Strategic Allignment
Alex Morgan x Reader imagine
The dining room of my fatherās mansion was a monument to old money, a place that could easily have served as the backdrop for some dull historical drama about the aristocracy: glimmering chandeliers that cast shadows over the polished mahogany table, velvet curtains that hung like somber reminders of the walls closing in.
The air was thick with something far worse than just fine wine. It was the scent of suffocating expectations. I knew it, and Alex Morgan, the American soccer prodigy sitting across from me, seemed to know it too. Both of us, trapped in the tangled web my father had woven for us, had adopted the same uncomfortable posture, shoulders stiff, eyes darting away from the elephant in the roomāthe very one sitting right between us, looking smug at the head of the table: my father.
I could feel the weight of his gaze, trying to drill through me, but I wasnāt going to let him win. I never did. With a flick of my wrist, I broke the silence, my voice smooth but with the bite that had earned me a reputation. "Let me get this straight," I said, leaning forward slightly, letting my sarcasm bleed through every word. "Youāre marrying me off to her becauseā¦ what? You ran out of business partners to exploit?"
My father, unfazed as always, didnāt even blink. His hand rested perfectly on the table, a symbol of control, as though this whole conversation was a mere inconvenience. "Itās not exploitation, sweetheart," he replied, the words falling from his mouth like he had rehearsed them a thousand times. "Itās strategic alignment. The Morgan and Y/L/N families merging through this arrangement will benefit both parties immensely."
The word "alignment" hung in the air, as though I should care about it. My eyes narrowed. "āStrategic alignmentā? Is that what weāre calling human trafficking these days?"
The tension that settled in the room couldāve been cut with a knife. Alex, sitting stiffly in her seat, didnāt make a sound, her face betraying a blend of confusion and forced politeness. But I caught itāthe slight cough, the faintest hint of amusement trying to escape her lips as she swallowed her water. At least someone found this entire circus amusing.
"You know, Dad," I continued, tapping my fingers on the table for effect, "youāve really outdone yourself this time. A soccer star and a business contract all rolled into one. Whatās next? Marrying me to the next tech CEO to boost our Wi-Fi signal?"
My fatherās eyes flicked to me with a glint of frustration, but he held his ground, ever the image of indifference. "Y/N, this isnāt up for debate. The wedding is in two weeks. Youāll thank me someday."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, instead meeting his gaze with a blank stare. "Oh, sure. Iāll send a heartfelt thank-you note from the honeymoonāassuming I survive the sheer embarrassment of this circus."
Alex shifted in her chair, finally breaking the silence with a soft laugh, one she quickly tried to stifle. "For the record," she said, her voice calm but carrying an undertone of awkwardness, "I didnāt agree to this either. I was just told itās happening."
I turned to her, my smirk finding its way back onto my face. The sarcasm practically dripped from my words. "And youāre just going along with it? What, they promise you unlimited cleats and a lifetime supply of protein shakes?"
Her lips twitched, and for a second, I thought I might actually crack her, but she quickly masked it, her poker face coming back with a practiced grace. "No, but the idea of spending the rest of my life with someone soā¦ charming was hard to resist."
I leaned back in my chair, studying her for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. "Ah, sarcasm. A girl after my own heart," I remarked, tapping my fingers on the table with a thoughtful expression. "I knew there was something about you that wasnāt justā¦ football and bright smiles."
Just as the words left my mouth, my father, finally losing his patience, cut in. "Enough," he said sharply, his voice more commanding than ever. "You two need to make this work. I donāt care how. The media rollout starts tomorrow, and youāll be acting like a blissfully engaged couple by then."
I couldnāt help it. The sarcastic impulse was too strong. "Blissful?" I repeated, my voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. "Got it. Should we practice our public displays of affection now, or do you have a PowerPoint on it first?"
"Y/N..." His voice dropped to a growl, a tone that was supposed to be threatening but only made me roll my eyes harder.
I stood up from the table, stretching lazily as though I wasnāt bothered by anything. "Relax, Dad. Iāll play nice," I said, tossing my napkin onto my seat. "But Iām going to need a drink, though. Or twenty."
As I turned to leave, I heard Alexās voice behind me, light but sincere. "For what itās worth, Iām sorry about this. It wasnāt my idea either."
I paused at the doorway, glancing back at her. My smirk returned, sharp and calculating. "Donāt apologize yet, Morgan. You havenāt even seen me in action."
Her eyebrow arched in genuine curiosity. "Should I be scared?"
I gave her a wink, then turned and left the room without another word. "Terrified," I called over my shoulder, my voice carrying the weight of a promise I wasnāt sure either of us was ready for.
I was nursing a glass of wine in the library when the door creaked open. Alex stood there, framed by the dim light from the hallway, as though unsure if she was stepping into enemy territory or a sanctuary. She hesitated, her fingers wrapped around the doorframe, her posture stiff. It made her look almostā¦ human. Vulnerable, even.
