* FREE - Appreciation for our Readers * Chapter 93 : Mrs. Richardson, what I said earlier was true! Ava and Mr. Vanderbilt...

Dear Gentle Readers, 

At last this chapter will tie up the loose end about Ava being Raphael’s girlfriend...

Please do enjoy. Grazie mille. 

Yours,

Ethan

***

Brigitte arrived in the morning, carrying a small insulated container. Seeing that Ava’s complexion had improved slightly, she let out a relieved sigh.

"You had a high fever last night," Brigitte said as she set the container on the table. "This is the porridge I made this morning. You should have some."

Ava, touched by her kindness, nodded and took the bowl. Brigitte, however, subtly glanced around the apartment, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Last night, she had mentioned to Mr. Vanderbilt that Ava’s husband was always out early and returned late. Yet, in all the time she had lived across the hall, she had never once seen the man.

"Ava, is your husband really that busy?" Brigitte asked, her tone casual but probing. "You had such a high fever last night, and he didn’t come to take care of you."

Ava's grip on the spoon tightened slightly. She knew she needed to resolve this husband situation soon. The more questions people asked, the higher the risk of exposure. Rachel. Rachel could probably handle this. With her vast network, she could surely find a reliable man to act the part when necessary.

"He travels a lot for work," Ava answered smoothly, keeping her expression neutral.

Brigitte didn’t press further, simply nodding. "Just make sure to take care of yourself."

As Ava took her first sip of the warm porridge, Brigitte’s phone rang. The moment she glanced at the screen, her lips curved into a small smile.

Raphael.

Ava didn't need to ask to know who it was.

Brigitte answered the call, her tone carrying a slight edge of complaint. "You didn’t even call me back last night."

Raphael chuckled on the other end, quickly pacifying her by mentioning a surprise he had prepared. Brigitte’s initial annoyance faded, replaced by excitement. She shot Ava a quick smile before rushing out the door, completely forgetting about her unfinished breakfast.

The moment she left, Ava exhaled. She got up to rinse the bowl and return it when—

Ding-dong.

She hesitated. Brigitte couldn’t be back so soon, could she?

Opening the door, she froze.

Standing there were Diana and Raphael.

Ava’s heart sank.

Diana, looking elegant as ever despite her recent injury, gave Ava a warm smile. "Ava, were you frightened by what happened yesterday?" She reached out and took Ava’s hand gently. "Raphael doesn’t know how to comfort people, so I brought him along to check on you."

Ava, struggling to hide her shock, turned her gaze to Raphael. He blinked at her—a silent message she couldn’t decipher.

Raphael already knew she was married. Didn’t he consider that coming here might lead to him running into her husband?

What the hell was he thinking?

Raphael, for his part, was also taking a gamble. Thankfully, Ava’s so-called husband wasn’t home.

If Diana discovered the truth now, Raphael knew exactly where he’d end up—back at the Vanderbilt estate, under his uncle’s strict training. He had barely escaped that fate the first time. There was no way he was going back.

So, for now, he had to play along.

Diana, ever the refined woman, studied Ava with genuine fondness. She had seen enough in this city to recognize a girl who had fought her own battles.

She took Ava’s hand, then Raphael’s, linking them together briefly before patting them.

"Raphael, you need to be good to Ava," she said firmly. "You’re still immature—you need someone to guide you."

Ava opened her mouth, desperate to correct the misunderstanding—but the elevator doors slid open before she could say a word.

They all turned to look.

Brigitte.

She stood there, frozen in place. Her eyes darted between the three of them, her expression shifting from confusion to disbelief.

Diana smiled at Ava, though there was a subtle change in her demeanor—a flicker of distance.

"Ava," she said gently, though there was an underlying firmness to her tone. "Let’s go inside and talk properly, shall we?"

Ava had no choice but to step aside, allowing them in.

Diana walked in first, composed as ever. Raphael, gripping Brigitte’s wrist to keep her from causing a scene, followed closely behind. Ava trailed after them, shutting the door.

She could already tell—this conversation was going to be a disaster. 

As the hostess, Ava instinctively moved to make tea, though her hands felt slightly unsteady.

Diana sat upright on the couch, her posture calm yet unmistakably authoritative—the stance of a woman accustomed to negotiations.

"Speak."

Raphael jumped in immediately, pulling Brigitte to sit beside him.

"Mom, this is my girlfriend, Brigitte," he announced. "Ava is my cousin’s interior designer. I had no choice but to introduce her to you as my girlfriend before."

Diana’s expression didn’t change.

Her gaze flickered to Ava. "You had plenty of time to clarify this before, didn’t you?"

Ava felt a weight settle in her stomach.

Diana slowly rose from her seat.

"Ava, forget what I said earlier," she stated. "You’re a capable young woman. As for you, Raphael—you’ll return to the Vanderbilt estate this afternoon."

Raphael tensed.

Diana didn’t acknowledge Brigitte.

Brigitte, clearly upset, spoke up before she could stop herself.

"Mrs. Richardson, what I said earlier was true! Ava and Mr. Vanderbilt—"

Diana cut her off.

"Alexander is an adult, he makes his own choices," she said, her voice icily controlled. "Telling me won’t change anything. I may be his elder, but I don’t interfere in his personal affairs."

Her gaze landed on Ava once more.

There was something calculating in it.

Ava didn’t look like the type of woman who could sway Alexander.

Yet Diana had seen Ava in vulnerable moments—her stubbornness, her resilience.

If she had played her cards right, perhaps Alexander would take the bait.

Diana had misjudged situations before, but she would not interfere.

