* FREEBIE * 2nd * Chapter 215

Dear Gentle Readers, 

This author failed to understand why the previous chapter is not free hence he is trying to upload once more... hope this time it works

These days, whenever Ava saw Alexander Vanderbilt’s name flicker across her phone screen, a dull ache pulsed behind her eyes—like the warning throb before a migraine.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” she greeted flatly, voice neutral but braced.

“Where are you? I’m coming to see you,” came Alexander’s deep, unwavering reply—less a question, more a command.

Ava glanced around her room at Le Châteauesque Manor, heart racing. She dared not tell him the truth. Rising swiftly to her feet, she lied with practiced ease.

“I’m at the Upper West Side.”

Alexander was already halfway to offering to meet her there when she added, coolly but deliberately, “My husband is back tonight. So if you need me, Mr. Vanderbilt, I’ll have to request a leave of absence.”

That one sentence—my husband is back tonight—stopped him cold.

Earlier that day, she’d exchanged a brief phone call with Liam Norton, who confirmed he was back in town visiting his sister. It wasn’t a complete fabrication. But Alexander didn’t know that.

Suddenly, the tension that had coiled tightly in his chest loosened into something worse—disappointment. For a moment, he was truly speechless. The words my husband hit harder than he’d expected, a humiliating reminder that in this twisted arrangement, he wasn’t the man she went home to.

After ending the call, he sat frozen in his office, a sea of contracts and reports spread out before him, each one a blur. His eyes refused to land on anything, his mind haunted by a single tormenting image: Ava—smiling softly, head tilted, nestled beside another man.

The thought alone was unbearable.

Eventually, he retreated to his hotel suite, collapsing into the bed still steeped in her scent. Her perfume lingered in the sheets like a cruel memory—spiced florals and something warmer, more intimate. He inhaled deeply, as though breathing her in would dull the ache that had lodged in his ribs.

Sleep never came.

Instead, Alexander got up, changed into a pair of dark satin pajamas, and walked to the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. A night wind rolled in through the partially opened balcony door, threading cool fingers through his tousled hair. In one hand, he held a cigarette loosely between his fingers, its ember flickering like the pulse in his jaw.

Every part of this room reminded him of her.

His grip on the cigarette tightened. In his mind, he could still see her, wide-eyed and trembling, back pressed against this very glass, her body taut with fear and fire. He exhaled hard, smoke escaping from his lips like frustration he could no longer hold inside.

Without thinking, he grabbed his phone and typed out a message:

Alexander: [Are you asleep?]

He wasn’t the type to text. Even liking a social media post was rare. His friends knew him to be the cold, unreachable sort—aloof, invulnerable. But this woman? She had him breaking his rules.

When no response came, he sent another.

Alexander: [What are you doing with your husband?]

---

Elsewhere, in the still quiet of Le Châteauesque Manor, Ava was jolted awake by a nightmare.

Her dream had been different this time.

It wasn’t the familiar image of Elena berating her or Alexander’s cold indifference. No—this dream had been far crueler. A child’s tiny hand, pale and limp, was being thrown into a hospital trash can. The image seared into her mind like a brand.

She sat upright in bed, chest heaving, sweat slicking her forehead. Her breath came in short, broken gasps. She pressed a palm to her abdomen, trying to steady herself.

Though she had once searched for “painless abortion methods” online, she knew there was no such thing as painless. Not really. Not for the heart. Even if it was early, even if the embryo was little more than tissue on a scan, the idea of it being forced from her, unwanted, unloved—it had settled in her bones like a sickness.

The Vanderbilt family had humiliated her. Made her feel less than human.

She didn’t love Alexander—not in the traditional sense. But she had begun to feel the sting of what he’d done to her. And the sting had turned to burn.

The message on her phone screen caught her eye.

Alexander: Are you asleep?

Alexander: What are you doing with your husband?

She stared at the messages, expression blank.

She didn’t reply.

Instead, she rose from bed, poured herself a glass of water, and stood in silence, sipping slowly. The coolness of the water dulled the sickening heat still curling in her gut. She returned to her desk and opened her laptop, deciding to immerse herself in work.

Anything to forget.

She began reviewing updates from the Manhattan renovation project, then turned her attention to the Morales family’s ledgers—contracts, purchase orders, pending deals. Her fingers moved mechanically across the trackpad, but her mind remained heavy.

Back in the hotel, Alexander sat, still gripping his phone, the unread message screen glowing like a slap in the face.

