* FREEBIE * 2nd * Chapter 210

Ava gripped the handrail of the elevator, her knuckles pale, her legs barely steady beneath her.

The mirrored walls offered her a glimpse of herself—her reflection stark under the sterile lighting. Her collar was crooked, revealing faint bruises along her neck, the aftermath of the night before. With trembling fingers, she adjusted her neckline, trying to hide the evidence, as if that could make the memory vanish too.

She barely made it through the lobby. The moment she stepped into the crisp morning air, her knees buckled. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, and she collapsed onto the pavement.

And just like that—something broke.

She hadn’t cried when Alexander mocked her, hadn’t flinched when he tossed her aside like she meant nothing.

But now, facedown on a cold sidewalk with a scraped knee and nothing left to hold onto, the tears came—hot, unrelenting, silent at first, then gasping.

Footsteps approached. She glanced up, dazed.

It was Diana.

Dressed immaculately in a tailored cream blazer, heels clicking with authority, Diana paused at the sight of Ava on the ground. Her polished expression faltered for a split second as her eyes landed on the marks bruising Ava’s throat.

Disapproval flickered in her gaze, but she said nothing.

Diana had come to inspect one of the Vanderbilt properties—this hotel. She hadn’t expected to see Ava here, let alone like this. A married woman, in such a state?

She gave Ava a brief glance, then briskly stepped around her and joined the waiting group of executives. Her silence was more cutting than any insult.

A hotel staff member rushed forward, crouching beside Ava. “Miss, are you alright? Can I help you?”

Ava wiped at her face and shook her head. “I’m fine,” she whispered hoarsely.

She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the throb in her knee and the ache in her bones, and flagged down a cab.

By the time she arrived at Ashbourne Manor, she could barely walk. She stumbled into bed without a word, burying herself beneath the covers.

Aunt Torres said nothing. She had seen Ava’s pale face, her hollowed eyes. She hadn’t returned the night before, and now she looked like a ghost of herself. Instead of questions, Aunt Torres headed to the kitchen, deciding a bowl of nourishing soup might help.

Back at the hotel, Diana frowned in the elevator.

The pieces were connecting.

She didn’t want to believe it—but the marks, Ava’s condition, Alexander’s location… it all pointed to one conclusion.

She hesitated only a moment before dialing his number.

Alexander was seated on the sofa in his suite, surrounded by paperwork. Documents were spread out in neat rows across the table, but his eyes hadn’t focused on a single line. Since Ava had left, his concentration had crumbled. He was restless in a way he couldn’t define.

His phone buzzed.

"Diana," he greeted tersely.

"Alexander, where are you?"

"The hotel."

The moment he said it, she was already pressing the button for his floor.

When she entered his suite minutes later, she found him exactly as expected—sharp in a freshly tailored suit, every button in place, posture composed. The only giveaway was the faint redness under his eyes, and the shadow of something dark behind them.

Nothing else appeared out of place.

No trace of Ava.

And yet Diana knew.

She scanned the living room instinctively, but she didn’t press further—she knew Alexander valued privacy more than anything. Still, her voice was cautious as she said, “I just saw Ava.”

Alexander’s gaze narrowed, though his face remained unreadable.

“She could barely walk,” Diana added softly. “I know what that means.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even flinch.

“I hope it wasn’t you,” she said. “I hope you’re not that kind of man.”

A slow, cold smile curved at the corner of his mouth. It was almost cruel in its beauty.

"Aunt, what kind of man do you think I am?"

Diana hesitated.

The truth was—she didn’t know.

She remembered how, growing up, Alexander had been a shadow to his brilliant older brother. He was quiet, intense. Unstoppable when provoked. Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. had seen it too—recognized in Alexander a kindred spirit, someone forged in fire.

Rumors swirled about his youth. Near-misses with military operations. Dangerous assignments. Even at twelve, Alexander had been reckless with his life, and fearless in the face of death. It was no wonder the old man favored him.

But what Diana had just seen on Ava’s body—it wasn’t courage. It was control. Power. And pain.

“I can handle my own affairs,” Alexander said coolly, sifting through the papers as if their conversation meant nothing. “I don’t need anyone interfering.”

The message was clear.

Not even you.

“Ava and I… it’s a transaction. Nothing more,” he added, voice sharp as glass.

Diana exhaled slowly. A flicker of relief passed through her, but it was laced with unease. “She’s still married,” she warned quietly. “Just be careful. She could be after your money.”

