* FREEBIE * 2nd * Chapter 263

The fluorescent lights in the police station buzzed with a steady hum, casting a stark white glare that made the room feel more like a surgical theater than a holding cell. Serena sat on the cold metal bench, her limbs heavy with exhaustion and disbelief. It all felt like a fever dream she couldn’t wake from.

“Why’d you go after Cordelia?” the officer demanded, his tone sharp. “Got a personal vendetta, or were you just looking for trouble?”

He leaned in, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. “Think carefully. Every word you say can and will be used against you in court.”

Serena squinted up at him, trying to focus on his face through her dazed haze, but his features were a blur—just another voice pressing her deeper into the nightmare.

After nearly four hours of relentless questioning, they finally moved her to a smaller room. It was spartan, but not entirely bleak—a narrow bed lined one wall, a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. Not comfortable, but at least not concrete and steel. She collapsed onto the thin mattress, trying to piece together the chaos of the day.

Jared’s jump. Rita’s betrayal. Cordelia’s fall. Her name now smeared in scandal and speculation.

She leaned against the cold wall, eyes heavy but her mind racing. The Vanderbilt estate had been a powder keg, and Rita had lit the fuse. No security footage, no witnesses—just carefully calculated silence. The perfect setup.

She clenched her fists, fury simmering in her chest—not just at Jared’s death, but at how effortlessly she’d been framed. The Vanderbilt family wouldn’t just abandon her. They’d bury her.

Around 8 p.m., Marilyn and Simon arrived, clearly having caught wind of the incident. They stood on the other side of the visitation glass, their faces drawn with worry.

Marilyn’s voice cracked as tears welled in her eyes. “Ms. Morales, what do we do? Should we get a lawyer?”

Simon, composed as ever but with a crease between his brows, adjusted his glasses. “I heard Cordelia’s in critical condition. They say she might not wake up.”

Serena pressed her lips together, thinking hard before finally speaking. “Go to Broadway Bar. Find Lucca.”

She knew she couldn’t fight this war alone. The Reinaldi family held weight in Italy, and Lucca had deep enough roots in New York to help pull strings. She needed him now more than ever.

“Also,” she added, voice steadier now, “keep the company running. Our first drama’s made a profit. Funnel some of it into Hugo’s film and begin pre-production on the second web series. Whitney will likely take the lead. Cast the supporting roles for now. I’ll finalize it once I’m out.”

Even locked behind glass, her focus remained on the company, her mind a battlefield where strategy always came first.

After giving her instructions, Serena was led back to the same small room. Meanwhile, Marilyn wasted no time. With a few taps on her phone, she pulled up pictures of Lucca and made her way to Broadway Bar.

It didn’t take long before she spotted him: tall, with dark features and a woman wrapped around his arm. He looked carefree, strolling out of the bar, the picture of a man who owned every room he entered.

Marilyn's brows drew together. This is the guy Serena’s relying on?

“Mr. Reinaldi!” she called out, stepping into his path.

Lucca stopped mid-laugh, cocking his head at her. “And you are?”

“Serena Morales sent me.”

At the mention of her name, his smirk faded. He gently unwrapped the woman’s arm from his and stepped closer, his tone sobering. “Get in. We’ll talk on the way.”

Inside the car, Marilyn sat stiffly in the passenger seat while Lucca gripped the wheel, jaw tight. “What the hell happened?”

“It’s the Vanderbilts. You should call Alexander—he’ll explain.”

Lucca didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

Alexander was in a tense boardroom meeting when his screen lit up. Seeing the name, he sighed and reluctantly answered, “What?”

“Did you know Serena’s been arrested?” Lucca asked, voice sharp.

“I know. So?”

Lucca’s temper flared. “It involves your family, Alexander. You’re not planning to lift a finger?”

“No.”

There was a long pause before Lucca hissed, “You’re a damn joke. If you won’t help her, I will.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Lucca, this isn’t your battlefield.”

He hung up without another word.

It wasn’t until Lucca reached the station and realized he couldn’t even get past the front desk that he understood what Alexander meant. He’d shut him out—completely. The guards had been ordered not to let anyone near her.

Frustrated, Lucca called again.

This time, Alexander was already in his car, having postponed his remaining meetings.

“Planning to keep her locked up forever?” Lucca snapped.