The silence on the other end didn't just frustrate him.

It infuriated him. 

---

As the first light of dawn filtered through the windows, Ava finally closed her laptop, having just completed a round of work. After a quick breakfast, she checked the surveillance footage from her Upper West Side residence. Since the last unsettling incident, the cameras had been running without error—her apartment seemed undisturbed.

She needed to retrieve her painting supplies from there. Wanting to avoid unnecessary attention, she sent a message to the property management to ask a quick question and set off.

It was just after 7 a.m. The streets, still quiet with morning hush, mirrored the gentle gray of a city not yet fully awake.

Ava had just tapped out a second message when—CRASH.

Her body jerked violently forward as another vehicle slammed into her from behind. Her head cracked against the steering wheel, pain flaring through her skull and her vision swimming in and out of focus.

The sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, deliberate—made her stomach clench with dread.

A tall man in a dark hoodie approached her driver-side window, wielding a baseball bat. CRACK! The window shattered into a spray of glass. Ava barely had time to shield her face before she was dragged out of the vehicle, the cold pavement meeting her spine.

A boot pinned her right hand to the ground.

Her eyes widened in horror.

"No! Please—my hand!" she pleaded, her voice cracking. But her cries went ignored.

The man raised the bat and brought it down.

CRUNCH.

Agonizing pain burst through her arm as her fingers were crushed beneath the blow. The sound—the sickening, wet crack of splintering bone—echoed louder than her scream. Her world dimmed at the edges, and nausea surged as agony pulsed through her in brutal, unrelenting waves.

Her phone began to ring from inside the car. Startled, the attacker cursed under his breath and fled.

The entire ambush had lasted no more than three minutes.

Ava lay trembling on the ground, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She fumbled blindly with her uninjured hand, eventually managing to answer the call. Her mangled fingers hung twisted and purple, swollen and jutting at unnatural angles.

Each beat of her heart throbbed through her shattered hand, and yet, somewhere beneath the pain was a strange, icy calm. A terrifying thought took hold—what if her hand never healed?

What if she could never paint again?

Then—beep beep.

A car horn.

She turned her head weakly. Through her blurred vision, she saw a familiar figure sprinting toward her.

"Ava!" Rachel's voice broke, panicked.

She dropped to her knees beside her friend. "Oh my God—your hand..."

Rachel's eyes filled instantly with tears. There were no words. The sight of Ava’s two crushed fingers twisted in grotesque directions left her breathless with horror.

"Ava, hold on! I'm taking you to the hospital right now. Pietro Malik’s back in New York. He’s the best—we’ll go to him, okay?"

Rachel’s voice shook as she helped Ava into the passenger seat. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely hold the steering wheel, but she managed. She didn’t dare look at Ava’s hand again—couldn’t bear the thought of what had just happened.

In the car, Ava leaned back, silent, her skin pale with shock. Sweat trickled from her brow. She hadn’t said a single word. Her pain, it seemed, had burrowed so deep that even her voice had fled.

Rachel pulled out her phone and called her father. "Get Dr. Pietro Malik. Now. It’s urgent."

---

Meanwhile, across the city at the Laurent estate, Victoria was lounging comfortably in an armchair, speaking sweetly on the phone with Trent Vanderbilt.

“It’s done,” Trent reported, satisfaction clear in his voice. “The woman’s fingers are ruined.”

A smile bloomed on Victoria’s face. "Are you sure?" she asked with forced casualness, her voice purring like a cat after cream.

“Crushed beyond recognition. My guy couldn’t finish the job—too many calls kept coming through—but he got two of them good.”

Victoria stood, excitement thrumming through her veins. In her reflection, she saw satisfaction glowing on her face—dark and cruel.

Trent, emboldened, ventured, “How about dinner to celebrate?”

Her smile instantly vanished. “I’m busy. I’ll call you when I’m free.”

Trent deflated but murmured a hopeful, “I’ll wait for you.”

After hanging up, Victoria’s mind raced. Her victory felt hollow. Pietro Malik—the brilliant young surgeon from the renowned Malik family—had returned to New York last night. If Ava landed in his hands, there was still a chance her fingers could be saved.

She wouldn’t allow that.

A sudden resolve took hold. She turned to her bodyguard. “Break my finger.”

He paled. “Miss, I—”

Before he could protest further, Victoria grabbed her own left hand and SNAP. A sickening crack filled the room as she fractured it herself. Her eyes teared up from the pain, but her smile never wavered.

