Dear Gentle Readers,
Please enjoy this treat until the very end ...
*******
Overwhelmed and restless, Alexander pulled out his phone and dialed Ava.
On the other end, Ava barely had the strength to answer. Her fingers trembled as she swiped across the screen, pain surging through her abdomen like a relentless tide.
“Mr. Vanderbilt,” she breathed, her voice thin and strained.
“Which brand?” Alexander asked bluntly.
There were too many choices in front of him—rows and rows of unfamiliar packaging. His eyes scanned them, annoyed.
“Any will do,” Ava murmured.
“Long or short?” he pressed. “What size?”
The cramping was unbearable. It felt like her insides were being twisted and wrung out.
“Any,” she said again, weaker this time. “Mr. Vanderbilt… just buy anything.”
Alexander frowned, growing irritated with his own cluelessness. He grabbed the nearest pack and was about to leave when a sales assistant spotted him, her eyes lighting up at the rare sight of a tall, sharply dressed man standing hesitantly in front of the feminine care aisle.
“Hello, sir, do you need help?” she asked, smiling a little too brightly.
Alexander’s jaw tightened, his expression instantly darkening.
Noticing the panty liners in his hand, the salesgirl quickly added, “Just that won’t be enough. It really depends on how heavy your girlfriend’s flow is. Did she ask for multiple packs?”
For the first time in his composed, thirty-year life, Alexander felt a flicker of embarrassment.
The sales assistant handed him a pack of thick overnight pads and then grabbed a bag of daytime ones. “These should be enough. And you might want to consider overnight sleep pants—super comfortable and no leaks.”
Overnight pants?
Alexander didn’t know what the hell those were, but he grabbed a few more packs to be safe.
At the checkout counter, the sales assistant perked up again. “Would you like to add some ginger tea? It helps relieve menstrual cramps and warms the body.”
He didn't even hesitate. “Add it.”
When he returned to the hotel room, his arms were loaded with shopping bags. Ava was lying on the bed, her skin pale, her lips dry. He couldn’t tell if she was asleep or had fainted.
“Ava?” he called out.
She stirred weakly, her eyes barely opening.
He dropped the bag in front of her. “See if there’s anything you need.”
His tone was flat, as if he were tossing her a bag of groceries instead of pain relief. He turned away and resumed working on his laptop, though his fingers hovered idly over the keyboard.
The painkillers had finally kicked in, numbing the agony in Ava’s lower abdomen. When she reached into the bag and pulled out a pack of sleep pants, she blinked in surprise.
He… actually bought these?
All her own clothes were stained. These were exactly what she needed.
“Mr. Vanderbilt… can I borrow a pair of your pants?”
Alexander stiffened. He was just about to snap at her to stop pushing her luck, but when he looked up and saw her—sweaty, pale, barely able to sit upright—he bit back the retort.
Without a word, he walked into the bedroom, opened his neatly arranged closet, grabbed a fresh pair of tailored black dress pants, and tossed them to her.
Ava offered a faint, awkward smile and rose, clutching the pants in one hand.
She made her way toward the bathroom.
Alexander suddenly sat upright, his brow twitching. “You’re going to use my bathroom?”
Ava nodded tiredly. “I need to clean up. I’ll be quick.”
His face tightened with visible discomfort, his mysophobia rearing its head. He immediately called the front desk. “Is the other room on the top floor vacant?”
It wasn’t. The suite was booked for the night.
His expression darkened further.
Ava reached the bathroom door. Seeing his tightly drawn face, she felt a flicker of petty satisfaction.
Alexander followed, his voice low and sharp. “You can’t use my bathroom. I’ll have someone take you back—now.”
But Ava paused and turned to face him, lifting her eyes, her voice quiet but pointed. “Why not? You used to drag me into that bathroom to have sex.”
His scalp tingled. The words hit him like a slap.
But then came the next blow.
“You said you liked me. You said you wanted to be my lover.”
Alexander stared at her, stunned. “You’re lying.”
Ava looked at him for a long moment, then turned without another word and stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
She was too exhausted to argue. Her body ached. Sitting by the edge of the tub, she closed her eyes for a few moments before finally mustering the strength to turn on the shower.
Outside, Alexander stood frozen, knocking at the door like a man on the verge of losing his sanity.
“Ava. Come out.”
The thought of someone—anyone—using his bathroom filled him with dread. But what unsettled him more was that she’d thrown his own words back at him.
Words he couldn't even remember saying.
Words he might’ve meant.
Inside the bathroom, Ava rinsed herself clean, her movements slow and deliberate. The warm water did little to wash away the chill that had settled into her bones. She peeled off her pants, rolled them neatly, and tucked them into a laundry bag before tying it shut—she’d bring them home to wash later.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the air outside was noticeably cooler. Alexander was back on the couch, eyes glued to his laptop screen, fingers flying over the keyboard as if the world outside his data didn’t exist.
Ava approached quietly, her footsteps muffled against the carpet. She reached for the suit jacket she had used earlier as a cushion and held it gently in her hands.
“Mr. Vanderbilt,” she said softly, “I’ll take this and wash it for you.”
Without even glancing up, Alexander replied flatly, “It’s dirty. Throw it away.”
His voice was as cold and clipped as the words on his screen, as though she were no more than background noise.