Alexander’s eyes dropped to the floor, lashes low, shadowing something darker beneath.

If only it were money, he thought. That would make it simple.

But Ava had never asked for anything. Not the bracelet. Not affection. Not even leniency.

She had only said yes to their deal. And bore it, silently—even if it broke her.

He stared down at his hands.

He almost wished she were after his wealth. At least then, he’d know how to make her stay.

--- 

By the time the clock struck eight, Ava stirred beneath the silk sheets of her bedroom in Le Châteauesque Manor. The aches in her muscles were a grim reminder of what she'd endured—soreness that settled deep into her bones. As she sat up, her movements were slow, deliberate, as if even her soul was bruised.

Aunt Torres, ever perceptive and gentle, brought in a tray with steaming soup. The aroma was warm and inviting, but Ava barely had the strength to lift the spoon.

“Miss Morales,” Aunt Torres said gently, eyeing her with concern. “You don’t look well at all. Should I call Mr. Vanderbilt Sr.?”

Ava paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the porcelain handle of the spoon. Her lashes lowered, casting shadows on her pale cheeks. “No need,” she whispered.

Aunt Torres sighed, placing a reassuring hand on Ava’s shoulder. “Then you need to rest. You’re far too thin. You’re wasting away, dear.”

Ava offered a faint, tired smile, but before she could respond, her phone vibrated on the side table.

It was a message from the property management at her Upper West Side apartment.

[Dear homeowner, we noticed an unfamiliar presence at your property during last night's security rounds. Unfortunately, the surveillance footage was malfunctioning. A neighbor has reported suspected illicit activity. The police have been notified. We appreciate your cooperation with the ongoing investigation.]

Ava’s eyes narrowed. Bridgitte. Again.

With a groan, she rose, changed into something more formal, and left for Upper West Side.

When she entered the building’s lobby, the scene was set like a play. Two police officers stood near the security desk. And next to them, beaming as if she were the star of the show, was Bridgitte—flawless in a designer coat, her lips painted the color of ripe berries. She looked like a woman who had everything: love, status, and the satisfaction of stirring trouble.

“There she is,” Bridgitte said, pointing a manicured nail. Her voice rang out with performative innocence. “The men were seen leaving her place. I’m just saying—if those walls could talk...”

Ava didn’t flinch.

Instead, she approached the officers directly. “I’ve been out of town. It’s possible my place was broken into. I’d appreciate it if you could check.”

Bridgitte, predictably, wouldn’t let it go. “Oh, spare us the performance. We both know what kind of mess you live in. Must be exhausting cleaning up after your... guests.”

Ava turned to her with a cool smile. “Miss Tolkins, may I speak with you privately for a moment? It’s about Raphael.”

The shift in Bridgitte’s expression was instantaneous. Her smugness faltered, and she glanced nervously at the officers.

“If you’re about to apologize, let’s hear it now. No need for secrets.”

“It’s not an apology,” Ava said, voice calm. “It’s... sensitive. Regarding him.”

At the mention of Raphael, Bridgitte hesitated—then followed Ava to a quiet alcove in the hallway, just out of view of the front desk’s security cameras.

“What is it—”

Crack.

Ava’s open palm met her cheek.

Once. Twice.

Bridgitte staggered, the sting blooming into heat. Her lips parted in shock, the faint metallic tang of blood flooding her mouth.

“You... you slapped me?” she gasped.

Before she could react, Ava gripped her by the hair and slammed her against the wall with startling force.

Bridgitte cried out. “Officer—!”

“No one can hear you,” Ava whispered, eyes sharp as broken glass. “And if you don’t shut up, I will give you a concussion.”

Tears spilled down Bridgitte’s cheeks, her breath coming in frantic pants.

“I’ve had enough of your games,” Ava hissed. “You think you can gossip and lie and sabotage people because you sleep next to a rich man? Think again.”

She leaned in, voice a low, terrifying murmur. “You live across from me. If I wanted you gone, I’d make it look like a double suicide. No one would question it. My life is in pieces. Dying doesn’t scare me anymore—but I’d make sure to drag you down with me.”

Bridgitte was trembling now, back against the wall, her perfect hair disheveled, her eyes wide with fear.

Ava crouched beside her, gently patting her swollen cheek like a mother consoling a child. “You should treasure what you have, Bridgitte. You’ve clawed your way to the top. Why risk it all trying to bite me?”