This time, she would outmaneuver them all.

Her injury was well-planned—just the left hand, which wouldn't interfere with her painting. Unlike Ava's crush injury, hers was a clean break and would heal quickly.

Dialing Alexander’s number, she injected her voice with trembling panic. “Alexander… I—I broke my hand. I was going through my jewelry, trying to find the bracelet Marken gave me… I slipped. I can’t paint if it doesn’t heal right.”

The mention of Marken Vanderbilt’s name struck a chord.

Alexander's tone softened. “I’ll call Pietro. He’ll come see you.”

Ending the call, Alexander immediately phoned Pietro Malik.

But Pietro, just as he was preparing to visit the Rowells—who had called regarding a crushed hand—received Alexander’s request first.

“Come to the Laurents,” Alexander ordered. “Victoria’s injured.”

With a quiet sigh, Pietro adjusted his plans.

The clock was ticking.

Unbeknownst to either man, that decision would delay Ava’s treatment by hours.

Victoria, now reclined on a plush sofa, wore a thin, satisfied smile.

A minute… an hour. Sometimes, that was all it took to change the course of everything.

And Victoria intended to win—no matter the cost. 

---

On the third day, Ava was finally discharged from the hospital. Though the doctor confirmed her vitals were stable and the swelling in her hand had begun to subside, he issued a firm warning: rest was crucial, and any misstep could jeopardize her recovery.

Throughout her stay, messages from Alexander had arrived sporadically—short, probing, and increasingly rare. She hadn’t responded to any of them. Now, even those messages had stopped.

That morning, as she sat quietly at Le Châteauesque Manor, Ava received an invitation that gave her pause. It came from a former client—a refined gentleman named Victor, whom she had once collaborated with on a villa design. He was hosting a private wine-tasting event that evening, and the invitation carried a nostalgic warmth.

Victor, a senior executive of the Urban Group and an old acquaintance from her Harvard days, had always treated her with quiet respect. In fact, it was through him that she had first met Alexei, who still referred to Victor as “Uncle.”

When Ava hesitated, citing her hand injury, Victor had reassured her over the phone, “You don’t need to paint, Ava. Just come enjoy the home you helped bring to life.”

Touched by the sincerity in his voice, Ava reluctantly agreed.

---

The event that evening was intimate but elegant, held at Victor’s villa in the hills just outside the city. Warm golden light spilled from open French doors onto a lush garden dotted with lanterns and scattered wine racks. The air was filled with the mellow scent of ripe grapes and aged oak barrels.

It was a far cry from New York’s stiff gala circuits. Guests wore tailored linen and soft blazers, glassware clinking gently beneath low laughter and classical music playing in the background.

Ava arrived just after dusk. Dressed simply, she kept her right hand at her side, the white bandages stark against the muted hues of her dress. She moved carefully, avoiding too much conversation, too much touch, and certainly any drinks. She merely lifted a glass of Victor’s fruit wine to her nose, inhaling its delicate floral notes with quiet appreciation.

Victor greeted her warmly, his genuine delight obvious. “You see that wine cellar over there?” he gestured with a proud grin. “Still the most complimented space in this house.”

She smiled softly. “I’m glad it still brings joy.”

He was soon swept away by another group of guests, leaving Ava to roam the garden at her own pace.

That was when she saw them.

Victoria stood poised in a corner, her posture polished and perfect. She was mid-conversation, flanked by a circle of older investors. Beside her—sharp in his tailored navy suit—stood Alexander.

Ava’s heart did not race. If anything, her gaze only cooled.

Victoria, however, did a double take. Upon spotting Ava, her expression wavered just slightly—a glint of surprise, followed by the faintest lift of her lips. A mocking curve. Ava caught it. She always did.

Alexander hadn’t seen her yet.

The conversation near Victoria had shifted toward the elusive Mr. Remmington, the reclusive art master known for his haunting brushwork and international acclaim. Someone casually remarked, “I heard his protégé lives in New York now.”

“Ah, yes. But no one knows who they are. Heard he’s fiercely private about his apprentices.”

Another chimed in, “What ever happened to that painting—the one Remmington presented at the private gala two years ago?”

At the mention of the painting, Ava stood a little straighter. She remembered it well.

So did Victoria. Her expression stiffened.

“Remmington’s protégé?” Victoria said, voice light but unmistakably tinged with derision. “I thought that was a family member? No one’s ever seen this so-called student.”