Ava hesitated only a second before complying. She lowered her eyes and tossed the jacket into the trash bin. The quiet rustle of fabric landing on plastic seemed unnaturally loud in the silent room.
Only then did Alexander finally look up.
His eyes landed on her. She was wearing a pair of his slacks, far too big for her frame. She had cinched the waist with a string, leaving the fabric wrinkled and awkward. Her own shirt clung to her slightly, still damp from earlier, but the color had returned to her face, and she looked steadier than before.
He didn’t say anything at first, but something in him—tight and coiled—eased just a little.
“You seem fine now,” he said after a moment, his tone still unreadable. “You should go.”
Ava nodded. But as she turned to leave, she paused by the door, her voice quiet yet firm. “Jonathan is the person you trust the most.”
She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. If Alexander continued trusting no one, isolating himself in a nest of vipers, the entire Vanderbilt family would keep tightening their noose. They were already using his memory loss against him. And she knew—just as he did—that Alexander wouldn’t tell Cornelius a word of it.
But he didn’t respond. His gaze dropped back to his screen, eyes unreadable, his tone colder than before.
“You don’t need to worry about these things, Ava,” he said. “I’ve already fired you. Whatever we had before—it’s over. Don’t cling to it.”
The words landed like a slap, but Ava only stood in silence for a beat, then nodded once.
She wasn’t clinging.
She turned and left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Only then did Alexander stop typing.
The screen in front of him was a mess of incoherent characters—just lines of meaningless input. He hadn’t written anything useful. His expression remained stoic, but his fingertips hovered over the keys, trembling ever so slightly.
The moment she walked out wearing his clothes, still fragile but determined, something inside him had twisted.
He could see her even through the frosted glass of the bathroom door earlier—faint movements, the sound of water, the outline of her shoulders. He had tried not to watch. He had tried not to listen.
But he couldn’t help it.
And then there were her words, echoing over and over in his mind: They had sex in the bathroom…
Raphael had once said he kissed Ava on the desk. Now she claimed they had gone further. In the bathroom.
Alexander’s head began to pound, as if his own thoughts were knives scraping against the inside of his skull.
Then, mercifully—or perhaps cruelly—his phone began to ring.
And he still didn’t know if what was haunting him more was the truth… or the doubt.
Alexander’s phone buzzed.
It was his uncle Charlie, who was Trent’s father.
"Alexander, how have you been feeling lately?" Charlie’s voice was smooth, casual—too casual.
Alexander didn’t reply immediately. He stared at the phone for a beat before letting out a dry chuckle. "Thanks for your concern. I’m doing well."
Charlie’s lips curled into a smug grin. His son Trent had been left in a near-vegetative state after Alexander’s brutal beating, and Charlie had been waiting patiently—biding his time. Now, with news that Alexander’s memory was impaired, he saw his opening. A chance for revenge.
"I heard you’ve gotten close to some little designer lately," he said, as if making idle conversation.
Alexander’s brow furrowed slightly.
"I’d like to invite her over for coffee," Charlie continued smoothly. "She must be something special to have you so obsessed. Makes a man curious. Tempted, even."
There was a brief silence on the line before Alexander replied, voice indifferent. "If you like her, she’s yours."
And then—click.
Charlie froze.
He hadn’t expected that. For a second, he thought he’d misheard. But no—Alexander had really said it. He realized, then, with a flash of triumph, that Alexander must have forgotten Ava too.
Good.
The more Alexander cared about her, the more delicious the revenge would be when the memories returned.
---Elsewhere, Ava left the hotel with a splitting headache and nausea curling in her stomach. Her body ached from exhaustion and cramps. She flagged down a cab, her fingers trembling as she opened the door and sank into the back seat.
The moment the car began moving, the motion lulled her into a half-drowsy state—dizzy from the painkillers.
Then she blinked.
She hadn’t given the driver her destination.
"Excuse me, I need to—"
Before she could finish, the car suddenly accelerated, tires screeching as they sped down the road.
Alarm bells went off in her head.
She reached for her phone, but the driver slammed on the brakes so hard her forehead struck the seat in front. Dizzy and stunned, she barely registered his hand reaching back—snatching her phone—before he yanked her by the hair, pulling her upright with a violent jerk.
A hard slap cracked across her cheek.
"Stay still, or I’ll rape you right here," he snarled, his voice low and menacing.
Ava, pale and sweating, weak from her period and still aching from the medication, could only glare at him through the pain.
The driver cursed under his breath, then answered a call. She couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but after a few brief exchanges, the car veered again, speeding toward an unknown destination.
---Back at his office, Alexander sat in silence, eyes drifting to the waste bin nearby. Something inside it—an expensive discarded suit, crumpled and stained—caught his eye. His temples throbbed. Something about it itched at the back of his memory.
He grabbed his phone and called Jonathan.
"What’s the story with me and Ava?"
Jonathan hesitated. "...Mr. Vanderbilt, I’m not sure what you mean."
"Are we dating?"
"No, sir. Not officially."
Alexander frowned. "So she’s not my girlfriend?"
"No."
He leaned back, expression unreadable. If she wasn’t his girlfriend, then what was she? A passing fling? A physical distraction?
That should’ve made it simple. But as he tried to rationalize it, a sharp pulse of pain lanced through his head.
"Do I care about her?"
Jonathan paused again. "...You had a special feeling toward Ava."