She laughed softly—an unhinged sound. “Though honestly, I admire you. Breaking into New York society isn’t easy. But don’t mistake survival for strength. Next time you try something, I will be waiting for you. With a knife.”

Ava stood tall again, smoothing down her coat as if nothing had happened. “Moving won’t help you. I can get to Mr. Richardson and I find you. And I know exactly how to hurt you.”

She stepped closer, so close their noses nearly touched.

“I can’t stand women who look happier than me,” she whispered.

Bridgitte was too stunned to reply. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

Moments later, two police officers arrived, drawn by Bridgitte’s earlier cries.

One of them scanned the scene, noting Bridgitte on the ground, Ava standing calmly.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

Ava extended a hand to help Bridgitte up. “It’s alright, officer. I think she was just startled by the whole break-in. We’re neighbors—it’s been a stressful day.”

The officer looked to Bridgitte, who was visibly shaken.

She hesitated, then nodded faintly. “Yes... just shaken... I’m fine.”

The police gave them both one last look and chose to let it go.

Outside, Bridgitte couldn’t stop trembling. She barely registered the car ride, her thoughts spiraling in fear. When they reached the curb, Ava turned to her with that same chilling smile.

“Ms. Tolkins,” she said sweetly, “you won’t be causing me any more problems, will you?”

Bridgitte froze. “No. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good girl.”

Without another word, Ava stepped into her car and drove off, the taillights glowing red against the night like a final warning.

--- 

As Ava’s taillights faded into the distance, Bridgitte stood frozen on the curb like a cracked porcelain doll. The moment Ava was truly out of sight, her knees buckled, and she slumped against a lamppost for support. A tremor ran down her spine. Her blouse clung to her damp back, soaked with cold sweat. She gasped for breath as silent sobs shook her, tears streaking down her perfectly made-up cheeks.

Her legs felt like jelly. Her chest burned from holding in screams. Ava's words echoed in her skull, each threat more terrifying than the last. She had never imagined Ava Morales—a woman she once considered disposable—could unearth such raw, feral fear in her.

And yet, she didn’t dare say a word to Raphael.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. The risk was too high.

Farther down the quiet street, a black sedan sat idling beneath the cover of shadows. Its windows were tinted, its engine silent.

Inside the car, two figures watched Ava’s departure.

“Are you sure it’s her?” the man in the driver’s seat asked, his voice deep, clipped with authority.

From the passenger side, a younger man nodded, flipping through a file illuminated by the car’s interior lights. “Yes, sir. We’ve followed her movements for weeks. She matches the profile. There’s no hard proof yet, but we confirmed that she had a brief run-in with Marken in Charleston years ago.”

The man known only as Boss remained silent for a long moment, his gloved hand tapping the leather armrest. Outside, the streetlights cast golden pools of light onto the pavement, slicing through the stillness.

“What about Victoria?” he asked finally, his voice low but measured.

“She’s been investigated as well. Clean—on the surface. If she’s hiding something, she’s done it well. Still, we haven’t ruled her out.”

A beat of silence.

“Dig deeper,” the Boss ordered. His tone didn’t rise, but it held the weight of a command that could end careers—or lives.

“Yes, sir. One more thing,” the agent said, his voice dropping lower. “All of Marken’s original drafts—gone. Someone beat us to them. Looks like we weren’t the only ones asking questions.”

The Boss turned his eyes to the horizon where Ava’s car had vanished. His expression was unreadable, but a cold gleam danced in his gaze—like a blade hidden behind polished glass.

“She may be the key,” he muttered.

Then he sank deeper into his seat, lost in thought.

—

Meanwhile, miles away, Ava pulled into the gates of Le Châteauesque Manor, her arms heavy, her thoughts fragmented. The adrenaline that had carried her through her confrontation with Bridgitte was long gone, leaving behind only bone-deep weariness.

She didn’t even bother turning on the lights as she entered the house. Her heels clicked softly across the marble floor, echoing through the stillness. Aunt Torres had left a covered tray of food on the dining table, but Ava didn’t glance at it.

She climbed the stairs one step at a time, the silence around her comforting and suffocating all at once.

Once in her room, she let her bag drop to the floor and collapsed onto the bed without undressing. Her body welcomed the familiar softness, but her mind was spinning—still reeling from the confrontation, from the pain, from the secret web she now found herself caught in.

She pulled the blanket over her shoulders, cocooning herself in warmth.

And then, finally, sleep came—deep and dreamless, like slipping beneath still water.