Chapter 3: What a playboy!

Serena slid behind the wheel of her car, the leather still warm from the afternoon sun. A wave of melancholy settled over her like an unwelcome guest, heavy and suffocating.

When Araminta had moved in with Valentina and Josh, Serena had gently suggested that perhaps it wasn’t appropriate for her to share a home with Josh, who, after all, was not related to her by blood. A polite, reasonable request — that Josh find his own place.

But Alfonso, eager to please Valentina and to keep Araminta comfortable, had hesitated. And rather than stir up conflict, Serena had quietly made the decision to move out herself.

Now I’m just an outsider in my own family, she thought bitterly, pressing the ignition button as the car’s engine hummed to life.

With no urgent work at the studio, she decided to go straight home. The city outside blurred past her windows, neon signs beginning to flicker against the deepening dusk. Before she could fully slip into the solitude of the drive, her phone buzzed against the console.

The caller ID made her heart sink.

Serena let it ring until the final moment before answering, voice steady.

“Hello, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” she said, carefully even.

On the other end, Cordelia Vanderbilt — Alexander’s patrician, steel-hearted mother — spoke with her usual clipped authority.

“I want you to come to the Vanderbilt estate so we can discuss your divorce in person,” Cordelia announced, without the courtesy of a pause. “You should understand that the only reason you married Alexander was because of Cornelius’s insistence. Now that Alexander is in charge, Cornelius won’t interfere anymore.”

There it was.

The clear dismissal. The final push.

Serena had always known Cordelia considered her a stain on the Vanderbilt name. Though she’d kept her distance, visiting Cornelius on occasion, that had never been enough.

Now that Alexander is back, they want me gone for good.

Cordelia, no doubt expecting Serena to protest, to break down, was momentarily caught off guard when Serena’s reply was calm and composed.

“All right. Should I come now?”

Her voice was so steady, so detached, that Cordelia hesitated.

Serena sounded as though she had been waiting for this moment.

Cordelia quickly gathered herself. “I’m glad you understand,” she sneered. “You don’t deserve Alexander. He needs someone far better than you. Come over now — I’ve also asked Alexander to join us.”

Serena’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel at the mention of Alexander.

What will he do, she wondered, when he realizes the woman he spent the night with is about to become his ex-wife?

A ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips. Someone as proud as Alexander would be humiliated, no doubt. But that was his problem, not hers.

Without another word, she ended the call and turned the car toward Hawlett Bay, the Vanderbilt family’s private estate.

The Vanderbilt mansion soon loomed in the evening gloom, a grand testament to generational wealth and pride. The sprawling drive was lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, and the iron gates swung open in silent, practiced precision.

Inside, the air smelled of freshly cut white roses, arranged elegantly in crystal vases that gleamed under the golden chandelier. Marble floors, polished to mirror perfection, reflected the grandeur of the cavernous ceilings above.

Cordelia was waiting in the sitting room, perfectly posed on a velvet chaise, a cup of tea cradled delicately in her hand. Her posture was impeccable, her gaze as icy and sharp as a blade.

“Let’s be honest,” Cordelia began, placing her teacup on a matching saucer with a quiet, decisive clink. “You know exactly what state your family is in.”

Serena met her stare, unwavering. “Yes, I do.”

Cordelia’s voice took on a syrupy, condescending note. “Your father was never meant for business. He should walk away before he ruins himself further. The Vanderbilts helped him once — we will not help him again.”

Serena stayed silent, letting the older woman vent her disdain.

“And as for your stepmother,” Cordelia added, her lips curling ever so slightly, “she’s obviously after our family’s money and name. You, Serena, are a burden. You do not belong with Alexander. You simply aren’t good enough.”

Any other woman might have flinched. But Serena only drew a long, quiet breath and nodded.

“You’re right.”

Cordelia’s composure slipped for just an instant.

No protests. No desperate pleas. No righteous outrage.

To Serena, this entire marriage had been nothing but a cold, contractual arrangement. The divorce felt more like a liberation than a punishment.

Cordelia’s triumph tasted bitter, now that her opponent refused to fight.

A screech of tires outside broke the tension, drawing Cordelia’s attention to the window.

She smoothed down the silk of her dress with a practiced hand, as if preparing for an audience. Serena, however, remained still, idly tracing the rim of her teacup.

Moments later, footsteps echoed through the marble hall, but it was Jonathan who entered, carrying an elegantly wrapped gift box.

“My apologies, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” Jonathan said, bowing politely. “Mr. Vanderbilt had an unexpected commitment and could not make it tonight.”

A flicker of frustration passed across Cordelia’s perfectly composed face. She had deliberately left out Serena’s presence when summoning Alexander, knowing he would never have come otherwise.

