* FREEBIE * 2nd * Chapter 208

Ava glanced at the incoming message, her eyes barely flicking away from the mountain of documents piled high on her desk. Contracts, personnel files, quarterly reports—all demanding her signature, her insight, her attention.

With a muted sigh, she picked up her phone and tapped out a reply.

Ava:

[I might be a bit late.]

A beat later, his response arrived.

Alexander:

[Okay.]

The screen dimmed, and so did her thoughts of him. She slid the phone aside and returned to the work with a sharpened focus, determined to push through before the evening swallowed what little energy she had left.

Time blurred into stillness as the pages turned under her hand, her pen gliding steadily over signatures and notes. When she finally looked up again, the sky outside her office window had deepened into a dusky charcoal. Streetlights glowed faintly against the glass. Her pulse kicked—had it really been four hours?

She reached for her phone again, her fingertips cold with guilt.

Ava:

[Mr. Vanderbilt, where are you at?]

The reply came quickly.

Alexander:

[The company.]

Inside his sleek corner office at the top floor of Vanderbilt Tower, the atmosphere was dense with unspoken tension. The room, usually humming with the quiet rhythm of productivity, had instead fallen into a stifled silence.

A senior executive emerged from the office moments earlier, visibly pale and rattled. He grabbed a junior colleague by the arm.

“Don’t go in,” he whispered. “The boss is in one of those moods.”

Word spread like wildfire, and the rest of the team—those scheduled to report—swiftly retreated under flimsy excuses. No one wanted to be the next casualty.

Alexander sat behind his desk, jaw taut, one hand on the armrest, the other lightly drumming on the table.

Four hours.

Was that Ava’s definition of “a bit late”?

He hadn’t waited on anyone this long in his entire life. Not even investors with billion-dollar offers.

Yet the moment her message appeared on his screen, something in his fury softened. Slightly.

She hadn’t forgotten him, at least.

But before that thought could settle, another message came in.

Ava:

[It’s gotten a bit late, how about I see Mr. Vanderbilt tomorrow instead?]

The calm shattered.

His jaw clenched. The backspace key thudded under his thumb as he typed and retyped a response.

First draft:

Alexander:

[Come now.]

Then he erased it. Too forward. Too invested.

Second draft:

Alexander:

[I’ve been waiting four hours. If you don’t come now, don’t bother at all.]

Deleted.

He stared at the blinking cursor. Finally, he typed the words that burned the least.

Alexander:

[As you wish.]

With that, he stood, his mood dark and unreadable. He left the office, the gift box still sitting untouched on his desk—a box wrapped in slate gray and tied with a thin ribbon of black satin.

Outside, the air was colder than expected. As he slid into the backseat of his car, he didn’t speak. Not to Jonathan. Not to the driver. His anger wasn’t loud—it never was. But it simmered beneath the surface, sharp and searing.

Back at the hotel, he peeled off his jacket, flung it onto the armchair, and loosened the first two buttons of his shirt. He stood for a moment in the quiet room, his hands on his hips, staring at the floor as if it had wronged him.

Then his phone buzzed.

Hugo.

Alexander didn’t even need to answer to know what it was about.

Drinks.

Of course.

---

Alexander slid behind the wheel of his car, the city's skyline reflecting in the sheen of the windshield. He had just wrapped up business for the day—an exhausting cycle of terse meetings and clipped emails—but the tension hadn’t drained from his body. His wrist bore only a sleek platinum watch, its dark face catching the occasional flicker of passing headlights. One hand gripped the steering wheel, long fingers flexing now and then as if tightening around thoughts he refused to voice.

His expression was unreadable. The shadows that settled under his eyes lent him a colder presence than usual—calm, yes, but in the way a storm looks still just before it strikes.

At a red light, the lull of the evening was broken by a knock on his window.

He turned his head slightly, brows knitting. The window glided down with a faint hiss.

Alexei.

Wearing a blood-red suit and a smirk, he leaned casually against the car and tossed something through the open gap—a velvet bow tie, which landed on the passenger seat like a joke.

"Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Vanderbilt," Alexei said, tone rich with amusement.

Alexander's only reply was a flat, disinterested glance. The window rolled up again in his face with mechanical finality.

The light turned green.

Alexander stepped on the gas.

But before he could merge forward, a car swerved into his lane.

Alexei’s car.

It cut in front of him, smooth and deliberate.

Alexander’s jaw flexed.

He slammed his foot down.

The engine snarled to life like a beast unleashed.

Inside his own sleek, flame-red sports car, Alexei chuckled to himself. He had meant it as a tease—just a bit of harmless provocation, a wink to the rivalry that simmered between them like whiskey over flame.

He hadn’t expected Alexander’s response.

The black vehicle surged forward like a missile, nearly clipping his bumper. Had Alexei not swerved at the last second, he would’ve been slammed from behind with enough force to spin him off the road.