Special. Not love. Just… something different.
Alexander exhaled slowly. "Right. She's attractive. It makes sense."
And yet, something didn’t sit right.
Still, he waved the thought away. Charlie had her now. He probably wouldn’t go too far. Ava was beautiful—she’d be fine. It wasn’t like he cared that much.
---Ava wasn’t fine.
She was dragged out of the cab and dumped unceremoniously in front of Charlie’s private estate, her limbs trembling, her body aching.
She tried to stand but fell to her knees, teeth clenched as another wave of pain stabbed through her stomach. She was sweating, barely holding herself upright.
Charlie lounged nearby with a whiskey glass in hand, his eyes lazily scanning her from head to toe. There was an unpleasant gleam in his gaze. "You really are a pretty little thing," he murmured.
Ava's breath caught. She didn’t say a word, but her posture stiffened with defiance.
Just as Charlie set down his glass and began to rise, two servants burst into the room, their faces pale with panic.
"Sir! Mr. Trent is having another episode—he’s destroyed everything. The woman you gave him—she's dead!"
The room went still.
Charlie’s lips twisted in annoyance. Trent had been inconsolable for weeks. After Alexander’s assault left him in diapers and unable to function as a man, his mental state had crumbled. Any attempt to calm him failed. His fits grew worse. He couldn’t accept what he’d become.
Charlie looked back at Ava, eyes narrowing. He had been looking forward to indulging, but...
Trent was his only son.
And he needed to pacify him.
"Take her to him," Charlie said coldly. "Make sure he enjoys himself. However he wants."
Ava didn’t even have time to scream. Rough hands grabbed her, dragging her down the hall. Her vision blurred with tears and fear.
And then she was thrown through another door—into darkness.
*
Trent had been tearing the room apart in a fit of rage—ceramic shards crunched underfoot, glass scattered across the floor like jagged snow. Then the heavy door creaked open. A body was thrown in.
His eyes narrowed the moment he saw her.
Ava.
Disheveled, sweat-slicked, and barely able to hold herself upright.
A wicked smile curled on his lips.
"Well, well," he drawled, turning toward one of the guards. "How the hell did you manage to catch her? I thought Alexander had her locked down tighter than Fort Knox."
The guard gave a grim nod. “Sir, Alexander’s… not right in the head. Memory’s gone. Forgot a bunch of people. Including her.”
Trent blinked in disbelief, then let out a bark of laughter.
"And Mr. Vanderbilt just called and said—his words, not mine—we could do whatever we wanted with her.”
That single sentence hit Ava harder than the guard’s grip ever could.
Her legs gave out, but she caught herself. Barely.
Her heart clenched, a bitter chill racing through her veins. Her breaths grew shallow, not from fear—but from the quiet, devastating realization.
Alexander had truly forgotten her.
And even if he remembered—this is how easily he could toss her away. Like trash. Again. Just like before.
Once.
Twice.
Every single time.
She'd believed in the soft flickers of kindness he showed her. Let herself be fooled. Let herself hope. And now… this was her reward.
At that moment, Ava felt something within her die—a final, quiet breath of something fragile and foolish. Love. Hope. All of it.
Gone.
Trent, on the other hand, was reveling in the revelation. His laughter grew louder, crueler. He strode toward her and yanked her by the hair, dragging her like a rag doll across the marble floor. She didn’t have the strength to fight back. Her body throbbed in agony—her abdomen ached, her scalp burned, the painkillers had long since worn off.
He threw her down against the edge of his lavish leather sofa like she was nothing more than a broken doll.
"Would you look at that?" he sneered, crouching beside her. “Alexander used to worship you. Ruined me for you.”
He spat the words with venom, grinding them between his teeth.
"And now? You’re his discarded toy.”
Trent reached over to the table and picked up a sleek black device. A camera.
His smile twisted.
He couldn’t feel pleasure anymore—not the way other men did. His body had been wrecked, left humiliated and hollow. But his thirst for cruelty? That had only sharpened.
The last woman who'd been dragged into this room hadn’t survived the night.
There had been stories in the news—twisted, gruesome stories of impotent men who vented their rage on women, mutilating them as punishment for their own failures.
Now, Trent was no different.
Ava remained motionless. Outwardly calm. But beneath her skin, fear crawled like fire ants. Her stomach churned, not just from pain—but from the sickening stench of sweat, cologne, and the twisted anticipation in Trent’s eyes.
She didn't know if she was getting out of this alive.
Trent straightened up and turned to his men. “Get seven or eight of them in here,” he ordered, voice low and brimming with vile excitement. “I want them to take turns with her while I film. And when Alexander finally gets his memory back?” He grinned, eyes glittering with hatred. “I’ll send him the video. Let’s see if he still thinks she’s worth bleeding for.”
The bodyguard flinched.
He didn’t dare say no. Trent had become dangerously unstable. Unhinged. Anyone who crossed him… vanished. The unspoken rule: obey or disappear.
Minutes later, seven more men filed in.
Trent’s hand gripped Ava’s hair again, yanking her up with brute force. She didn't even flinch this time. She’d grown numb. His rough fingers cut into her scalp, dragging her toward the center of the room like she was nothing more than a showpiece in a sick performance.
"Do it. Now!" Trent shouted, his voice echoing across the high ceilings. "Start! Don’t waste time!"
