Who's My Triplet's Alpha Daddy? Novel

Chapter 44 Dec 18, 2025 POV: Lysander I'm still processing Monday's revelation-Caroline Montgomery, corporate expansion, Wednesday collision course-when Claire appears in my doorway Tuesday morning with that expression that means she's about to have Opinions. "I've been thinking about this Montgomery meeting." She walks in without waiting for invitation, sets her coffee down with deliberate precision. "Something's off." "Off how?" I'm already running damage control scenarios, trying to figure out what she's picked up on. "No preliminary contact. No email chain establishing interest.

No phone calls to gauge receptiveness." She's pacing now, that nervous energy she gets when her analytical brain has found something that doesn't compute. "They just show up requesting a meeting with you specifically. That's not standard acquisition protocol." She's right. Which means she's dangerous right now because I can't afford her connecting dots I haven't even finished drawing. "Maybe they're unconventional," I offer. "Startup mentality. Move fast, break things, ask forgiveness instead of permission." "Or maybe they already know something we don't." She stops pacing, faces me fully.

"What if they've been watching us? Tracking our growth, analyzing our client base, waiting for the right moment to make their move?" Christ. She's building a conspiracy theory that's accidentally accurate. Caroline crashed into me Sunday. Her firm requested a meeting Monday. The timeline is suspicious if you're not aware it was complete coincidence involving organic produce. "You're overthinking this," I say, going for casual dismissal. "Am I?" She crosses her arms. "Lysander, you're good at reading people. Better than you let on.

What's your gut telling you about this meeting?" That I'm about to be exposed as a liar in front of both women simultaneously. That my carefully constructed compartmentalization is about to detonate. That I'm the worst person alive and should probably just move to Alaska and become a hermit. "My gut says we take the meeting, hear them out, make no commitments." I lean back in my chair, projecting confidence I absolutely don't feel. "Standard protocol." She studies me with those eyes that see too much.

"You're not worried at all?" "Should I be?" "I don't know." She sits in the chair across from my desk. "That's what concerns me. You're usually paranoid about competition. This time you're just... accepting it. Like it's already decided." Fuck. She's reading me too accurately. Time to redirect. "Claire, I appreciate the concern. Really." I'm using my placating voice, the one that usually works when she's spiraling. "But we've built something solid here. One firm expanding from LA isn't going to threaten that." "Unless they're bringing resources we can't match.

Unless they're planning to undercut our pricing or poach our clients or-" "Then we'll handle it." I interrupt before she can build more momentum. "Wednesday at noon. We'll see what they're offering and make informed decisions. That's all this is." She doesn't look convinced. "You want me to do background research? Pull financials on Montgomery Legal Group? See what we're actually dealing with?" "No." Too fast. Too sharp. I moderate my tone. "I mean, not yet. Let's hear them out first before we go full corporate espionage." Her eyebrows lift.

"Since when are you against preparation?" "I'm not against preparation. I'm against wasting time on research that might be irrelevant depending on what they actually want." I'm tap-dancing through this conversation, trying not to reveal that I've already done my research via Caroline's Instagram which she very helpfully linked in her text messages. Caroline's father founded Montgomery Legal in LA thirty years ago. Built it from solo practice to regional powerhouse specializing in family law, estate planning, corporate litigation.

She took over expansion operations six months ago around the same time she moved to Denver. Right after her bad breakup that definitely wasn't with me but might as well have been based on the trajectory we're currently following. "Fine." Claire stands, still not convinced but willing to drop it. "Wednesday at noon. I'll prep the conference room, pull our recent financials in case they ask, set up the presentation system." "Perfect. Thanks." She moves toward the door, pauses. "Lysander?" "Yeah?" "Whatever's going on with you-the distraction, the weird energy since Sunday-just know I'm here.

Okay?" Her voice goes soft. "You don't have to handle everything alone." The guilt hits like a freight train. She's worried about me. Wants to help. Has no idea the distraction is named Caroline and is currently texting me memes about courtroom disasters while simultaneously planning to invade my professional territory. "I know. Thank you." The words taste like ash. She leaves and I'm alone with my phone where Caroline's latest message glows with oblivious enthusiasm: Question: is business casual the same as regular casual or do I need to actually look professional tomorrow?

Asking for a friend who owns way too much pink. She's asking about the noon meeting. About walking into my office to negotiate while I've been flirting with her via text for three days. I should tell her. Right now. Text back explaining who I am, what Wednesday actually means, giving her the chance to back out of both coffee and the business meeting. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Types instead: Business casual is whatever makes you feel confident. Bring the pink. Own it. Her response is immediate: You haven't even seen me in professional mode. I'm terrifying. Lawyers cry.

Judges respect me. It's a whole thing. My wolf is doing backflips. My conscience is screaming. And I'm actively making this worse with every message. Another text comes through: Also I'm bringing charts I promised. They're VERY impressive. Color-coded and everything. You're going to be so charmed by my organizational skills. I stare at that message. At the enthusiasm that's either genuine or the best corporate espionage act I've ever witnessed. At the possibility that she knows exactly who I am and has been playing me since the grocery store collision. No. Too paranoid.

The surprise on her face when we crashed was real. The awkward rambling about discovery motions was authentic disaster, not calculated performance. But she's a lawyer. Trained in manipulation, reading people, presenting cases that convince judges and juries. What if the whole thing-the collision, the coffee invite, the texts-what if it's all strategy? My phone rings. Claire. "Yeah?" "One more thing about Wednesday." Her voice is professional now, back to assistant mode. "Do you want me to coordinate lunch? Something impressive?

Set the tone that we're established, successful, not interested in being acquired?" "No lunch. Just coffee." I'm already planning exit strategies. "Keep it informal. Low pressure. Let them make their pitch without us seeming too eager or defensive." "Got it. Anything else?" "Yeah. Claire?" I pause. "I appreciate you. Everything you do. Just... wanted you to know that." Silence on the other end. Then: "That's random but okay. You feeling alright?" "Fine. Just aware I don't say it enough." "Well. Thanks." She sounds confused and pleased and slightly concerned.

"See you tomorrow." She hangs up and I sit there with my phone and the complete destruction of whatever ethical boundaries I thought I maintained. Tomorrow Caroline and I have coffee. She takes photos of me with overpriced drinks. We flirt with disaster while she remains blissfully unaware I'm the competition she's been sent to negotiate with. Then she walks into my office at noon and discovers I'm Lysander Fenris, not just Lys who has cute not-kids and questionable taste in cafés.

And Claire will be sitting right there taking notes while Caroline's face does whatever it's going to do when she realizes I've been lying by omission for three days. I can see exactly how this plays out. Every step. Every consequence. Every way this destroys both the stable thing with Claire and the impossible thing with Caroline. Archer