"Do as you wish," she murmured before leaving. 

Silence blanketed the room.

Ava rubbed her forehead. "Mr. Richardson, take your girlfriend with you."

Raphael, knowing better than to argue, turned to Brigitte with a soft smile. "Darling, let’s go. We’ll talk in your apartment."

Brigitte didn’t budge.

Her eyes bore into Ava, filled with betrayal.

"You really are something else," she hissed. "I actually thought you were my friend. But you—" she laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Forget it. We’re done."

Raphael quickly ushered her away, whispering reassurances.

Ava shut the door behind them.

For the first time, her apartment felt suffocating.

She had wanted to start fresh here, but now—now, she was caught in another tangled mess.

Her new neighbor was a mistress.

Her only friend here now despised her.

Maybe… maybe it was better to go back to Le Châteauesque Manor after all.

Ava packed a small bag and took Rex back to Le Châteauesque Manor, where at least she only had to avoid Alexander...

---

(From here, Ava will be referred to as Serena, as Aunt Torres and the Vanderbilt staff recognize her as “Serena” or “Miss Morales”, Alexander’s wife). 

Upon seeing her return, Aunt Torres practically beamed.

"Miss Morales, you’ve finally come to your senses!"

Serena sighed. "Aunt Torres, is there a temple nearby? I think I need to burn incense. I’ve had nothing but bad luck this year."

Aunt Torres chuckled, shaking her head.

As Serena settled in, her relief was short-lived.

Because Alexander was coming home tonight.

Aunt Torres hesitated before breaking the news. "Miss Morales, have you and Mr. Vanderbilt spoken about tonight? His assistant called earlier to inform me that he’ll be dining here."

Ava stiffened.

Why was Alexander coming back? Didn’t he usually stay at his hotel?

Hadn’t Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. given him any other tasks to keep him occupied?

For a brief moment, Serena considered telling Alexander the truth.

At least then, she wouldn’t have to keep up this endless charade—not just with him, but with Raphael’s family, too.

But then she thought about Alexander’s clear disdain for the Vanderbilt family—and for her supposed identity as his wife. The moment he found out the truth, everything would unravel.

She exhaled, rubbing her temples. "Aunt Torres, I’m feeling unwell. I won’t come down for dinner. Please don’t call me."

Aunt Torres frowned. "Miss Morales, I used that excuse last time. Mr. Vanderbilt wasn’t pleased."

Serena shook her head. "It doesn’t matter. There's nothing left to salvage between us." 

To be precise, it wasn’t her relationship with Alexander that mattered—it was Mrs. Vanderbilt’s.

Serena knew that if she ever tried to approach him under the guise of Mrs. Vanderbilt, it would only fuel his resentment. He had made it clear, time and time again, that he wanted nothing to do with the woman bearing his last name. Just like that night, when he transferred eight million dollars to sever any lingering ties, he would do the same without hesitation if she clung to that identity.

If she had introduced herself as Mrs. Vanderbilt from the very beginning, Alexander never would have spared her a second glance.

Aunt Torres hesitated, pressing her lips together as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it. In the end, she simply sighed.

That evening, when Alexander stepped into the villa, he shrugged off his suit jacket and placed it on the coat rack without much thought.

The rich scent of food drifted through the air, carrying the warmth of a home he never truly considered his. It had been a long day, full of back-to-back meetings, and exhaustion pressed against his temples.

Aunt Torres, ever attentive, approached immediately. "Mr. Vanderbilt."

Alexander barely acknowledged her, his mind elsewhere. His visits to the manor had become more frequent, though never out of sentiment. His grandfather’s unexpected inspections forced him to stay a few nights, ensuring that everything appeared in order.

"Dinner is ready, Mr. Vanderbilt. Please have some," Aunt Torres said, motioning for the servants to bring out the dishes.

Alexander sat down, reaching for his utensils when a faint noise pricked his ears. A bark.

He frowned. Had he imagined it?

His gaze swept the room, but nothing seemed out of place.

"Where is she?"

Aunt Torres hesitated, then replied carefully, "Miss Morales said she’s not feeling well."

Alexander’s brow furrowed.

That didn’t sound like the woman he knew. If she was sick, she would have at least shown up just to catch a glimpse of him—if only to remind him of her existence. Her persistence, her unwavering gaze, the way she clung to his every movement… none of that matched the image of someone who would willingly avoid him twice in a row.

Still, whatever her reasons were, Alexander had no interest in prying.

Upstairs, Serena sat hunched over her laptop, the glow from the screen casting shadows across her face.

She had spent hours securing the lowest prices for materials, but the sandalwood flooring remained an issue. It was a specialty product, one that required a reservation years in advance, and the supplier in Charleston was notoriously selective.

She estimated that she had about six months before she needed it delivered. That meant she had to find a way to Charleston soon, to personally negotiate with the supplier.

But not tonight.

Even if she packed her bags and left right now, it wouldn’t make a difference. She had a little time to plan.

She scanned through the material sheets once more, double-checking every detail before turning her attention to the layout of the Manhattan house.

Alexander had helped her more times than she could count. The least she could do was make sure his home turned out perfect.

Just as her fingers brushed the keyboard, a sharp bark pierced the silence.

Serena’s head snapped up.

She stood quickly, moving toward the window. Down in the garden, she spotted Rex darting across the lawn, barking excitedly.

Her stomach twisted.

Didn’t Aunt Torres lock him up? How did he get out?

Her heart pounded. Alexander was home. If he found out that Rex was here, the consequences would be… unimaginable.