He switched the camera on.
Ava’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her body was trembling, her vision blurry from pain. But her mind—her mind was crystal clear.
This was it.
She was going to die.
And then—
Boom.
The sound shattered the room.
The floor trembled.
The walls vibrated.
Something heavy slammed into the structure. Lights flickered. Dust spilled from the ceiling like ash.
The camera clattered to the ground, forgotten.
“What the hell was that?” Trent barked, spinning toward the door. His voice cracked slightly—fear laced its edges now.
Outside, chaos erupted. Shouting. Gunfire. A sharp scream.
One of the guards ran toward the door, yanking it open to peer into the hallway, but stumbled back with wide eyes.
“They’re here!” he shouted.
But who "they" were... no one yet knew.
*
Outside the Charlie family’s villa, a thunderous roar shattered the peace of the night.
A massive, military-grade truck barreled through the gates like a steel beast unleashed from hell. Its engine howled as it crashed through the wrought-iron entrance, splintering wood and stone as if they were paper. The front lawn erupted into chaos—servants screamed and scattered in all directions, some too stunned to move.
Inside the lavish living room, Charlie dropped his coffee cup, the porcelain shattering as hot liquid splashed across the marble floor.
The truck was monstrous—its tires taller than a grown man, the steel grille scarred from past battles. It charged through the front yard and into the villa’s entryway, grinding across the tile as if the house itself were nothing more than a playground.
People ran like ants before a storm.
Alexander Vanderbilt was behind the wheel, jaw clenched, his eyes cold and focused. He wasn’t just making a scene. He was making a statement.
The truck skidded to a stop directly in front of Charlie, its engine still rumbling with menace. Charlie staggered back, knees trembling, his face drained of color.
This man’s insane. Absolutely mad.
And just as the dust began to settle, Alexander threw the gear into reverse, his foot hovering over the gas as if ready to level the entire structure.
“Stop! Stop! STOP!” Charlie screamed, his voice cracking with terror.
But Alexander didn’t flinch. His hand gripped the wheel, expression unreadable. It looked as though he was ready to drive straight through the heart of the villa.
If Charlie hadn’t scrambled out of the way fast enough, he would’ve been a smear under the tires.
He thought Alexander wouldn’t dare. He thought being family gave him immunity.
He thought wrong.
“Get Ava!” Charlie bellowed to the nearest bodyguard, panic overriding his pride. “Now!”
The men dashed off as Alexander revved the engine again. Cracks formed in the marble floors. The walls trembled. One more hit, and the whole building would collapse.
Just then, two men emerged, dragging a weakened Ava out by her arms.
Her shirt was torn, hanging loosely from one shoulder. Her face was pale, her eyes unfocused. Her knees buckled beneath her.
Alexander flung open the driver’s door and leapt down. His gaze landed on her, then shifted sharply to the two men who held her. His expression turned deadly.
“Who touched her?” he asked, voice calm—but cold enough to freeze blood.
The bodyguards went rigid with fear.
Trent had given the order. They hadn’t dared resist. But now, facing Alexander, their legs nearly gave out.
Without a word, Alexander reached for the side of the truck—and pulled out an SY assault rifle, its sleek body gleaming under the lights. It was no ordinary weapon. It was designed for war.
Charlie’s eyes widened in horror. “Alexander—no! You wouldn’t dare!”
Gunfire erupted.
Each man took a brutal spray of bullets to the chest, thrown back by the force, collapsing lifelessly onto the shattered tile.
Silence fell.
Alexander walked toward Ava, scooped her into his arms, and turned toward Charlie, who had sunk to his knees, white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf.
“I’m taking her with me,” Alexander said flatly, aiming the barrel of the rifle at his uncle.
Charlie couldn’t even speak. His lips quivered, but no words came. He looked ready to faint.
With Ava cradled in one arm, Alexander climbed back into the truck. The cab only fit two, but it was enough. He strapped her in with surprising gentleness.
“Hold on,” he murmured.
Ava, barely conscious, blinked up at him. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Then, exhausted and overwhelmed, she passed out beside him.
The engine roared again.
Alexander floored it—reversing, then lunging forward with enough force to obliterate the final structural support of the villa. The last load-bearing wall caved in as the truck thundered through.
Cracks raced up the walls like spiderwebs. The second floor groaned and collapsed in a storm of stone and dust.
Screams erupted behind them. Servants ran for their lives, wailing as the building crumbled into a pile of rubble.
An hour earlier, Charlie had been enjoying his evening coffee. Now he stood in the ruins of his estate, pants soaked, face ashen.
Alexander never looked back.
The truck barreled through the gates, crushed the front fence, and disappeared into the night.
One man. One truck. An entire empire brought to its knees.
When they were clear of the chaos, Alexander slowed the vehicle and glanced at Ava beside him. She was slumped in the seat, finally asleep, her body curled slightly toward him.
He exhaled, then unfastened her belt and lifted her into his arms again.
The steel ladder clanked as he descended with her cradled tightly against his chest.
A black car waited nearby. He handed the keys of the truck off to a subordinate and climbed into the car with Ava.
He didn’t know where her apartment in the Upper West Side was, and right now, it didn’t matter.
He would take her to his hotel.
Behind them, the remains of the Charlie family villa smoked in the distance.
Charlie knelt in the rubble, trembling, fists clenched.