I didnāt bother glancing up from my glass, the liquid swirling lazily in the crystal. "Let me guess," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, a perfect match for the situation. "Youāre here to discuss our āstrategic alignment.ā"
There was a beat of silence before she chuckledāgenuine, unguardedāand stepped further into the room. "Actually," she said, her voice steady but laced with something that could almost be called concern, "I came to ask how youāre holding up. This canāt be easy for you."
I slowly raised my eyes to meet hers, a dry laugh escaping my lips before I could even stop it. "Aw, concerned about me already?" I leaned back in my chair, letting my smirk widen. "Youāre making this fake marriage feel so real."
She raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering behind her eyes. "Are you always this sarcastic, or is it just because of this... situation?"
"Who, me?" I lifted my glass in an exaggerated gesture, swirling the wine, letting it settle before speaking again. "This marriage is just the cherry on top of the disaster sundae my lifeās been serving me. The sarcasm is practically a reflex at this point."
Alex shook her head, her lips curling into a small smile that she couldnāt quite hide. "You really are impossible, you know that?"
I looked at her, meeting her gaze for the first time since dinner, and for a split second, I saw the flicker of understanding in her eyes. It was strange, the way it almost felt like we were in this together, despite the fact that neither of us had chosen this.
"Yet here you are," I said with a soft chuckle, raising my glass to her, a mock toast. "To impossible people and ridiculous situations."
She didnāt hesitate this time. Her fingers tapped the edge of her glass, though she didnāt have one in her hand. Her eyes locked onto mine as she mirrored my motion, her voice light, yet edged with something darker, almost resigned. "And to the fact that weāll probably kill each other before the wedding."
I couldnāt help but laugh, the sound escaping from deep in my chest. It was a laugh of recognition, like she understood exactly what I meant. Maybe it was just my sarcasm speaking, or maybe it was the truth we both saw hanging between us. I leaned forward, the glass in my hand glinting under the low lights. "Thatās the spirit," I said, savoring the words with a devilish smirk.
There was a long pause, and for the first time that night, the silence didnāt feel heavy. It wasnāt the awkward kind that hung over dinner, suffocating the air with every word. No, this felt almost likeā¦ mutual acknowledgment. Like we were on the same page, even if we didnāt want to be.
She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her face still half-hidden in the shadows. "You know," she began, her voice low, almost thoughtful, "I didnāt ask for this. Neither of us did."
I took another sip of my wine, letting her words linger in the air. "No, but here we are anyway," I said, my voice flat, like it was something I had resigned myself to long ago.
Alex nodded, her eyes flickering to the fireplace across the room, though her focus was clearly somewhere else. "I hate how your dad thinks he can control everything. I donāt even know why Iām here, honestly. Just doing what Iām told." She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "But I get it. Heās not exactly the type to give you a choice, is he?"
I couldnāt help but let out a humorless laugh. "Oh, believe me, if I had a choice, Iād be anywhere else right now. Anywhere but here, pretending to be engaged to you, a woman Iāve barely said five words to."
She looked at me then, her expression softening, just a little. "Youāre not the only one stuck in this, you know."
I didnāt know what I expected her to say, but something about the honesty in her voice caught me off guard. I thought I was the only one dealing with the weight of this mess, the only one battling the invisible chains my father had wrapped around me. But here she was, feeling just as trapped, maybe more.
I set my glass down with a soft clink, leaning in slightly. "Yeah, well," I said, my voice quieter now, almost contemplative, "just because weāre stuck in the same situation doesnāt mean weāre going to get along."
Her gaze was steady, unwavering, as she met my eyes. "No, it doesnāt," she replied with a quiet intensity. "But we might as well make the best of it. For whatever itās worth, Iām not here to make this harder on you, even if I seem like the enemy."
The words hit harder than I anticipated, and I almost found myself speechless. She wasnāt just some stranger being shoved into this. Alex Morgan, soccer icon, was just as much a victim as I was in this ridiculous charade. For the first time that night, I saw her as something more than just a pawn in my fatherās gameāa woman who didnāt ask for any of this.
I didnāt respond immediately. Instead, I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch between us, allowing the weight of the situation to settle. She wasnāt wrong. We were both caught in this, for better or worse. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way outāor at least a way to make it through the storm.
"I suppose," I said, my voice low but tinged with something closer to resignation than sarcasm, "weāll have to see how long we can last without driving each other insane."
Alexās lips twitched in amusement again. "I donāt know about you," she said, her voice lighter now, "but Iām aiming for a solid six months before I snap."
I laughed, the sound escaping more freely this time. Maybe we werenāt as far apart as I thought.
"Six months?" I said with a grin, the sarcasm creeping back into my tone. "Iāll give it a week. Youāll be begging for a divorce before we even get to the aisle."
Her smile widened. "Thatās the spirit," she said, matching my playful challenge.
And just like that, despite everything, the weight of the world seemed a little lighter. Maybe this absurd contract my father had drafted wasnāt the end of the world. Maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something else entirely.