After all, he’d fled the moment he learned of the marriage, avoiding Serena for three years.

Her voice regained its smooth, rehearsed grace. “I see. Tell him to take care of himself.”

Jonathan nodded crisply, then turned to leave, his footsteps echoing back down the hall.

Cordelia turned on Serena with a frosty glare. “You can go now,” she said sharply. “I’ll let you know when Alexander is available.”

Serena rose without hesitation. “All right.”

She had no intention of staying for dinner. Whether today or tomorrow, the outcome would be the same: divorce was inevitable, the papers already drawn.

Driving away from the mansion, Serena watched the city lights shimmer across her windshield. At a red light, she absently opened the group chat from work, where messages popped up at a dizzying pace.

“I heard Alexander Vanderbilt is getting married soon!”

“He just bought a house in Manhattan. Kevin might be able to get us in!”

“If we design his wedding house, we’ll skyrocket. The exposure alone could land us on Forbes!”

Serena’s lips twitched in a humorless smile. None of them even knew she had been Mrs. Vanderbilt for years.

Now they scrambled for crumbs at his table.

The light turned green, and her phone buzzed again.

Kevin: Come to the 54 Club. A client wants to see you about your villa designs.

Interior design hadn’t been her dream. She had studied fine arts, but a friend had once asked her to design a villa. An oligarch had later bought that same design for ten times its value, pulling Serena into a field she’d never expected.

Kevin Nicholson had scouted her soon after, pulling her into his prestigious design studio. Though she only worked there part-time, the projects had opened new doors.

And if a client wanted to see her work tonight, she had no reason to refuse.

---

Turning the wheel with steady precision, Serena navigated her car toward the 54 Club — one of New York’s most exclusive, almost legendary establishments. The club was a byword for power, a realm where marble-floored lounges and dimly lit cigar rooms hosted whispered deals worth millions, and where only the highest echelons of society dared to tread.

As she pulled up to the gleaming entrance, her phone vibrated with another message from Kevin:

Kevin: Ava, I can’t come get you. Mr. Richardson said he’d have a friend escort you inside. Just wait at the entrance.

Serena frowned faintly. She didn’t hold a membership to this place, so she could only stand by and wait under the discreetly gilded awning, the club’s subtle logo glinting in the glow of its designer lighting.

Meanwhile, across town, Alexander’s phone lit up with a call from Raphael Richardson.

“Xander, I’ve got a friend I want you to meet,” Raphael’s voice boomed through the faint thump of background music. “She’s waiting outside the club. Could you bring her in?”

Alexander’s brow twitched into a frown. A setup?

Raphael chuckled smoothly, as if sensing Alexander’s hesitation. “This is a gift you won’t regret,” he added, and hung up before giving Alexander a chance to refuse.

Alexander exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. With Raphael, a so-called gift usually meant a woman.

When he stepped out of his sleek black car moments later, the cool night air hit him, carrying the faint notes of cologne, expensive whiskey, and city exhaust. His gaze swept the entrance, sharp and unyielding, until it landed on a slender silhouette waiting by the door.

His jaw tightened.

It was her.

The woman who had slipped away from his bed that very morning.

Serena was quietly scrolling her phone, oblivious for an instant — until, as if drawn by an invisible string, her eyes lifted and locked with his.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

She looked impossibly composed, standing there in a simple yet sophisticated outfit that flattered her delicate figure, her hair caught by the night breeze and fluttering softly around her face.

So this was her plan?

Alexander’s expression darkened. He’d been wondering why she had left in such a rush. Now it felt painfully obvious.

Raphael must have paid her off in advance.

His voice was cool and unreadable as he finally spoke. “You’re the one Raphael mentioned?”

Serena’s eyes widened just slightly before understanding dawned.

Mr. Richardson... could he be the client Kevin told me about?

An ironic smile curled at the corners of her lips.

How poetic.

She was here — hired to design Alexander’s wedding house.

Before her own divorce was even finalized, she was being asked to build the home where her soon-to-be ex-husband would start a new life with another woman.

Absurd.

Yet she refused to feel ashamed. She had built her career on her own terms, on her own skills, and no matter how uncomfortable the situation, she wouldn’t throw away a chance to move forward.

She raised her eyes to his, meeting his dark, searching gaze without a trace of fear. “I believe so, Mr. Vanderbilt.”

Something unreadable passed through his eyes, flickering like a dying ember.

He didn’t look convinced.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly, turning and leading the way inside.

Serena followed, her heels clicking crisply against the club’s marble steps, the sound echoing faintly in the rarefied hush of privilege. She stepped into a night she hadn’t anticipated, steeling herself for whatever would come next.