Her attempt at dismissal drew a few polite smiles, but also several wary glances. After all, Victoria had once been in contention to study under Mr. Remmington—and had been rejected.

Rumors had quietly spread that he’d found her motivations lacking in sincerity.

Just then, Victor rejoined the group. He overheard the tail end of their conversation and gave a soft laugh. “Well, not many know—but I happen to have worked closely with Remmington’s protégé. She’s the one who designed this very villa.”

He turned, calling gently, “Ava? Come here for a moment.”

Every pair of eyes shifted.

Ava stepped forward slowly, wine glass in one hand, her wrapped fingers drawing subtle curiosity. Her gait was fluid, poised—even regal.

Victor placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Allow me to introduce Ava Alvarez. Mr. Remmington’s protégé—and the designer of this home.”

The ripple of shock was palpable. Even the wine seemed to still in their glasses.

Two men at Victor’s side—a pair of exhibition curators—brightened at once. “Miss Alvarez! We’ve been trying to locate Remmington’s protégé for years,” one exclaimed. “It would be an honor to showcase your work.”

“We’d love to extend a formal invitation,” the other added, reaching for his business card.

Victoria’s face drained of color, then flushed hotly. Her eyes flickered from Ava to Alexander, then back again. She was speechless.

Ava accepted the cards with a courteous nod. “Thank you. I’m flattered. But I’m currently recovering from an injury, so my work is paused for the moment.”

The curators nodded sympathetically, eyes lingering on her bandaged hand.

Alexander, who had finally turned his full attention to her, narrowed his eyes. His gaze dropped to the injury. “What happened to your hand?” he asked, his voice low but cutting through the ambient chatter.

Ava didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned slightly, addressing Victor. “Thank you again for the invitation. The house looks beautiful.”

Her dismissal was as graceful as it was deliberate.

Alexander’s jaw tensed.

Victoria, watching the silent exchange, quickly stepped in. “Ava, what a coincidence running into you here,” she said with syrupy sweetness. “You’re still painting, I hope?”

Ava offered a thin smile. “It depends. That may not be possible anymore.”

Her words were calm. But to those who truly listened—to Alexander and Victoria—they struck like a thunderclap.

The revelation of Ava’s identity, her poise under scrutiny, and her quiet refusal to acknowledge Alexander directly, all unfolded with the quiet weight of retribution.

And somewhere inside him, Alexander felt the first real pang of fear.

The woman he had once presumed beneath him had just slipped irrevocably out of reach. 

Oblivious to the tension simmering between Ava and Alexander, Victor carried on his conversation with the two exhibition organizers, his voice calm but resolute.

“Ava never publicly acknowledges her connection to Mr. Remmington, and he’s fiercely protective of her,” he said, sipping his wine. “If she chooses to pick up the brush again, she’ll need your full support.”

Victor’s tone, casual but firm, held the weight of his reputation. A well-respected figure in both business and cultural circles, his endorsement was as good as a signed contract.

The two directors exchanged a glance, visibly hesitant now. After all, offending a famous artist was risky enough—but offending the protégé of Mr. Remmington? That could be professional suicide.

In the art world, a single insult could echo through high society like a dropped crystal goblet. Mr. Remmington was revered, his name synonymous with legacy. If he caught wind of a slight against Ava, the backlash would be swift and merciless.

“Mr. Urban,” one of them assured quickly, “Miss Alvarez will have our full cooperation. Anything she needs.”

“Yes,” the second nodded, “we’ll accommodate her schedule and preferences—just say the word.”

Not far off, Victoria’s fingers clenched so tightly around her glass that the stem threatened to snap. Her wine, once sweet, now tasted sour. How could two of the most exclusive gallery directors, who had barely glanced at her before, be singing praises to Ava—a woman with a bandaged hand and a quiet presence?

But she found solace in one cruel truth: Ava’s hand was damaged. Permanently, if luck was on her side.

What good was being a prodigy, a protégé, if she could never paint again?

Still, as the directors turned to toast Ava, she hesitated. Her bandaged hand remained close to her chest—wine, or any alcohol, was prohibited during recovery.

Before she could respond, a hand reached forward.

Alexander.

“Alcohol isn’t conducive to healing,” he said smoothly, taking her glass from the waiter. “I’ll drink on her behalf.”

He tilted the glass back and downed it in a single, sharp movement.

It was a statement—of care, of presence, of frustration—and he intended to resume the conversation after.

But Ava surprised him. She accepted a new glass from a passing waiter and, with her usual poise, raised it gently.

