Who's My Triplet's Alpha Daddy? Novel

Chapter 77 Dec 18, 2025 POV: Lysander Claire doesn't come back to work Monday. I call seventeen times because apparently I've become that guy who doesn't understand what "fuck off" means in any of its silent variations. All straight to voicemail-that robotic voice informing me the subscriber is unavailable, which feels like digital salt in emotional wounds. Texts go unread. The lack of read receipts is somehow worse than being blocked. At least blocking is active rejection. This is just void. Her friend won't answer my calls.

Jessica's voicemail is full, probably from my increasingly desperate messages that definitely don't make me sound stable or sane. Tuesday morning I drive to her apartment with the grim determination of someone who knows this is a terrible idea but lacks better options. New doorman-young guy, efficient, doesn't recognize me from my previous stalking attempts. "I need to see Claire Chen. Unit 4B." "Your name?" "Lysander Fenris. I'm her employer." He calls up. Gets no answer. Tries again. Nothing.

"She's not here," he says finally, and something in his tone suggests he knows more than he's saying. "When will she be back?" "She won't be. Moved out Saturday." He studies me with the kind of assessment security personnel develop. "Paid the lease break penalty in full. Left around noon with two suitcases and a cab to the airport." My stomach drops into my shoes. "Left where?" "Didn't say. Just took her stuff and went." He shifts.

"You want me to leave a message in case she comes back for mail?" "She's not coming back for mail." I stand on the street in Denver's gray morning, trying to process. She's gone. Really gone this time. No forwarding address, no indication of where she's heading, no breadcrumb trail for desperate ex-almost-boyfriends to follow. The pregnancy test flashes through my mind. Positive or negative. Pregnant or not. Father or just asshole. No way to know.

Back at the office I pull up airline records through investigator contacts that definitely violate privacy laws but morality is subjective when you're spiraling. She flew to Boston Sunday afternoon. One-way ticket. Paid cash at the airport because she's smart enough to know credit cards leave trails. Boston. Where her cousin lives. Where she has family support if she needs it. If she's pregnant. The thought loops on repeat.

Positive test means she's pregnant with my child, running to Boston to raise it alone because I'm too emotionally constipated to answer basic questions about who I'd choose. Negative test means she's just escaping me, starting over somewhere I can't find her, building a life that doesn't include my disaster energy. Either way, I've lost her. Magnus calls Wednesday with the tone that suggests he's already furious before I answer. "Your assistant gave notice. Effective immediately. HR is processing her severance package." "What notice? She didn't-" "She emailed HR from Boston Sunday night.

Professional resignation letter, offered to help transition her replacement remotely, very polite and completely devastating in its corporate civility." Magnus's voice could freeze helium. "What did you do to her?" "It's complicated-" "Everything with you is complicated." His patience has clearly expired. "Fix it. Or I'm pulling you from Colorado and bringing you back to Seattle where I can supervise you making terrible life choices in real-time." "You can't-" "I'm Alpha. I can do whatever's necessary to protect pack interests.

Which includes protecting them from you when you're actively self-destructing." Click. I sit with the resignation letter HR forwarded. Generic, professional, giving no indication of the emotional carnage underneath. Could've been written by AI trained on corporate breakup protocol. Dear Mr. Fenris, Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from the position of Executive Assistant, effective immediately. I appreciate the opportunities provided during my tenure and wish the company continued success. Best regards, Claire Chen No personal message.

No hint of what she's feeling or thinking or whether she's carrying my child. Just corporate boilerplate that might as well say "fuck you professionally." I try calling again. Voicemail with that same robotic voice mocking my existence. Text her: Please just tell me if you're pregnant. I need to know. I have a right to know. No response. The message shows delivered but not read, which means her phone is on but she's actively ignoring me. Fair. Thursday I seriously consider flying to Boston.

My investigator found a possible address for her cousin-three-bedroom in Cambridge, walking distance to MIT where the cousin apparently works. I could show up, demand answers, force this conversation. But showing up uninvited feels less "concerned potential father" and more "future restraining order defendant." Feels like I'm proving I'm exactly the person she thinks I am-unable to let go, unable to respect her choices, unable to function without demanding things I don't deserve.

I sit in my office staring at the resignation letter, understanding with brutal clarity that I've destroyed everything that mattered. Claire's gone. Caroline's dealing with her father's death. The company's intact but feels hollow without either of them making it mean something beyond quarterly projections. My phone buzzes. Text from unknown number: Stop calling. Stop texting. She's made her choice. Respect it. -Claire's cousin So that's my answer. She's with her cousin. Safe. Away from me and my emotional terrorism. But I still don't know about the baby.

Still don't know if I'm a father or just an asshole or possibly both simultaneously. I pull up my contacts, scroll to Caroline's name. She texted about her father dying, about coming to Denver, about wanting to talk. The obvious move is reaching out, offering condolences, being there for her in ways I wasn't before. But my finger hovers without pressing call. Because if Claire's pregnant, choosing Caroline now makes me the villain in a story that already cast me as antagonist.

And if Claire's not pregnant, choosing Caroline makes me the guy who only values the woman who's available instead of the woman who was always there. My office feels too big. Too empty. Too full of ghosts-Claire working late, Caroline laughing at my desk, both of them occupying space they'll never fill again. Sandra appears in my doorway with that efficient energy. "Mr. Fenris? The quarterly review meeting starts in ten minutes. Do you need anything prepared?" "I'm fine." "You look terrible." "Everyone keeps saying that.

Starting a support group for people who tell me I look like death." She doesn't laugh at my joke. Just sets down files and leaves with the kind of professional distance that used to be Claire's warmth. My phone buzzes again. Caroline: I'm in Denver. Staying at the Four Seasons. Room 412. Come by tonight if you want. No pressure. Just... I could use a friend. Friend. The word tastes wrong. But Claire's in Boston refusing contact and possibly pregnant with my child. And Caroline's here, grieving, needing someone. The choice should be obvious.

Except nothing about my life has been obvious since I collided with Caroline outside a coffee shop and thought temporary attraction would stay temporary. I text back: I'll be there at 8. Then immediately delete it and type: I can't. I'm sorry. For everything. Delete that too. Finally settle on: 8 PM. I'll bring food. Send before I can overthink it. Sit there staring at my phone, waiting for Claire to magically text that she's fine, not pregnant, moving on, releasing me from this guilt. She doesn't. Because life isn't a rom-com where everything resolves neatly.

It's a tragedy where I'm simultaneously protagonist and villain, making the wrong choices with increasing efficiency. And somewhere in Boston, Claire knows whether I'm a father. And I have absolutely no right to that information. Archer