronomical; not only was she the rightful heir to a formidable legacy, but her union with her chosen fiancé would solidify alliances crucial to their survival.

The urgency of their quest was broadcasted live, the camera panning over to capture another scene unfolding. It was here I saw him—Thomas Bryant, a name synonymous with power. His charisma filled the screen, his presence alone enough to command attention. Thomas, a prodigious figure who had turned his family's enterprise into a towering empire, was more than just an Alpha billionaire; he was the chosen consort for Evelyn, destined to lead alongside her.

His voice broke through the chatter as he discussed his recent visit to the birthplace of Eli Jenkins’s late wife. "It was purely by chance," Thomas recounted, revealing he had stumbled upon a childhood photograph of her—a rare find that brought unexpected nostalgia.

The screen transitioned to show a familiar image of Evelyn's mother, known to all from countless news segments. Yet, it was the next image that caught everyone off guard: a childhood photo revealing her naturally curly hair and thick, bushy eyebrows—traits starkly contrasting her well-known adult appearance.

The reporter’s voice sliced through the murmurs, “If anyone knows the whereabouts of Evelyn Jenkins, call this number." He continued, "By now, Evelyn would be almost eighteen, possibly bearing a resemblance to this childhood photo.”

A gasp escaped my lips, turning the heads of Ophelia, Arlo, and Eliandra toward me. My heart pounded as I met their gazes, my own reflection mirroring the image displayed—a young woman on the cusp of eighteen, with unruly curls and bushy brows.

"The lost Evelyn Jenkins could be anywhere," the newscaster intoned. "And she may not even know who she is."

The room spun slightly as the weight of his words sank in. Could it be possible? Was the life I knew nothing but a veneer, concealing a heritage steeped in mystery and power? The eyes of my companions bore into me, searching, questioning, as the pieces of a puzzle I never knew existed began to fall perilously into place.

Chapter 2

His voice, clear and resonant, seemed to tunnel directly into my thoughts. "So, for all you young women nearing eighteen," he announced, "if you're marked by thick eyebrows and curls wild as untamed vines, reach out to us. You might just be Evelyn Jenkins, lost heiress to the colossal fortune of Eli Jenkins, a titan on his deathbed."

Ophelia's fingers suddenly teased a curl at my temple. "You should dial that number, Clara. Perhaps this is the chapter of your story yet unwritten."

A harsh laugh shattered the moment. Eliandra, with her sharp, mocking tone, pierced the thin veil of my hope. "Clara? An heiress?" She scoffed, her laughter ringing out again. "Please, Eli Jenkins stands as the patriarch of The United Association of Alphas. And Clara here?" She threw me a derisive glance. "Definitely no Alpha."

"Enough, Eliandra," Ophelia chided gently, her eyes twinkling mischievously at her daughter. "We can't rule out any possibilities until Clara's first shift on her eighteenth birthday."

I pretended not to notice the exchange, the wink, or the smirk. Such barbs were commonplace, yet they stung anew each time.

Shaking my head slightly, I faced Ophelia. "Eliandra's not wrong," I murmured, more to myself than to them. "I'm no Alpha Princess."

The thought of joining the ranks of hopefuls seemed as ludicrous as squandering my savings on lottery tickets. Girls my age with similar features were dime a dozen; what were the odds?

No, my plan was clear. Keep my head down, work through college, and secure a career. That path would lead me to a future of independence, a life where I no longer depended on the whims and charity of others.I never had any desire to be an Alpha. Tales of their ruthless cliques, using camaraderie as a cloak for corruption, left a sour taste in my mouth. Power, wealth — the magnets that drew them together — were the very things I loathed.

"No, thank you. That life is not for me," I murmured under my breath, moments before the shrill ring of the phone shattered the silence.

Eliandra, with her usual disdain thinly veiled, flung the phone at me. "It's your nerdy buddy," she sneered.

Brushing off her barb, I answered the call. "Hello."

"Hey, Clara," came Zara's apologetic tone. "Really sorry about missing your birthday... Dad's got something to ask you, though. You might actually like it."

The line crackled slightly before a familiar voice spoke, "Clara? It's Alan Cook."

Mr. Cook, Zara’s father, was also my employer — a beacon of kindness in the often indifferent world of my foster care experience.