His once pristine world lay in ruins.
And the man who did it had walked away with the very woman he had tried to use as bait.
Charlie’s voice trembled with rage.
“I’m going to my father. Alexander’s gone mad. All this—for a woman.”
---
Cornelius and Vivienne Vanderbilt had raised a complex legacy—three sons and one daughter. The eldest was Charlie, quick-tempered and prideful. The second was Justin, always calm, always watching. The third child, Diana, was the elegant mother of Raphael. And finally, the youngest son: Frederick, father to Alexander.
The Vanderbilt family name extended beyond the core, with numerous collateral branches—each quietly calculating, each eyeing the enormous inheritance like wolves circling a feast. In that environment, betrayal wasn't an if—it was a when.
Yet, even in his worst nightmares, Charlie never expected to be so blatantly and violently targeted by his own nephew, Alexander.
Storming through the marble halls of the estate, his footsteps thundered with fury. He was headed straight for Cornelius. But what caught his attention, even more than his own anger, was the silence surrounding Justin’s side of the family.
Too quiet.
For weeks, Charlie had been the only one acting against Alexander—emboldened by the news of his memory loss. Justin, as always, stayed still, distant, like a general waiting for the perfect moment.
What Charlie had failed to realize was simple: Alexander with amnesia wasn't weak.
He was far more dangerous.
Without memories, Alexander was unburdened by relationships, obligations, or emotional ties. He didn’t play politics—he struck. Ruthlessly, instinctively, without pause.
And once he identified his enemies, his retribution would be swift, merciless, and complete.
Justin had understood this. That’s why he had waited.
Not long after Charlie left in a rage, one of Justin’s men returned with an update.
“Boss,” the man said, half-breathless, “Alexander used a heavy-duty truck to plow through Charlie’s villa. Two of his bodyguards were shot. He walked away like nothing happened.”
Justin calmly set down his porcelain teacup. He was always the picture of restraint—refined, composed, unreadable. Nothing like his older brother.
“He didn’t shoot Charlie?” he asked mildly, as if discussing weather.
The man shook his head. “No. But... Charlie soiled himself. Literally. Then he rushed off, babbling something about justice and heading straight to Mr. Vanderbilt.”
Justin nearly laughed. “Running to Cornelius? That idiot.” His voice was low, but carried a note of ridicule. “He still thinks Cornelius will save him?”
Charlie was a fool. The moment he appeared in front of the old man, his secrets would unravel like a loose thread on a fraying coat. And Cornelius—he had always favored Alexander’s fire, even admired it. There was no greater heir, in Cornelius’s eyes, than a man unafraid of blood.
What Charlie didn’t understand was that if Cornelius ever passed... no one would be able to hold Alexander back.
No leash. No reason. Just a wolf untethered.
Justin sighed, his expression briefly clouded. For all his ambition, he had almost preferred Marken. Marken was fierce, but he had rules. He believed in restraint. But Alexander? He had never followed the rules.
He was born to break them.
A threat like Alexander couldn’t be provoked without a precise plan. Justin wouldn’t act unless the odds were absolute.
---Meanwhile, Charlie had indeed changed his soiled trousers—his face flushed with embarrassment and rage—and then headed straight for Cornelius’s estate, fuming.
But before he could even approach the front gates, the butler stopped him with a neutral smile.
“Mr. Vanderbilt isn’t seeing visitors tonight,” he said smoothly. “If you stirred a wild beast, you should be prepared for the bite. That’s not Mr. Vanderbilt’s concern.”
Charlie’s face went red with fury. “He won’t see me?! He won’t handle this?!” he shouted. “Fine! Then I’ll kill Alexander myself!”
The threat was loud. Dramatic. But hollow.
Everyone watching knew it.
If Charlie had the guts to confront Alexander again, he wouldn’t be here screaming like a petulant child.
The reality was cold and undeniable. When Alexander had his memory, Charlie's son had already been crippled under his hand. And now, with that same man amnesiac and unhinged, Charlie’s villa had been turned into a war zone. His staff was in the hospital. His pride in tatters.
Any notion of revenge was suicide.
Shivering despite the warm night air, Charlie turned away from the estate gates, his steps slow, defeated. The storm had passed—but the wreckage it left behind was only beginning to show.
---
When they arrived at the hotel suite, Alexander gently laid Ava down on the sofa. Her body curled into itself, as though she could physically retreat from the pain searing through her.
“Medicine,” she whispered, barely audible, her voice trembling with desperation.
She was pale, clammy with sweat, and her limbs trembled uncontrollably. One painkiller hadn’t even scratched the surface. The cramps came in waves—sharp, relentless. She looked up at him, disoriented and afraid, her body in rebellion, her mind struggling to stay conscious. She wasn’t even sure who was by her side anymore. Just that she needed the pain to stop.
Without a word, Alexander opened the sleek travel case he always carried, pulled out the bottle of painkillers, and shook two tablets into his palm. Instead of handing them to her, he tilted her chin up gently and slid the pills past her lips with his fingers.
Ava nearly gagged from the sudden pressure, the intrusion—so uninvited in her fragile state. In a burst of reactive anger, she clamped her teeth down on his finger.
The bite wasn’t strong, not with how weak she was. But it left a faint, indented mark, and a little dampness where her lips had touched.