“To both of you,” she said to the curators, lifting it to her lips in a gesture of toast. She didn’t drink, but she made it look effortless.

The directors chuckled, flattered. “The gesture is more than enough. Please, don’t strain yourself.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” she replied warmly. “Once I’m fully recovered.”

“There’s no need, Miss Alvarez,” one said. “Having your presence in our gallery will be honor enough.”

Alexander, still holding her untouched glass, stood silent.

For the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar and deeply uncomfortable.

He was being… ignored.

No—not just ignored. Ava was actively, gracefully, shutting him out.

And yet, she glowed in conversation with the two directors. For ten whole minutes, she discussed exhibitions, palettes, mediums, and transitions in form—all while masterfully avoiding every attempt Alexander made to join in.

Each time he stepped forward, her topic would subtly shift. Each glance she offered him felt like a gate softly closing.

After half an hour, he found himself gripping his wine glass so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Finally, Ava turned to Victor. “Mr. Urban, thank you again for the invitation. I have another commitment this evening, so I’ll take my leave.”

Victor, ever gracious, nodded. “Of course. Please continue to rest. A painter’s hand is her soul.”

“I understand.” She set her glass down and walked away, her presence as serene as it was final.

Alexander set his own glass down—more harshly than intended—and followed.

Victoria had lingered on the fringes of the conversation, humiliated. With Remmington’s name still lingering in the air, she had nothing to offer. His rejection of her was practically public knowledge, a stain she couldn’t scrub clean.

Now, watching Alexander trail after Ava like a restless shadow, her blood boiled.

“Alexander,” she called after him, her voice tightening.

But he didn’t stop.

“You should go find some friends,” he said curtly, not even sparing her a glance.

It landed like a slap.

Victoria stood frozen, nails biting into her palms as she stared at his retreating figure, bitterness simmering in her chest.

—

Ava had just rounded the stone path leading out of the garden when a black sedan slid to a stop. Liam Norton stepped out to open the door. He was prompt, as always—she had texted him twenty minutes earlier.

As she approached the car, Alexander caught up, reaching out suddenly to grab her uninjured wrist. His touch was firm but not rough.

Startled, Ava turned. A few guests near the garden noticed the gesture and paused, whispering quietly.

She looked down at his hand on her wrist, her voice calm but cool. “Mr. Vanderbilt, is there a problem?”

He let go instantly, the heat of her skin lingering on his fingers. “I’ve been messaging you for days,” he said, trying to keep his voice low.

“I noticed,” she replied simply. “But if your message doesn’t concern the Manhattan project, I see no reason to respond.”

That clean, unbothered response was like a bucket of cold water.

“And earlier,” he added, “why didn’t you let me help you with the wine? I stepped in for you.”

Ava looked at him, her eyes unreadable. “Because you’re a client. And it’s inappropriate for a client to behave that way.”

That single word—client—drew a line so sharp it could cut glass.

Alexander’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing. The rejection was clear.

Still, he lowered his voice, this time with something else in it—something more raw. “How did your hand get hurt?”

She paused.

Then calmly, “Is there anything else, Mr. Vanderbilt?”

It was the final wall. The door closed.

For the first time in his life, Alexander Vanderbilt felt the full sting of exclusion.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t bitter. She simply didn’t care.

He leaned down slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper only she could hear.

“Ava,” he said, searching her eyes. “You’re being rather ungrateful.”

Ava let out a soft laugh, accepting a drink from a passing server. The rim of the glass kissed her fingertips as she raised it, her lips curving into a calm, confident smile.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” she said, voice like velvet laced with steel, “have you truly never been rejected by a woman before? If my refusal to accept your so-called favor makes me ‘ungrateful,’ then you, sir, are being rather petty.”

Her gaze drifted down to the wine in her glass, lashes casting delicate shadows across her cheekbones. “I'm a married woman now. Naturally, I have to keep my distance. We wouldn’t want the guests here to start gossiping about us, would we? Imagine what they might assume.”

Alexander’s stance stiffened. His voice, cool and sharp, followed swiftly. “So now you admit there’s something between us—and you’re ashamed of it?”

He hadn’t expected her indifference to sting so deeply. He’d come seeking control, perhaps even a moment of tenderness, but instead, he found himself on shifting ground, the space between them widening with every word.