"Hey, Mr. Cook, what's up?" I asked, masking my curiosity.

"Tomorrow's Saturday, and I know you're already on for lunch and afternoon. But could you cover the dinner shift too? Leah's got a family emergency."

The prospect of extra hours was music to my ears. "Absolutely, I'd be happy to."

He hesitated, his concern audible even through the phone. "I just worry about you overworking, Clara."

"I'll manage, Mr. Cook. Really, I appreciate your concern," I reassured him, feeling a warmth spread through me knowing he cared.

"Alright then. See you tomorrow," he concluded, and the line went dead.

Extra work was my lifeline, a chance to pull myself out of the mire of my current existence and forge a path to something better.

As night enveloped the room, restless thoughts of Evelyn Jenkins and Thomas Bryant wove through my mind, each twining a thread of intrigue and unease around my heart.

Morning broke far too soon, sunlight spilling across the sheets. Realizing the time, I bolted from bed, my heart pounding with the urgency of the late hour.

Scrambling to get ready, I dashed down the stairs only to find Ophelia, hands perched on her hips, casting a disapproving glance in my direction.

"You should already be on your way," she chided.

Breathless, I managed, "I... I know." The weight of the day pressed down, but the fire to change my stars kept me moving forward.The first light of dawn was just beginning to seep through the curtains when I finally drifted off. Sleep had been an elusive companion, slipping through my fingers like sand. When morning arrived, it felt as though I had barely closed my eyes.

"You're going to have to eat on the go today." Ophelia's voice cut through the haze of my grogginess as she thrust a plate with two slices of toast at me. 

"Thanks," I muttered, grabbing them before hurrying out the back door. The toast was bland and slightly stale, yet my stomach rumbled in appreciation. By the time the familiar outline of the restaurant loomed ahead, the toast was nothing but crumbs.

Outside, the morning sun caressed my face, offering a warmth that contrasted sharply with the crisp air filling my lungs. I paused, savoring this brief respite before the day's demands ensnared me again. It would be nightfall before I could enjoy such freedom again.

Suddenly, a commotion across the street snapped me out of my reverie. A crowd had gathered, their attention riveted on a figure whose voice boomed with authority and charisma. I squinted, trying to place the familiar face.

It was Thomas Bryant, the missing heiress’s fiancé, holding court among the locals. His presence was magnetic, drawing all eyes—including mine—to him. "This neighborhood will see improvements, and it won't cost any of you a dime," he declared, his voice resonant and confident. The crowd erupted in cheers.

Surprise flickered through me. Thomas, unlike the stereotypical elite, seemed genuinely invested in bettering the werewolf community here—without any financial burden on them. It was a rare gesture of altruism.

As I watched him, envy mixed with admiration stirred within me. Thomas exuded a natural ease in public speaking, his stature commanding and his features strikingly handsome. Even from a distance, the determined set of his jaw and the persuasive sway of his gestures were mesmerizing.

Lost in the moment, I barely noticed Mr. Cook, the restaurant owner, appear beside me. His presence jolted me back to reality, reminding me of the long day ahead. Yet, even as I turned to enter the restaurant, my thoughts lingered on the scene outside, on Thomas Bryant's unexpected benevolence, and on the fleeting connection I felt, standing there under the morning sun.Clara’s heart pounded as she glanced at the clock above the diner’s entrance. Late again, and Mr. Cook, her boss, stood there with his arms crossed, a wrinkle of concern etching his brow.

“I was getting worried about you, Clara. You’re usually early for your shift.”

The words tumbled out in a rush, each syllable tripping over the next. “S… Sorry, I… um… overslept.” Her gaze drifted past Mr. Cook to where Thomas Bryant stood across the street, mingling with a group of locals. “Isn’t it wonderful what he’s doing for the local werewolves?”

Mr. Cook’s expression darkened as he ushered her inside the bustling diner. “Thomas Bryant does nothing for others,” he muttered under his breath.

Clara, taken aback, followed him into the warmth of the kitchen. “But I… I heard him tell everyone he’s going to pay for improvements to this neighborhood.”

“He didn’t tell the crowd that he owns every building on this street,” Mr. Cook revealed, his voice laced with bitterness. “And I’ve been warned that I need to shut down the restaurant while the improvements are being made, and afterward, everyone's rent will be doubled.”