Alexander stared down at his fingertip, the moisture glistening, a crescent of teeth etched into his skin. His breath hitched, the mark awakening something dark and primal beneath his calm surface.
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he draped a blanket over her trembling form, turned up the air conditioner just slightly, and went to fetch clean clothes from his suitcase. He peeled off his shirt and headed to the bathroom for a shower. The city lights outside were already beginning to dim. It was late.
By the time he emerged, the heat from the water having melted some of his tension, he was more exhausted than he expected. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and his steps were heavier.
Just as he reached for his bedroom door, a faint, hoarse voice called out from the sofa.
“Alexander.”
He paused. That voice—soft, vulnerable—was not how she usually addressed him. She always called him Mr. Vanderbilt, like he was a distant, untouchable figure.
He turned back slowly, brows lifted in surprise. “What did you just call me?”
She was mumbling now, her lips moving, but her voice barely carried.
He leaned in, catching the next string of words.
“Bastard… jerk… Alexander… I’ll kill you someday.”
His expression stiffened for a beat. He glanced down at her exposed neck, so delicate, her pulse fluttering just beneath the surface like a bird’s wing. For a wild moment, he considered choking her out of spite.
But her lashes trembled in her sleep—fragile, even in anger.
He let out a soft scoff. “Forget it.”
With that, he turned and left her be.
The night passed without interruption.
When dawn crept through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the room, Alexander stirred. Ava was still sound asleep, her brows slightly furrowed even in slumber. He moved around her quietly, showered again, dressed in a fresh charcoal suit, and left the hotel without a word. He didn’t wake her.
An hour later, sunlight on her cheek roused Ava.
At first, she blinked in confusion, the memories of the previous night foggy and scattered. Then the images came back—shadows, men’s voices, the overwhelming fear pressing down on her chest. She remembered Alexander… arriving at the last second.
But the most vivid memory wasn’t him—it was the feeling of being surrounded. Seven or eight men. Their predatory gazes. The way they looked at her like she was something to consume.
A sick knot twisted in her stomach.
She stumbled into the bathroom and vomited—twice. Her body gave up only water, her stomach empty but still revolting.
She couldn’t stay there.
She gathered her things, wrapped herself in a coat, and returned to Le Châteauesque Manor.
Once home, she asked a housekeeper to purchase a new phone. Then she forced herself to eat something warm—soup, soft bread—and finally, her body began to relax. She showered again, scrubbing her skin until it stung, until the phantom weight of those men faded from her nerves.
Only then did she collapse into bed and sleep deeply until afternoon.
When she woke, she reached for the bottle of painkillers on her nightstand. One more tablet dulled the remaining ache in her lower abdomen, and at last, the pain began to recede—like a storm passing at sea, leaving only quiet waves in its wake.
---That evening, Ava returned to the company. Online discussions about Ray were still buzzing with speculation. Fans and film buffs alike flooded forums, asking when he’d start filming again, eager to see his comeback.
Ray had been the first director Ava brought on board, and Wes the first actor she signed. Though E.A. Corporation was still in its early stages, the company had finally found its footing. The profits were modest, but the trajectory was steady—and promising.
Ray sat across from her, his expression tired but full of hope. His face was still bruised and swollen from the attack, the harsh purples and reds standing out against his olive-toned skin. But since the injuries were superficial, he'd been discharged that morning and had rushed over to see Ava without a moment’s hesitation.
He needed no rest—he needed reassurance.
“Mr. Rossi,” Ava said gently, scanning the notes on her tablet, “I’ll send someone to check the film schools for up-and-coming screenwriters. You’ll have your pick. I know you’re exclusive to E.A., but that doesn’t mean you’ll settle. The script has to meet your standards.”
Ray exhaled, visibly relieved. “Miss Morales, I trust your judgment. I’ll follow your lead.”
Just then, the door clicked open. The room, already quiet, fell completely still.
Marilyn stepped in, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. “Miss Morales,” she said, her voice low but laced with curiosity, “There’s a young woman outside who’s asking to see you.”
Ava raised a brow. “Who is it?”
Before Marilyn could respond, the door swung wider—and in stepped Rita.
Ava’s heart sank. She had a feeling this moment would come.
Rita hesitated at the threshold, her fingers twitching nervously at her sides. Her eyes, usually bright and inquisitive, were now rimmed with confusion and hurt.
The last time Ava had seen her was the night Alexander was rushed into surgery. Amidst the cold, sterile lights of the hospital, Rita had been one of the only family members present.
She stepped inside slowly, her shoes clicking awkwardly against the office floor. “Ava,” she began, then quickly corrected herself. “Miss Morales.”
The distance in her tone cut deeper than Ava expected.
Rita looked around the sleek, modern office—at the polished desk, the expansive windows, the subtle but unmistakable air of power. She finally seemed to absorb the full weight of reality.
Ava wasn’t just someone Alexander had known.
She was the Ava—his ex-wife. The woman Rita had complained about so freely, right to her face.
Rita’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Her cheeks flushed a deep red—not from embarrassment, but from betrayal.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered. “I trusted you. I thought we were friends.”
Ava stood, at a loss. “Rita, I—”
“You let me ramble on and on about Alexander’s ex-wife,” Rita said, voice rising with every word. “You listened to me complain about you! I said horrible things to your face—and you just sat there and smiled like it meant nothing!”