“Jesus—what the hell!” Alexei hissed, now gripping his wheel with both hands, blood humming.

His competitive instinct kicked in.

Oh, it’s like that?

Challenge accepted.

He gunned the engine, tires screeching slightly as he shot off in pursuit.

Both cars blazed down the highway, carving through the flow of evening traffic like knives. The outskirts of the city loomed ahead, where construction cranes lit up the horizon and freight trucks rumbled along the unfinished roads.

It was no place for a race.

But neither man seemed to care.

Alexander’s car—a tank in luxury’s clothing, armored, sleek, custom-built—moved with terrifying grace. Alexei’s ride, by contrast, was all speed and style, a feral thing he’d tuned himself to purr like a cat and roar like a lion.

But tonight, he couldn’t catch him.

Alexander drove like a man with something to forget. Or destroy.

Alexei watched in disbelief as Alexander dodged between semis with inches to spare, the blaring of truck horns falling behind him like war cries.

Was he mad?

All that because I knocked on his damn window?

Eventually, the streetlights grew denser. They entered the heart of the entertainment district, and Alexander’s car peeled into the driveway of a discreet high-end bar.

He parked. Stepped out. Didn’t even glance back.

One minute later, Alexei rolled in behind him, tires humming from the pressure of the chase.

Alexander was already inside by the time Alexei caught up, but the heat of adrenaline still clung to the air.

He approached the entrance and gave a low whistle.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” he said, catching up to him near the bar’s entrance, “with driving like that, you might’ve missed your true calling. Ever consider Formula One?”

Alexander turned slightly, his face unreadable, gaze sharp as a blade.

“You’re just not up to par,” he replied, voice low and cool, before striding past the velvet ropes without breaking stride.

Alexei stared after him, hair slightly windblown, the sleeves of his shirt wrinkled from gripping the wheel too hard.

He let out a long breath.

“Damn. He’s ruthless... and unhinged,” he muttered to himself.

Then, under his breath, he added bitterly, “Serves you right for not recognizing your own wife.”

Pulling out his phone, he punched in a number.

“Yeah, it’s me. Tow the car in—yeah, now. It needs a tune-up,” he snapped. “Got smoked by a man driving a reinforced vault on wheels. Unreal.”

The poor mechanic on the other end got an earful, and not a single word of context.

--- 

The moment Alexander stepped into the bar, the crisp white light from overhead fixtures threw everything into stark relief—the crowd, the laughter, the low hum of jazz weaving between conversations. It also reminded him, rather jarringly, that he had just been recklessly racing Alexei through city streets like a teenage delinquent. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

And as if on cue, Alexei strolled in behind him, clad in a wine-colored suit and deep in conversation—his phone pressed to his ear, his expression unusually pleased.

"Ava, I’ve sent you the location. Come quickly," he said smoothly, his voice curling with mischief.

Alexander froze mid-step.

Ava?

He turned slightly, eyes narrowing as the words sank in.

Alexei, ever the provocateur, had helped Ava navigate her company crisis. In exchange, she’d promised him two custom artworks, to be created at a venue of his choosing. And apparently, tonight, this bar was the setting.

Alexander's expression remained neutral, but his fingers curled into tight fists at his side.

Alexei, ending the call, glanced toward him with a smug raise of the brow. "Mr. Vanderbilt. Don't tell me you’re attending the same gathering tonight?"

The tone was casual, the grin harmless on the surface—but to Alexander, it grated like sandpaper.

The truth was, elite circles like this one frequently hosted both men. But unlike others who mingled freely, toasted with every glass, and made shameless small talk, Alexander was always on the fringe—aloof, elusive. Aside from Hugo and Colton, few dared to approach him.

Alexei, of course, didn’t share that hesitation.

He strolled ahead, casting a sly look back as if to say try to keep up. There was something about his easy confidence that made Alexander want to wipe the smirk off his face with a punch.

The thought of Alexei being alone with Ava, speaking to her in that intimate voice, watching her paint him—that alone sent a slow burn rising in Alexander’s chest. But he kept his mask intact, the bar’s low lighting doing little to soften the gleam in his eyes.

Inside the private lounge, a crowd had already gathered—men in tailored suits, women with sharp lipstick and sharper eyes. Hugo greeted Alexander with a drink already in hand.

“You look like hell. What happened, miss the first-class champagne on your flight?” Hugo teased.

Alexander offered no reply. He took the glass and drained it in one swallow, the expensive liquor burning down his throat like fire.

Hugo raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.

Meanwhile, Alexei was already at ease, weaving through the guests, exchanging handshakes and sly remarks. Someone, spotting his unusual solo entrance, jabbed, “What happened, Volkov? Lost your entourage? Or finally thinking of settling down?”

The group laughed.