Shock washed over Clara. “Thomas is going to make a fortune!” she blurted out, a sense of betrayal creeping into her voice. How could she have been so naive? Thomas was the epitome of a wealthy Alpha, using charm to mask his true intentions.

Mr. Cook sighed heavily, then donned his chef's hat with a resigned smile. “Time to get to work,” he said, his tone warm despite the cold reality they faced.

As the lunch crowd swelled, Clara moved robotically from table to table, her mind reeling from her conversation with Mr. Cook. A gnawing feeling twisted in her stomach, distracting her from her tasks. She wondered briefly if the toast she had for breakfast was off.

Midway through her shift, she noticed a couple being escorted to a booth in her section. Steeling herself, she grabbed menus and approached them, her steps hesitant. Wealthy patrons always heightened her anxiety, their mere presence intimidating.

“Hi, I’m Clara, and I’ll be your server today.” She managed to say it without her voice wavering, but her stomach did somersaults when she caught the man’s gaze.

It was Thomas Bryant.

“Hello, Clara,” he greeted her with a dazzling smile that seemed to light up the room.

Her response came out stuttered as she took their drink orders, and she walked away in a daze, her thoughts swirling. How could someone so charming be so ruthlessly self-serving? As she placed their drinks on the table, the reality of who Thomas really was settled like a weight in her chest, and she knew things at the diner—and in her life—were about to change drastically.In the dimly lit corner of the bustling restaurant, I paused, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. The weight of the tray in my hand felt heavier as I approached the secluded table where Thomas sat with the striking female Alpha. My heart raced; their intimate exchange under the table—a flirtatious play of footsies—was blatantly obvious.

I gathered myself, setting down their drinks with a shaky hand. "Here you are," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. The female Alpha’s gaze met mine, a spark of mischief in her eyes, but it was Thomas who spoke.

“The profit margin is fantastic,” he said smoothly, his attention on a document rather than the leggy distraction at his side. “The U.A.A. will be pleased.” His lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

I nodded, pretending not to notice the silent exchange of affections below the table surface. "Can I get you anything else?" My voice sounded more confident now, despite the turmoil inside.

"Just the check when you're ready," Thomas replied, his voice cool and detached.

I moved away quickly, checking on other patrons, though my thoughts lingered on Thomas and his companion. Each time I glanced back, the knot in my stomach tightened. Their casual intimacy, so public yet so private, filled me with unease.

Finally, the moment to bring the bill arrived. "Was everything okay?" I asked, my tone neutral.

"Yes, thank you," Thomas responded, standing to retrieve his wallet. He counted out the bills—more than sufficient to cover the meal and then some. He dropped a two-hundred-dollar tip onto the tray, his casual generosity momentarily stunning me.

"I—I'll be right back with your change," I stammered, flustered by the amount.

"No need," he called after me, but I was already heading towards the cash register.

When I returned, the table was empty. The lingering scent of their cologne mixed with the rich, savory smells of the kitchen. Conflicted, I pocketed the tip, a guilty flush coloring my cheeks. But before I could dwell on the morality of the situation, a sharp pang in my stomach sent me darting toward the restroom.

Halfway there, a figure emerged from the shadows—it was Thomas, alone. My mind whirled with questions. Should I return the extra money? Express my gratitude for his generosity?

He was close now, his infamous smile playing on his lips. "I wanted to ensure you kept the tip," he said, his voice low and compelling.

Words failed me as I opened my mouth to thank him. But instead of words, a sudden nausea overwhelmed me, and the contents of my stomach made a swift and mortifying appearance right there in the dimly lit hallway.

Chapter 3

“You,” he began, his voice low and controlled, “are you alright?” His unexpected concern caught me off guard.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with nerves. “Mr. Bryant, I'm profoundly sorry for what happened. I can't explain how embarrassed and regretful I am.” My words tumbled out in a rush, fueled by the panic of potentially losing my job.

Thomas’s expression softened slightly. He glanced at the suit jacket his assistant held out to him and then back at me. “It’s just clothes,” he said finally. “But are you okay? You look pale.”

Behind him, Mr. Cook shifted uncomfortably, interjecting, “She’s had a tough day, sir, lots of hours.”

