LOGINAlexander immediately ordered his men to pull up the surveillance footage from the building. But every file was gone—cleanly erased, not even a digital shadow left behind.
He tightened his jaw, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Check every camera around E.A. Corporation. Every street, every blind spot. I want to know where she is.”
Within minutes, his team scattered, working in silence, their faces tense.
When the footage finally came back, Alexander’s blood ran cold.There she was—Serena—being dragged into a car.
And the man behind it was Edmund Whitehall.His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk. Then, without a word, he grabbed his keys and bolted.
The night was heavy with mist when Alexander’s car tore through the streets of New York. The low hum of the engine roared into a snarl as he sped toward the riverbank, tires screeching against the asphalt. His face was set like stone, his knuckles clenched aro
Dear Gentle Readers , Have you been enjoying the story thus far?The mystery will be revealed in time, why Alexander was unable to recognise Ava Roselle-Vega as Ava Alvarez/Serena Morales, and why he only remembered spending a passionate night with a mysterious woman whose name he did not know... This author hopes you will continue enjoying this story, the 1st branch, the one that most readers wanted (with less complicated plots and loose ends). This author must admits that at first, he did not enjoy writing Chapter 161-165 of the 1st branch however, after taking some time and truly thinking about the story, the author finally came up with the plot that he actually enjoys writing and he hopes that you, Gentle Readers, will also enjoy reading it. Yours, Ethan *********At Hawthorne Court, London, the afternoon light poured softly through the tall windows of Ava’s office, gilding the polished mahogany desk and the contract spread open upon it. The faint scent of lilies from the lob
Inside the sleek glass-walled audition room of VE (Vanderbilt Enterprises), the atmosphere buzzed with quiet intensity. A row of cameras stood poised, lights glowing softly as the production crew whispered among themselves.On the oversized black leather sofa, a small boy in a perfectly tailored miniature suit sat with poise well beyond his years. His feet dangled just above the floor, yet he carried himself like a young monarch presiding over his court—back straight, hands resting on the armrests, expression calm and faintly regal.Even seated, Cello exuded an almost magnetic self-assurance. The camera adored him; every tilt of his chin and blink of his long lashes seemed deliberate, natural, and effortlessly photogenic.Just then, the heavy oak door of the audition room swung open.Alexander Vanderbilt stepped inside. His tall figure cast a shadow across the glossy marble floor as he took in the scene with his usual sharp, assessing gaze.The company had recently decided to acquire
The evening air in the underground parking lot was cool and faintly smelled of rain-soaked concrete. It was London, after all, and there was no day without rain. The soft echo of their footsteps followed Ava and her son as they descended the last flight of stairs, both freshly changed and ready to head home.Cello, the little boy with a serious expression that far exceeded his age, furrowed his brow and tugged lightly on the hem of his mother’s coat.“Mommy,” he said, his voice thoughtful yet tinged with concern. “You’ve offended Imogen this time. She’s not going to let it go. She’ll definitely want revenge.”Ava glanced down at him, her lips curving into an amused smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.“Your mommy,” she said lightly, “isn’t someone to be trifled with, you know.”Her tone was playful, but there was an unmistakable confidence beneath it—calm, steady, and sharp as glass.Imogen had always disliked her. That much was no secret. And after what happened earlier this morni
After dinner, Ava brought little Marcello up to her office.The boy, his cheeks still slightly flushed from the meal, set up his drawing board on the coffee table and began sketching in quiet concentration. Meanwhile, Ava made her usual evening rounds across the 56th floor—checking each section of the workspace with her characteristic thoroughness. The soft hum of office lights and the faint scent of paper and ink trailed behind her as she inspected every detail. Once she confirmed everything was in order, she returned to her office.Marcello had just finished his drawing—a bright splash of color, a world entirely his own. Smiling, Ava crouched beside him and gently tapped his shoulder. “Let’s go, little man. Time to exercise!”From the cabinet, she took out his small swimsuit and her own neatly folded sportswear.Since Marcello was still growing, Ava made his health her top priority. The little boy was strong for his age—tall, lean, and full of energy. He almost never fell sick. Swim
Mother and son hurried back to the hotel, the soft hum of the lobby music greeting them as they entered the elevator. They rode up to the twelfth floor, where the faint aroma of roasted herbs and truffle butter drifted through the air.The maître d’, recognizing them at once, offered a warm smile. “Welcome back, Ms. Alvarez, Master Cello.” He guided them to a table by the window, where the city skyline glittered beneath the early evening haze—buildings catching the last gold of the setting sun.As Ava began perusing the menu, Cello slipped down from his chair.“Mommy, I’ll wash my hands,” he said softly.“Alright, sweetheart. Don’t take too long,” she reminded, half-focused on the waiter standing by with a notepad.The boy nodded and trotted off. Having been to the hotel countless times before, he knew the way to the restroom perfectly. The corridor leading there was lined with framed watercolors—calm seaside scenes that shimmered faintly under the amber lights.At the sink, Cello tur
The elevator was crowded as people filed in one after another. Ava slipped in last, quietly taking her place in the corner.Her posture was poised—chin lifted slightly, a faint professional smile on her lips. Yet, despite her composed appearance, her eyes betrayed her restraint, stealing a discreet glance toward the man standing at the center.Seven years had passed. Seven long years.And he was still the same.It was as if time itself had conspired in his favor. Not a single line marred that sculpted face; not even the faintest trace of fatigue dulled the sharpness of his gaze. If anything, he’d grown more refined—more quietly commanding, with that aura of authority that made the air around him heavier, harder to breathe.He didn’t glance her way. Not even once. His gaze stayed fixed on the elevator doors, cool and distant.Oddly enough, that gave her a sense of relief.It seemed he hadn’t recognized her—and that was for the best. Seven years could change a person beyond recognition,