Everyone in their circle knew Alexei’s type—filthy rich, devilishly charming, and perpetually unattached. His rotation of girlfriends had included models, influencers, and more than a few married women. But recently, he had been surprisingly quiet.

Alexei only chuckled, unbothered. “What can I say? I’m in pursuit,” he replied, eyes glinting with amusement.

The room roared with laughter again.

“What, she’s playing hard to get?”

“She must be from another planet if you haven’t sealed the deal in a week.”

Alexei shrugged with a lopsided grin. “Some women aren’t impressed by bank accounts.”

They didn’t understand. None of them had met someone like Ava—someone who didn’t flinch when you spoke your mind, who didn’t pretend to laugh for your money. And yet, Alexander—of all people—had been allowed into her orbit first.

A friend smirked and leaned in. “Just make sure she leaves your bed satisfied, Volkov.”

Alexei smiled thinly, just as he caught Alexander’s gaze cutting toward him from across the room.

There it was again—that flash of something raw and unguarded.

Alexander’s hand tightened around his glass, the tension in his shoulders growing unbearable. It wasn’t just irritation.

It was jealousy.

Unmistakable now.

As the crowd continued their offhanded banter—discussing affairs, escapades, and exploits with zero shame—Alexander found himself growing increasingly agitated.

For once, the air felt too thick, the laughter too loud. His imagination betrayed him, conjuring visions of Ava under Alexei, shy and soft, cheeks flushed just as they had been under his own hands. His grip on the glass trembled.

Hugo noticed, nudging his shoulder gently. “We can head out, if you want.”

But Alexander didn’t move.

Before Hugo could say more, the door to the lounge opened.

And there she was.

Ava.

Wearing a simple blouse and fitted jeans, sketchpad tucked under one arm, she looked composed but unmistakably tired. Still, her presence pulled the room into sharp focus. Every man’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat too long.

Alexei moved first. “Ava,” he said, stepping forward as though greeting a long-awaited muse.

“It’s a bit noisy in here,” she said, glancing around the boisterous room.

Alexei smiled. “We’ll make it work. I trust your skills.”

“I’m fine with whatever setting you prefer, Mr. Volkov,” she replied politely, casting a glance toward Alexander without greeting him. Her expression was unreadable, distant.

Alexei, pleased with her professionalism, quickly pulled up a stool and cleared some space. “Just a sketch. No pressure.”

Ava nodded, settling into place. “Thank you,” she murmured.

She didn’t even look at Alexander again.

She opened her sketchpad, unwrapped her pencil set, and began to draw—her strokes clean, efficient, focused. There was no awkward pause, no hesitation. It was like he wasn’t even there.

And somehow, that hurt more than if she had slapped him.

Alexander stared at her for a long moment, the untouched gift box still tucked away in his hotel suite. A gift meant for a woman who no longer looked at him the same way.

For the first time in a long time, Alexander Vanderbilt realized he was not in control.

Not of her. Not of his own emotions.

And certainly not of the storm that had just begun to brew in his chest. 

The room quieted for a beat before the teasing resumed, light and playful.

“Is this your new hobby, Mr. Volkov? Hiring artists instead of models now?” one of the men quipped, raising a brow with a knowing smirk.

Alexei didn’t take the bait. He leaned casually against the back of his chair, swirling the wine in his glass before replying with a faint smile, “She’s Mr. Remmington’s protégé. So maybe show some respect before you embarrass yourselves.”

The laughter died quickly.

Mr. Remmington’s name carried serious weight in elite circles. Anyone associated with him wasn’t to be joked about lightly, let alone mocked in such crass company.

Someone at the far end of the table couldn’t help but ask, “Isn’t she Mr. Vanderbilt’s personal designer?”

Alexei’s grin widened, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Designing is a side gig for her. After this commission, she’s stepping away from freelance work. Thought I’d give her one last challenge—drawing in chaos.” His gaze flicked to Ava. “She’s holding up remarkably well. Mr. Remmington trained her properly.”

He winked, a smooth blend of praise and flirtation. Ava offered a brief, polite smile but quickly turned her attention back to her sketchpad, shutting out the world around her.

Those in the room caught on. This wasn’t about a sketch. This was a quiet flex, a declaration. Alexei was introducing Ava into their circle, framing her not just as an artist, but as someone untouchable—valuable. Tethered to greatness.

A few more compliments passed between guests before the conversation shifted, the previous raunchy tone now subdued. Ava’s presence, and her quiet dignity, seemed to temper the energy of the room.

Across the table, Alexander observed her.

She hadn’t looked at him once.

From the moment she walked in, her attention had orbited Alexei—first in conversation, then in her work. There had been shared smiles, a familiar comfort between them. It stirred something dark and raw within him.

He didn’t speak. Instead, his grip tightened around the base of his glass, the stem groaning under the strain.