I bit my lip, feeling the sting of tears again. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene. I…” My voice broke, betraying the turmoil inside.

Thomas sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration seeming to melt away. “Look, accidents happen. Let’s just forget about it, okay? But maybe take the rest of the day off, get some rest.”

Relief washed over me, mingled with a residual sense of humiliation. “Thank you, Mr. Bryant. I appreciate your understanding more than you can know.”

He nodded, then turned to speak quietly to his assistant who promptly scurried away with the stained clothes. As Thomas turned back to rejoin his party, he paused and looked at me once more. “Take care of yourself,” he said, a hint of genuine concern in his tone before he walked away.

Left standing there, the weight of the evening’s events began to truly sink in. Mr. Cook placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you head on home? I’ll cover for you.”

Nodding gratefully, I made my way out of the dining room, the echoes of what could have been a disastrous night softening with each step. As I exited the restaurant, the cool night air felt like a balm, soothing the lingering heat of embarrassment and anxiety. Tonight had been a narrow escape, and Thomas Bryant’s unexpected kindness was a reminder of the unpredictable nature of people and the surprising moments of grace that life can offer.The accusation stung like a slap. Thomas Bryant, standing imperiously in the center of the crowded restaurant, pointed a manicured finger at me. His voice dripped with disdain. "You've ruined one of my best suits."

Stammering, heat creeping up my neck, I managed, "I... I'm s-sorry." My gaze dropped to the intricately tiled floor as I tried to gather my thoughts. "Let me handle the cleaning. I'll send it to a top-notch dry cleaner."

From behind Thomas, his assistant Bryan scoffed, his voice slicing through the tense air. "Do you really think Mr. Bryant would deign to wear it after your clumsy mishap?" Bryan's eyes, sharp and accusing, flicked dismissively toward Mr. Cook, the owner of the restaurant. "It clearly shows the quality of personnel you hire."

Thomas held up a hand, silencing Bryan. "Enough," he said, turning his cool gaze on Mr. Cook. "I'll consider the matter closed if you provide a check for three thousand dollars at my office by Friday."

"Three... three thousand dollars?" The amount echoed in my head like a bad joke. Surely, this was a mistake.

"That's half of what it's actually worth," Thomas added, as if offering a favor.

Was this supposed to be an act of generosity? Confusion twisted inside me, bitter and sharp. Thomas and Bryan turned to leave, their steps echoing ominously.

Bryan paused, throwing over his shoulder, "We'll be expecting that check."

As they exited, the reality of the sum demanded settled like lead in my stomach. Three thousand dollars might as well have been three million to someone like me. Yet, there was no way I could let Zara's father bear the cost of this. They had been nothing but kind, turning their small restaurant into a place of warmth and opportunity for me.

Thomas, with his wealth and power, probably saw three thousand dollars as mere pocket change. To him, and others of his elite kind, it was nothing to demand such sums on a whim. Disappointment soured within me; how could I have ever thought he was different from any other privileged Alpha?

Mr. Cook placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You got sick, Clara. It's not your fault. I'll take care of the suit."

But I shook my head, determination setting in. "No, I can't let you do that." The resolve hardened in my voice. "I'll find a way to get the money."

As Mr. Cook nodded, understanding yet worried, I knew I had to fix this. Not just for me, but for Zara and her father who had given me so much more than just a job. They had given me a family.The golden chandeliers of Mr. Cook’s upscale restaurant cast a soft glow over the polished mahogany tables, an ambiance of refined elegance that usually soothed my nerves. But not tonight. My hands trembled as I wiped down the counter, the mishap with Thomas replaying like a broken record in my mind.

“I’m truly sorry if my mistake caused any distress to your clientele,” I murmured to Mr. Cook, who was busy reviewing the night’s menu.

Mr. Cook paused, his eyes thoughtful. “Thomas won’t say a word about this, you know,” he assured me with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He values his reputation far too much to stir up unnecessary drama. Besides, most of our guests tonight are blissfully unaware of any disturbance.”

Thomas, with his impeccable suits and a wallet thicker than a dictionary, hardly needed compensation for the ruined attire. Yet, his ego seemed to inflate with every dollar he possessed. Why must the wealthy always seem so aloof?

***

Dragging my feet through the front door of my small apartment, the events of the evening weighed heavily on me. The aroma of roasted garlic and basil lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile scent of the restaurant.