Her voice cracked.
“I hate you, Ava! You tricked me!”
Tears spilled from Rita’s eyes as she stepped back, overwhelmed with a wave of shame and fury. She looked like she wanted to disappear.
Ava quickly reached for a tissue and held it out, but Rita slapped it away.
“Don’t pretend to care now,” she said, her voice trembling. “You didn’t even tell Alexander, did you? You let him fall in love with you again, without ever telling him who you were. How can you be so selfish?”
Ava winced.
“What’s he going to do when he finds out the truth? When he realizes you’ve been deceiving him this whole time? You never cared about his feelings. You only care about saving yourself. The Morales family—” Rita choked on her own words, “—you’re all awful!”
With that, she spun on her heel and ran from the office, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Ava moved to follow, but by the time she stepped into the hallway, Rita was already inside the elevator. The doors closed, leaving behind a void that felt heavier than any silence before.
Back in her car, Rita wept, her sobs coming in hiccuping waves. Her heart pounded, still not fully comprehending the storm of emotions—hurt, betrayal, confusion. Mostly shame. She had poured her thoughts into Ava, trusted her, defended her. And all along, Ava had been silently holding the truth like a dagger behind her back.
Then her phone buzzed. A message from Ava.
[Sorry. I’ve always wanted to explain but never found the chance.]
Rita stared at the screen, her vision blurred with tears.
Excuses. That’s all they were.
Every word Ava had ever said to her now felt hollow. Every kind nod, every comforting word—fake. She sobbed harder, curling against the driver’s seat as if trying to block out the truth. Ava had probably laughed about it behind her back, thinking Rita a fool.
Rita clenched her phone in her hand, her tears falling silently.
If Alexander didn’t remember, then she would tell him herself.
Ava wouldn't get to hide forever.
---Ava sat slouched at her desk, massaging her temples with slow, circular motions. The pressure in her head throbbed steadily, the culmination of too little sleep and too many worries.
Marilyn stepped in quietly, pausing when she caught sight of Ava’s fatigued expression. Her tone softened immediately.
“Miss Morales, would you like me to get you some lunch?”Ava lowered her hands and blinked as if waking from a trance. “Have the script scouts left yet?”
“They have,” Marilyn confirmed with a nod. “They should be at the New York Film Academy by now.”
The name alone brought a flicker of hope to Ava’s tired eyes. The New York Film Academy was the top of the line—an institution that had birthed some of the country’s finest filmmakers, actors, and especially screenwriters. If there was a place to uncover the kind of powerful, groundbreaking story E.A. Corporation needed, it would be there.
To truly distinguish E.A. in the fiercely competitive entertainment industry, they needed either a breakthrough script or a rising star. Preferably both.
They had Wes, whose star power was undeniable, but he was still carving out his space. Without the weight of a strong production company behind him, he’d been shouldering the burden of his career on his own. Roles were hard-won. Endorsements came sparingly. Ava knew he deserved better—and so did E.A.
She leaned back in her chair, her expression momentarily clouded by a deeper frustration. She had once agreed to be Alexander’s secretary under the promise that the Vanderbilt Group would provide E.A. with significant backing—funds, contacts, exposure. But that promise had vanished along with his memory. Not only had he fired her, he’d forgotten all about the vision they’d shared.
With that alliance severed, Ava had no choice but to take matters into her own hands.
“I’ll head to the Academy myself,” she told Marilyn, already reaching for her bag.
The Morales family’s paint empire could run without her constant supervision—other executives were handling the operations. All she needed to do was approve major contracts and review reports. But E.A.? That was hers. From scratch. From soul. Her future depended on it.
The campus of the New York Film Academy buzzed with life. The sharp winter light fell in pale stripes across the brick buildings, casting long shadows over the entryway. The courtyard was bustling with activity—script scouts, aspiring screenwriters, and ambitious filmmakers exchanged ideas, pitched concepts, or simply hovered with hopeful eyes, waiting to be discovered.
Ava moved through the crowd with purpose, sorting through stacks of screenplays, holding brief conversations with writers, and politely skimming through elevator pitches. Most of the scripts were passionate but raw—fragmented plots, inconsistent tones, or underdeveloped characters.
Each script she reviewed left her increasingly disappointed. Nothing struck that emotional chord. Nothing screamed breakout hit.
Eventually, she stepped into a nearby café to warm up and refocus. The space was modest, filled with the scent of roasted espresso and cinnamon pastries, and crowded with creative types hunched over laptops or muttering revisions under their breath.
She took a seat by the window, nursing a lukewarm cappuccino while flipping through one last script—only to close it with a quiet sigh. Still nothing.
Finding a gem in a sea of hopefuls was proving far more difficult than she had imagined. But Ava didn’t believe in giving up. Not when everything she’d built was riding on it.
---
That evening, Serena returned to Le Châteauesque Manor and was surprised to find Cornelius already waiting for her in the drawing room, seated in his usual spot as if he had never left.
“Grandpa!” she exclaimed, hurrying toward him.
The last time she’d seen him, he had nearly collapsed from rage—his face pale, his breathing labored. Seeing him up and about now was both a relief and a shock.
Cornelius glanced up with a faint smile. “Still sharp-eyed, aren’t you?”
Serena immediately helped him sit more comfortably. “You should be resting. Why are you out and about?”