Hugo, ever perceptive, leaned in. “I’ve always said,” he murmured, his voice just low enough for Alexander to hear, “someone who cheats with you will eventually cheat on you. Doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman—people who chase heat are always looking for their next fire.”

The words struck like a slap.

The implication was clear: Ava had grown tired of him. And now she’d moved on.

Alexander filled his glass again, masking the sudden ache behind a veil of cool detachment. “Do you think I care?” he replied, his voice flat.

Hugo studied him for a beat. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I’m not angry,” Alexander said, though the steel in his voice said otherwise. He took another drink, slower this time. “It was just a fling.”

The words hung in the air, brittle and defensive. But for all their ease, they didn’t sit right. Not with Hugo. And certainly not with Alexander himself.

Hugo’s brow quirked slightly, his lips twitching. He could have challenged him—pushed him further—but instead, he simply said, “Alright. If it was just a fling, then stop drinking like you’ve been left at the altar.”

Alexander didn’t answer.

His gaze wandered once more, pulled to Ava against his will. She sat near the edge of the room, her posture graceful, her head bowed in perfect focus. Surrounded by the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the bursts of laughter—she remained untouched by it all. A quiet island in the middle of the chaos.

Something twisted in his chest.

“She’s not even that extraordinary,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

But the words sounded hollow.

Hugo finally let out a breath and smirked. “Of course. New York is full of women more beautiful, more talented, more… everything, right?”

Alexander didn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked on the bottom of his now-empty glass. The air around him felt heavier, the sounds more distant.

He set the glass down and leaned back in his chair, forcing his gaze elsewhere—anywhere but her.

But even then, her silhouette lingered behind his eyes like a ghost. 

---

Ava remained utterly focused, untouched by the music, laughter, or flirtatious chatter swirling around her. Her hand moved steadily, confidently, until the final stroke was laid down with a flourish. She stared at the sketch for a moment—critiquing, adjusting—and then, with the quiet grace she always carried, began to pack up her tools.

Alexei leaned in, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Finished?”

Ava gave a small nod. “Yes.”

He glanced at the sketch—and even he, a man surrounded daily by opulence and indulgence, looked momentarily taken aback. The piece captured not only his likeness, but something beneath it: an air of understated charm, quiet power, and a sliver of mischief dancing behind the eyes. Her technique was so refined it bordered on the surreal. His smirk softened.

“Exquisite,” he murmured, genuinely impressed. “You make me look better than real life.”

“If you’re satisfied, then I’ve done my job,” Ava replied, her voice calm and sincere.

Alexei tilted his head, his signature playful gleam returning. “But Ava, I helped you a great deal. Two paintings hardly seem like a fair trade, don’t you think?”

She glanced up at him, her eyes warm but firm. “Then let’s call it this—whenever you need a painting, you have but to ask.”

The directness of her reply made Alexei chuckle. “Now that’s the kind of generosity I like.” He reached out and wrapped her in a spontaneous, affectionate embrace.

But Ava was quick to gently pull back. Her tone was polite, but her meaning clear. “Mr. Volkov, thank you. But that won’t be necessary. And you needn’t escort me—I'm quite capable of getting home.”

It was said kindly, with no edge, but it was also unmistakably a boundary. Alexei, sharp as ever, caught the undertone immediately. She was signaling that whatever warmth passed between them would remain just that: warmth, nothing more.

Still, he couldn’t resist glancing past her—toward the shadowed corner where Alexander had been sitting all evening, half-concealed in the dim light. Watching.

“Very well,” Alexei said with a quiet smile. “I won’t insist. Go when you please.”

Ava gave him a final nod, handed him the completed portrait with delicate fingers, and turned to leave. Her movements were elegant, purposeful as always, even with the heavy easel slung over one shoulder.

The hallway outside the private room was quieter, the sounds of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading into the distance. She exhaled, finally allowing herself to relax, her heels tapping softly against the floor.

Then came footsteps—heavy, fast.

She didn’t even have time to turn before a strong hand closed around her wrist.

Startled, Ava barely let out a breath before she was pulled—gently, but with unmistakable force—into a darkened booth just off the corridor.

She stumbled slightly, her back brushing against the cool leather of the seat. The door clicked shut. A shaft of pale light cut across the room from the small round window, illuminating the sharp lines of the man before her.

Alexander.

He said nothing at first.

His tall frame stood rigid in the confined space, his silhouette outlined by shadows. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd raked a hand through it too many times. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Ava narrowed her gaze. “Mr. Vanderbilt?” she asked carefully, her voice a mix of confusion and suspicion.

He didn’t reply right away. The silence between them stretched long and thin—charged, fragile.

Outside, the world went on. Laughter, clinking glassware, idle chatter. But inside this narrow booth, the air was dense and still.

And Ava, despite her surprise, met his gaze without flinching.