“Clara, back so soon?” Ophelia’s voice floated from the living room where she was knitting, her spectacles perched on the tip of her nose.

Dropping my keys on the table, I sighed. “I skipped dinner. Wasn’t feeling up to it.”

“Oh dear, we just wrapped up here. Didn’t save you a plate, I’m afraid,” she said, a tinge of guilt in her tone.

“A bit of soup will do,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper as I headed to the kitchen.

Ophelia trailed behind me, concern etching her features. “You look like you’ve lost a fight with a ghost. What’s eating you?”

The dam broke. I recounted the entire debacle with Thomas, my words tumbling out in a hurried mess. Ophelia’s expression shifted from concern to disbelief, her eyebrows arching skyward.

“You’ll have to replace the suit, Clara. But how on earth did you miss the spoiled butter?” she questioned, her tone equal parts incredulous and sympathetic.

Shrugging helplessly, I pulled a bowl from the cupboard and set it in the microwave. “Maybe it’s not just the butter. Zara was home sick today too. Might be a bug going around.”

Ophelia nodded, her earlier sternness softening. “Well, let’s get some soup into you and worry about the rest later. These things have a way of sorting themselves out.” 

As the microwave hummed, I leaned against the counter, the warmth from Ophelia’s words doing little to thaw the chill of anxiety in my bones.“I need your help with the suit, I’ll pay you back, I promise,” I pleaded, the desperation clear in my voice.

Ophelia exhaled deeply, her gaze fixed on the window before turning to face me. “I’ll help you,” she said, her tone resigned yet firm. “But not because you asked. I don't want our family's reputation tarnished by your predicaments.”

“Thank you, Ophelia,” I murmured, relief washing over me.

She held up a hand, stopping my gratitude mid-air. “There’s a condition,” she continued. “You need to reconsider your job choice. Waitressing? Really? You’ve been saving, yet you barely touch the money we give you. If it’s substantial funds you’re after, perhaps focusing on a more... polished appearance could attract the right kind of attention. There are affluent men out there looking for someone just like you.”

Her words stung, a slap of misunderstanding. “I’m not marrying for money, Ophelia,” I said, my voice lace with resolve. “I enjoy my job. I can manage on my own.”

Her lips thinned. “Then manage this suit situation on your own.” With those sharp words, she turned and left.

Later, alone with my thoughts and a bowl of cold soup, I retreated to my room. Pulling out the cash I had hidden away, I counted it carefully. Just over two thousand dollars. Not enough. I needed a thousand more, and soon.

I fired up my old laptop, its screen flickering to life as I scoured the internet for any job that could bridge the gap. After twenty fruitless minutes, my hope dwindled. The offerings were sparse, the pay dismal.

Just as I was about to shut down in defeat, a flashy advertisement caught my eyes. “One Thousand Dollars for Naturally Curly-Haired Girls Aged Eighteen!” it boasted. Curiosity piqued, I read on. Eli Jenkins, a name that meant nothing to me, was seeking girls to participate in a simple genetic study.

Hesitation gnawed at me for only a moment before I reached for my phone. This wasn’t about being Evelyn Jenkins or anyone else—it was about securing the funds for Thomas’s suit. I dialed the number, heart pounding with a mix of nerves and determination.

Chapter 4

As I watched, a girl ahead of me was ushered away, her dreams dashed with a shake of a nurse's head. Disappointment clung to her as she exited, her shoulders slumped. My stomach churned. Each rejection felt like a premonition of my own fate.

Around me, snippets of whispered conversations floated in the air. Two girls behind me, their curls framing their faces like halos, were deep in discussion. "They say if you're sent through that door," one gestured towards a nondescript door at the end of the hall, "you're still in the running. Those who walk out the main door... well, it’s over for them."

My heart skipped. The stakes were more than just high—they were personal. I needed that $1,000 not just for myself, but for Thomas. His future, in a way, depended on this too. 

Finally, my name echoed through the room, slicing through the murmurs. A stern-looking receptionist with a clipboard beckoned me forward. As I approached, her eyes darted down to my adoption certificate then back up to study my face, her gaze sharp and discerning.

"Is your hair naturally curly, or is it permed?" she inquired, her tone implying much rested on my answer.