He waved off her concern, settling deeper into the cushions. “Home is too noisy. Everyone either wants to gossip or argue. I’d rather be here. With you, at least I get peace—and maybe a little honesty.”
Serena quietly poured him a glass of warm water and sat beside him.
“I wanted to thank you,” Cornelius said after a moment, his voice gentler than usual. “You didn’t have to look after Alexander at the hospital. The two of you are divorced—yet you still went.”
His gratitude came from a place few saw—beneath all his sternness was a man who valued loyalty and care. And Serena had shown both. That’s why, even now, Cornelius held her in high esteem. She was intelligent, competent, and more importantly, sincere.
He shifted slightly. “Do you know what Alexander's doing today?”
Serena shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“He’s preparing to acquire the Richter Group,” Cornelius said flatly. “The Laurents showed up at the company today. He didn’t even meet them. As for Victoria—I had her thrown in jail. But Mikhail bailed her out. I’m not sure why he’s protecting her, but it won’t last. No matter who steps in, she’ll see prison soon enough.”
Serena stayed silent, her expression unreadable.
Cornelius studied her face for a long moment before continuing, the sharp glint in his eyes softening with reflection. “Let Alexander handle it,” Serena said softly.
He nodded, then fell into a brief silence, as if gathering the courage to say something more personal. When he finally spoke again, his voice was heavier—older.
“Alexander grew up with me in the military,” he began. “Not a single member of the family raised a finger to help him. I brought him up, shaped him. And he’s always been a capable boy. Do you know he earned more money overseas in three years than the entire Vanderbilt family has in a decade?”
Serena turned her head sharply toward him.
“No one knows,” Cornelius continued, taking a sip of water. “The biggest acquisition that shook the Asian market back then? That was him. He wasn’t even twenty. He bought companies quietly—dozens. Maybe hundreds. I asked him to return, to take over the group. It was supposed to go to his brother, but... well.”
His expression darkened for a fleeting second.
“I trusted Alexander, but I always feared what he could become if he went unchecked. His uncles accused me of favoritism, said I spoiled him. But I wasn’t spoiling him. I was trying to give him boundaries. Trying to keep him grounded.”
Serena’s heart skipped a beat. She realized this wasn’t a conversation Cornelius had ever had with anyone else. Rumors had long swirled about Alexander’s overseas assets, but no one truly knew the scale. Now it was clear: he was independently powerful. The Vanderbilt empire was little more than an accessory to him.
“I even considered handing everything over to you,” Cornelius added. “But you two… you never truly loved each other.”
Serena looked down. “Three years of marriage… but we never even got close,” she said quietly.
Cornelius sighed. “I’m not trying to make you go back. I just needed someone to talk to—someone who won’t twist my words. Alexander... he’s changed. He doesn’t understand family or love anymore. And now with this amnesia, he’s even more unmoored.”
He patted her wrist gently. “I’m old. I won’t be around much longer. If you need anything, call the butler. I’ll be keeping to myself for a while.”
Serena nodded slowly. Cornelius truly didn’t want anything from her. He just needed someone who listened.
After sitting for an hour, he finally allowed himself to be helped out of the house and back to his car.
Left alone in the quiet, Serena’s thoughts drifted to Alexander—his upbringing, the things he’d survived, the man he’d become. She had once stared down the barrel of his gun. She knew what he was capable of beneath the veneer of tailored suits and quiet luxury. Cornelius wasn’t exaggerating—Alexander could become terrifying when stripped of his restraint.
But Serena wasn’t interested in controlling him. That had never been her ambition.
Just as she began preparing dinner, her phone rang. It was the private investigator she’d hired to look into the child-swapping case in Ridgefield.
“Miss Morales,” the man said, “we found something.”
Serena stood frozen.
“We’ve confirmed details about Mr. Morales’s biological child,” he continued, “but nothing about your background. The trail stops with you.”
Serena furrowed her brow. “What do you mean? The children were switched. There should be records on both.”
The investigator hesitated. “The baby that Ms. Garcia gave birth to was taken to New York. She was sold—and the buyer seems to have ties to the Laurent family.”
Serena felt the chill creep up her spine.
The Laurent family?
Wasn't it just recently confirmed that Victoria wasn’t really a Laurent?
Something didn’t add up. Her head throbbed with the realization that something deeper was buried in this web of lies.
Her thoughts snapped back to Cornelius's words—how Mikhail had taken Victoria away. She grabbed her coat and rushed to the hospital.
By the time she arrived, Mikhail had just finished a surgery and was unbuttoning his white coat in the hallway.
“Dr. Malik!” she called out, slightly breathless.
He looked up, surprised. “Miss Morales?”
Serena was flushed, a sheen of sweat glistening at her temples despite the cold.
“Do you still have Victoria’s DNA information?” she asked.
Mikhail nodded. “I do. If you need another test run, I can contact my colleague. You’ll be able to work with them directly.”
“Please. I need to compare it with Alfonso’s DNA,” Serena said.
He gave her instructions to head to the next building, where the genetics lab was located.
There, Serena submitted the samples and filled out the necessary forms. As she sat down in the waiting area, her palms were damp. Her mind buzzed with dread.
She prayed silently.
Please… don’t let Victoria be Alfonso and Elena’s biological daughter.
Because if she was, fate simply was too cruel.