Ava took a sip of her wine, then met his gaze with dark, unwavering eyes. “Indeed. So let’s keep this professional. For the remaining three times—settle in cash.” Her words were crisp, devoid of emotion. “I no longer wish to play this game with you. It’s lost its charm.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed, the ice in them turning jagged. His aura changed in an instant—no longer elegant or composed, but raw, dangerous. He looked at her as if she’d reached in and unfastened something tightly wound inside him.

But Ava didn’t flinch. She had said her piece. She turned to walk away.

His voice sliced through the air behind her. “Are you aware of the consequences if you walk away now?”

Ava stopped in her tracks.

Without turning around, she raised her hand—and calmly splashed the contents of her drink across his face.

Gasps rippled through the nearby guests. The scent of red wine lingered in the air, soaking into Alexander’s expensive suit, dripping from his chin. 

She had done once to Cordelia and now simply Alexander’s turn. 

Ava placed the empty glass on the nearest table with a graceful clink. Her voice was low and even. “What consequences? My life?” She met his burning gaze. “I’m not afraid of dying, Mr. Vanderbilt.”

In a blur, Alexander seized her wrist and dragged her from the gathering. Guests parted like waves, stunned by the scene unfolding before them.

He didn’t stop until they reached a shadowy alcove of the garden, where ivy-covered walls bloomed with fragrant roses and no one was around to witness the storm between them.

There, he pressed her back against the wall of flowers, his jaw tight, eyes blazing.

Ava met his fury with cold silence. She didn’t struggle, didn’t plead. She merely closed her eyes, as if bracing for a storm she had weathered before.

And then he kissed her—harsh, demanding—his teeth catching her lower lip.

She responded with a sharp bite to his tongue, and he recoiled, startled by the sudden pain.

Breathing hard, he looked at her. Her eyes were red, her lips trembling with contempt. She wiped her mouth fiercely with the back of her hand, a look of pure disgust etched across her face.

That look pierced him more deeply than any slap.

“Disgusted?” he growled. “After everything we’ve done—now you feel disgusted?”

She stared straight through him. “Exactly. Because now, I realize it doesn’t even compare to paying for an escort. At least that comes with clarity.”

Her next words were deliberate and scathing. “Three more times, right? How about I just pay you thirty million and we call it even.”

Alexander froze.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not in jest, not in truth, not even in defiance. Yet here she was—unafraid, unyielding, and unmistakably done with him.

For a fleeting second, he contemplated wrapping his hands around her shoulders and shaking some sense into her. But something in her eyes stopped him.

She wasn’t bluffing. She truly didn’t care.

And it made him feel something unfamiliar—powerless.

He moved closer again, his breath uneven, as if about to kiss her despite everything.

But then—

“Ava.”

A familiar male voice rang out from behind them.

Ava’s body stiffened instantly, and she broke free from Alexander’s grasp.

“Liam?” Her voice cracked slightly as she turned and quickly moved to join him, as if his presence had been a lifeline.

Liam’s brows knit in concern, his eyes scanning her face, then flicking to Alexander. Her flushed cheeks and guarded expression did not go unnoticed.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

Still simmering with fury, Alexander remained where he was, his tongue smarting from her bite. Liam addressed him cautiously, “Mr. Vanderbilt.”

Alexander’s gaze flicked between the two of them, his tone low and laced with venom. “Aren’t you curious what she and I were just doing here?”

Liam’s expression faltered, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

Ava, however, was composed. “Just discussing business,” she said smoothly. “Matters related to the Manhattan project.”

She turned to Alexander with a distant smile. “Since the discussion’s over, Mr. Vanderbilt, you’re free to return to your partners. Miss Laurent is still waiting for you.”

Alexander ran his thumb along the edge of his mouth, wincing at the sting. “Yes… the conversation was intense, to say the least.”

Ava didn’t reply.

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, cold anger simmering in his expression.

“And about that thirty million offer,” he added. “I don’t accept it. Consider how you’ll explain tonight’s behavior.”

His gaze shifted to Liam, who was already holding the car door open for Ava. Alexander gave him a sharp, meaningless nod—the kind that felt more like a challenge than a greeting.

It struck Liam like a slap. Though he said nothing, the weight of Alexander’s presence lingered.

Ava climbed into the car with a soft sigh, exhaustion evident in her posture. As the vehicle pulled away, Alexander stood rooted under the garden’s soft lantern glow, watching her go, his jaw clenched and his heart pounding with a fury he couldn’t name.

Behind him, the party music resumed. The laughter, the chatter—all carried on as if nothing had happened.

But everything had changed.

---