The question caught me off guard. "I've nuh... never needed a perm," I stuttered, my voice trembling under her scrutinizing gaze. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air growing thinner.

Her skepticism was palpable. "This is a serious matter. Many are here thinking they can claim Mr. Jenkins’s fortune without proof."

Desperation clawed at my throat. I fumbled with my phone, pulling up an old school ID—a snapshot of a younger me, my curls just as wild then as now. "Lah... look, here’s a puh… picture from three years ago."

She took my phone, her expression unchanging as she examined the photo. Time stretched painfully before she finally handed it back. Her next words would either open a door or seal my fate.

"Follow me," she said, gesturing not towards the exit, but towards the mysterious door leading deeper into the clinic. Relief washed over me, mingling with a torrent of new anxieties about the DNA test awaiting me. But at least I had crossed the first hurdle—I was still in the running to be Evelyn Jenkins' heir.Clara's hands trembled slightly as the woman scrutinized her phone, comparing it to an old photograph that had flashed across the television screen days earlier. It was a youthful portrait of Evelyn's mother, a key piece in the mysterious puzzle surrounding the missing heiress.

"Okay, Clara," the woman finally said, her voice breaking the tense silence. She handed back the phone with a solemn nod. "I'll need some more information from you."

A nurse, clipboard in hand, approached and scribbled Clara's name at the top of a form. Clara hesitated for a moment, the image of Ophelia's stern face flashing before her eyes. Opting for caution, she provided Zara’s address instead of her own.

The nurse peppered Clara with a series of questions, some of which twisted Clara's stomach into knots, the answers just beyond her grasp. With a gentle directive, the nurse then motioned towards a doorway on the left. "Please go through there."

Clara walked into the adjacent room, her heart pounding as she avoided eye contact with the few scattered occupants. This was the testing room, where hope and desperation mingled in the air. Taking a deep breath, Clara approached another nurse stationed behind a desk.

This second nurse delved into more personal inquiries — health history, family lineage, even the nature of Clara’s curly hair. The intimacy of the questions made Clara feel exposed, vulnerable.

Once registered, Clara reluctantly agreed to the physical part of the test — a cheek swab followed by a blood draw. The sharp sting of the needle was a small price to pay if it meant helping her brother Thomas.

The room was cluttered with racks filled with various samples. Somewhere among today's crowd could be Evelyn, the lost Alpha Princess. The thought offered Clara a shred of solace, justifying her actions amidst the moral ambiguity of her quest for the reward money.

Next, she was ushered to a photography station. The setup was professional, reminiscent of a high-stakes casting call. At the far end of the room, a middle-aged man in a crisp suit and tie surveyed the scene through weary eyes. His presence, stoic and unyielding, reminded Clara of a character from an old drama series — the ever-watchful butler.

Despite his frequent glances, it seemed he looked through her, his mind perhaps wearied by the day's relentless pace. Clara sat down under the harsh lights of the camera setup, her nerves fraying under the intense scrutiny.

As the shutter clicked, capturing her image for comparison with historical photos of Evelyn's mother, Clara's thoughts raced. Each flash felt like an accusation, each snap a question of her integrity. She squirmed under the gaze of the lens, wishing fervently for the ordeal to end, her body trembling not just from fear, but from the burden of her hidden motives.As the early morning mist clung to the city streets, I was already pacing, my heart drumming a nervous beat. Today was pivotal, not just for me, but for Thomas too. I had to get that money to his office without delay.

The photography studio was vast and echoing, an arena I felt utterly misplaced in. When the camera flashed for the first time, it felt like a spotlight on my deepest insecurities. I winced, the bright burst searing through my eyelids. I've always loathed having my picture taken - the very notion that someone would want to capture and keep a moment of me seemed absurd.

The photographer, a patient soul, tried to guide me gently through the process. “Let’s try one without your glasses,” he suggested, noting how the lenses caught the harsh light. Reluctantly, I removed them, my world immediately blurring into softer, less intimidating shapes.

Without the sharp edges of reality, my anxiety ebbed slightly. I convinced myself the scrutinizing eyes of the room's occupants were no longer piercing through me. That brief respite shattered when the butler, a peculiar figure in this tableau, suddenly straightened with a jolt, his gaze locked onto us with unsettling intensity.

His momentary lapse was quickly masked by an apologetic slump back into his chair. Yet, it left a lingering question hanging in the air – what was he so alert about?

The photographer managed to capture a couple of shots with my bare face before directing me to a young woman seated authoritatively beside an armed guard. She scrutinized the document handed over by the photographer before sliding it across to me with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just need your signature here," she instructed, pointing to a line at the bottom.

A wave of relief washed over me as I read the agreement - the promise of $1,000 to be delivered within two days. That money was a lifeline. I scribbled my name quickly, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

As I neared the exit, the crisp echo of a man’s voice halted my retreat. Turning, I saw the butler again, this time in hushed conversation with the photographer. "They look too similar," he muttered, his eyes darting my way. "That girl must be her."

Panic prickled at my skin. Were they onto me? Did they suspect I wasn't who I claimed to be? I couldn't afford to stick around and find out. With a final, fleeting glance, I pushed through the doors, the city's chill welcoming me back. As I melded into the crowd, the weight of the butler’s words haunted me. Had they found the real Evelyn? More importantly, would they come after me once they realized the mistake?

Chapter 5

Just as I was contemplating a quick shower, the sharp ring of the doorbell sliced through the silence of the early hour. Reluctantly, I shrugged into my worn sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, the fabric hanging loosely on my frame. The house lay wrapped in quiet, the others undoubtedly lost in dreams I envied. 

Peering through the peephole, my eyes met the restless figure of Zara, her movements betraying an urgency unusual for such an hour. Curiosity piqued, I swung the door open and beckoned her inside with a weary gesture.

“You’re quite the early bird today,” I remarked, leading her towards the kitchen. “Juice?” I offered, reaching for the carton of orange juice as a formality more than anything.

Zara’s response was swift, her mind clearly preoccupied. “Did you do the genetic test for Eli Jenkins and give them the referral information?”

Pouring myself a glass, I nodded, puzzled by her intensity. “Yeah, why?”

She flourished an envelope with my name scrawled across it, the return address glaring back at me—Eli Jenkins’s corporation. A sudden unease settled in my stomach.

“Oh, that. I might have used your address,” I confessed, avoiding her gaze. “Ophelia’s been fantasizing about me snagging a wealthy Alpha, thinking it’ll solve all my problems.”

Zara’s laughter filled the room, lightening the mood momentarily. “Oh, the horror of being a billionaire’s heiress,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

I stuck out my tongue in response, the childlike gesture a stark contrast to my earlier dread. “I’m not marrying anyone I don’t love, wealth be damned,” I declared, a defiant edge to my voice. But curiosity about the envelope gnawed at me, and I tore it open with a letter opener.

Zara leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, the strangest thing—the envelope didn’t come through the mail. Some distinguished-looking guy delivered it directly to my place.”

The revelation sent a shiver down my spine as I extracted the contents of the envelope. What could possibly be so important that it warranted such personal attention?The man at the door was no ordinary courier. Dressed sharply in a suit and tie, he seemed out of place on our worn-out porch, clutching an envelope like it was a golden ticket.

"Hard to believe you went ahead and got tested to find out if you're Eli Jenkins' long-lost Alpha Princess," Eliandra sneered as she breezed into the kitchen, her laughter ringing with mockery. Her presence always had a way of turning my stomach into knots.

"I... I don't think I'm Evelyn Jenkins," I stammered, my words stumbling awkwardly around my tongue. Eliandra had the uncanny knack of appearing just when I least wanted her around. "Why... why are you always so mean?"

"Oh, because you're such a dweeb," she tossed back at me, her voice dripping with disdain as she mimicked my stutter. "It's absolutely hilarious that you think you could be an Alpha."

My cheeks burned with anger, yet I forced myself to breathe slowly, focusing on maintaining my composure. "I wouldn't want to be some spoiled, rich Alpha girl anyway. I'm content with who I am."

But Eliandra was relentless. "You're just lying to yourself. You were hoping you'd turn out to be some wealthy Alpha," she scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically.

"That's not it," I countered, feeling the weight of her judgment. "Eli Jenkins offered a thousand dollars to any girl who got tested to see if he might be their father. I needed that money."

Admitting this aloud brought a fresh wave of shame, heavier than before.

"Using people isn't something I normally do," I continued, trying to justify my actions to both Eliandra and myself. "But it was either take the test and get the cash, knowing full well I wasn't the missing heiress, or let Zara's dad pay for an expensive suit I accidentally ruined."

With a heavy heart, I extended the envelope towards Zara, my hands trembling slightly. The simple act felt like surrendering the last shred of my dignity.Under the dim light of the kitchen, the tension was palpable. Zara's fingers trembled slightly as she extracted the check from its envelope, the paper crisp in the silence. "How much did Eli Jenkins promise again for a DNA sample?" she queried, her voice a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

I nodded, feeling the weight of each word. "A thousand dollars for selected participants," I affirmed, recalling the advertisement I had seen plastered across the university's bulletin board.

Zara's brow furrowed as she studied the check, then her eyes widened in shock. "But this...this isn't right," she stammered, clutching the check away from Eliandra who was eagerly reaching for it.

My stomach knotted. "What's wrong?" I asked, dreading the answer.

Zara turned the check towards me, her hand steady now. "It's made out for one hundred thousand dollars," she declared.

A squeal escaped my lips before I could contain it. "That's got to be a mistake," I gasped, feeling a mix of elation and fear. "I need to return this, get the correct amount."

Eliandra scoffed from across the room, her arms folded defiantly. "You're an idiot," she sneered. "Just keep quiet and hand it over to your folks. Don’t you think you owe them that much?"

The moral weight of her words hit me like a brick. "But that would be stealing. It’s not rightfully mine," I responded, my gaze fixed on the check as I searched for any clue. Below Eli Jenkins’s address was a phone number. Decision made, I pulled out my phone. "I’m going to call Mr. Jenkins and sort this out."

Zara watched me dial, her expression unreadable. "Or," she began, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "you could consider that maybe, just maybe, someone sees more value in what you provided than you thought."

Her words hung in the air, a tempting whisper of possibilities. But deep down, I knew what I had to do. Integrity wasn't just a word; it was my way of living, taught by the very parents Eliandra claimed I owed. With a deep breath, I pressed the phone to my ear, ready to face whatever came next.The insistent ringing of the doorbell cut through the morning chaos like a siren. My heart raced as I muttered, "Could they have realized their error and come for the check?" With that thought nipping at my heels, I dashed towards the door.

Flustered, I yanked it open, prepared to return the mistakenly oversized check, but froze. There, framed by the doorway, stood Thomas. His presence was both imposing and impeccably polished; a tailored suit hugged his frame, and he clutched a bouquet of vibrant red roses. The scent of his rich cologne wafted through the air, momentarily overpowering my senses.

Behind him, an assistant struggled under the weight of a dozen opulent gift boxes, each adorned with the logos of high-end designers. My mind reeled. What was this spectacle?

As Thomas entered, his eyes swept over me, still in my disheveled morning attire, and for a moment, his expression stiffened. Then, as if flipping a switch, his lips curled into a dazzling smile. He stepped forward, his gaze scanning the room until it landed on me again.

"Which one of you is Clara?" he inquired, his voice smooth and controlled.

Snapping out of my daze, I managed a stiff, "I’m Clara."

His purpose here was a mystery that tightened a knot in my stomach. I averted my face, praying he wouldn't recognize the frazzled woman from the restaurant as the same he sought now.

Thomas’s eyes lingered on me—from my frizzy hair restrained by a simple elastic band to the baggy sweatpants marred with holes. His look was one of polite indifference, yet thankfully, no flicker of recognition crossed his features.

"So... you’re Mr. Jenkins's lost child," he announced, almost too casually.

His words hung in the air, absurd and confusing. "I brought a few things, gifts that are rightfully yours."

My voice faltered, "No... Wait... what?" My thoughts spun wildly. Was this some kind of elaborate joke or misunderstanding?

With a confident and somewhat enchanting smile, Thomas clarified, "I’m your fiancé, Evelyn."

The room seemed to tilt as those words sank in. Fiancé? Evelyn? My name was Clara, and here was a man claiming ties to me that were woven from fantasy. Could this surreal morning be rooted in any sort of reality? As Thomas stepped closer, extending a box towards me, the gesture felt both alien and oddly predestined. The unfolding day promised revelations that my wildest dreams hadn't dared conjure.

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