Alexander’s voice was flat. “If you stir up trouble in my city, it won’t end well for you. You think your father will thank you for crossing me?”

Lucca clenched his jaw. Stefano Reinaldi had warned him not to cause waves while in New York—and Alexander was exactly the kind of man you didn’t want to cross without consequences. Still, Lucca was used to taking risks.

“If word gets back to Italy, so be it,” he said coldly. “I’ve done worse for women before.”

As the words left his mouth, a sleek black car pulled up beside him. The door opened—and there he was.

Alexander stepped out, all composure and cold fire. Lucca’s hands curled into fists.

“Alexander!” he shouted, marching toward him.

Alexander barely spared him a glance. “Leave now, and I’ll get her out. Stay, and she’ll rot.”

Lucca froze. The air between them was electric—two forces on the verge of clashing. But even he knew, deep down, Alexander wasn’t bluffing.

“Are you serious?” he asked, voice low.

Before Alexander could respond, Marilyn cut in. “Don’t trust him, Mr. Reinaldi.”

Alexander’s gaze snapped to her—sharp and cutting. He remembered her. Serena’s assistant. The one who never hid her contempt for him.

Marilyn stood her ground, glaring back with defiance.

Lucca exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. We’ll give you tonight. But if she’s not out by morning…”

Alexander didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Once they left, he leaned back against his car, pulling out a cigarette. The flame from his lighter briefly illuminated his eyes—distant, stormy, unreadable.

He took a slow drag and let the smoke drift upward, the weight of the night settling over him.

--- 

After finishing the necessary paperwork, Alexander stepped inside the holding room. The small space smelled of sterile walls and fatigue. There, Serena sat quietly on the narrow cot, her hands resting on her lap, eyes distant and unreadable. The moment the guard announced, “Someone’s here to bail you out,” a flicker of hope flashed in her eyes—only to dim when she saw who it was.

Alexander stood framed in the doorway, tall and shadowed, his presence both familiar and jarring. That flicker of disappointment didn’t go unnoticed.

“So,” he said, his voice sharp-edged, “you didn’t expect me.”

Serena's gaze turned cold again. She didn’t answer.

The officer added, “You’re free to go. Head out with Mr. Vanderbilt.”

But Serena didn’t move. She closed her eyes instead, as if retreating inside herself. The silence pressed heavily between them.

Alexander’s jaw tensed. He couldn’t believe it. He had given up ten percent of his shares, endured his family’s wrath—all for her—and she acted like it meant nothing. “You were waiting for Lucca?” he bit out. “You really thought he’d come?”

Her lashes fluttered slightly, but she said nothing.

“Lucca’s with someone new every night,” Alexander said, stepping closer. “He doesn’t care about you.”

Still, Serena remained seated, unmoved, unbothered.

Alexander ran a hand down his face, struggling with the storm building inside him. And yet, despite his frustration, his hand extended toward her. He just wanted her to take it. To come with him.

But Serena shook him off and turned away.

“Serena,” he said, his voice now tinged with something softer—hurt. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just leave, Mr. Vanderbilt,” she murmured. “I don’t need your help.”

She lay down, turning her back to him, the fragile line of her shoulders sharp beneath the dim light. He stood there for a moment, silent, watching her curl in on herself.

Then something inside him cracked.

Without a word, he stepped forward, reached for the small window in the door, and covered it with his suit jacket. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, deliberately—not out of menace, but as if shedding the weight of formality, of power, of everything that kept him from simply being a man standing before a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Serena flinched when she heard the soft rustle behind her. “What are you doing?” she asked quietly, not turning.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Alexander replied, his voice rough but no longer angry. He sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her back. “I can’t.”

She slowly turned toward him. There was confusion in her eyes, but also wariness.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I care,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “And because despite everything, you’re still the only person who makes me feel something real.”

The walls she’d built inside herself began to crack, just a little.

“I don’t know how to trust you anymore,” she whispered.

“I don’t expect you to. Not yet,” he said. “But I’ll earn it. Even if it takes a lifetime.”

A long pause. Then Serena sat up, drawing her knees close to her chest, her eyes soft but conflicted.

“I’m tired, Alexander. Of fighting you. Of fighting myself.”

He reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then don’t. Just let me be here. Just for tonight.”

She hesitated—then leaned her head against his shoulder.

And in that small, sterile room, beneath the low hum of a flickering light, two people sat in silence. There were no fireworks, no desperate kisses, just the raw, trembling edge of connection being rebuilt.

He held her, not to possess, not to claim—but to stay.

And she let him. At least for this moment. 

---

Back at the Manhattan villa, Alexander personally ran a warm bath, the steam curling softly into the dimly lit room. The marble-tiled bathroom was quiet except for the gentle splash of water and the low hum of the faucet. He moved with a silent efficiency, stripping off her damp clothes with practiced hands, then lifting her into the tub as if she weighed nothing.

The moment Serena’s skin met the warm water, she stirred awake, groggy but furious. Her eyes snapped open, and without hesitation, she raised her hand and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength she had left.

The sound cracked through the air. Alexander’s head turned slightly from the force of the blow, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

He didn’t retaliate.

Instead, he calmly took her hand and inspected it, as though making sure she hadn’t hurt herself in the process. His brows knit together, not in anger—but in concern.

Serena felt her heart twist. Fighting with a man like him, a man utterly shameless in his calmness, only drained her. It made her feel foolish and small. Powerless.

The slap had taken all the fire out of her. Her body sank deeper into the tub, her limbs heavy with fatigue.

Alexander’s cheek bore the bright imprint of her fingers—five vivid red lines—but he seemed entirely unconcerned. Without a word, he grabbed a sponge and pumped body wash onto it, then began to scrub her gently, methodically, as if she were something precious. He tended to every inch of her skin—arms, back, legs—with a focus that was oddly intimate, yet clinical.

When he was done, he poured liquid soap into his palms and took her hands in his, carefully washing them with a tenderness that betrayed more than he said out loud.

Her skin was marred with bruises and bite marks—some deep, some light. Together, they painted a chaotic mosaic against her pale body, like strokes on a madman’s canvas. Beautiful, in a tragic, unsettling way.

Alexander’s gaze lingered a little too long, haunted, reverent. Then, as the water began to cool, he pulled her out and wrapped her in a plush white towel, drying her off with the same steady hands.

He carried her back to bed without saying a word. The sheets were cool, the pillows freshly fluffed. She stirred again as he tucked her in, voice raspy with exhaustion and anger. “Bastard,” she muttered.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Her words slid off him like water. As long as she was there—warm, safe, breathing—he didn’t care what she called him.

As she lay sleeping, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Jonathan’s voice crackled through. “Mr. Vanderbilt, the stock transfer documents are finalized.”

Alexander’s eyes drifted back to the woman sleeping beside him, then returned to the ceiling. “Mm,” he responded, emotionless.

Jonathan hesitated. “Are you really going to hand them over? If Justin gets the shares from the other members of the Vanderbilt family—and Mr. Cornelius’s, too—you could lose your position. You might not be president of the Vanderbilt Group anymore.”

“I’ve always known what Justin was planning,” Alexander replied flatly. “Why do you think he placed Harry in the company years ago?”

“But if he actually becomes president—”

“Grandfather’s shares won’t go to him,” Alexander interrupted, rubbing his temples, a rare sign of weariness cracking through his usual composure. “And even if they do... I’m tired of this.”

He wasn’t bluffing.

From the beginning, when he stepped into the role of successor, people whispered that it should’ve been Marken’s. That he was simply standing in for the man who should’ve led. That his success was built on a grave.

He respected Marken. But he never truly connected with him.

Growing up under Marken’s shadow had pushed him to the military—far from boardrooms and backroom deals. Had it not been for the family’s insistence, for Cornelius’s will, he would’ve stayed a soldier, a weapon of war rather than a polished CEO.

Business suited him only because he made it his battlefield. But he had never sought this war.

He wasn’t here to compete with the dead.

He wasn’t here to chase legacies he didn’t believe in.

He had his own pride—and it wasn’t bound to a title, or a throne built on sacrifice.

--- 

Just as Alexander was settling into bed, his phone buzzed. Hugo’s name lit up the screen.

“I heard you’re transferring ten percent of the Vanderbilt Group’s shares?” Hugo’s voice rang with disbelief, edged with curiosity. He knew Alexander didn’t make decisions lightly—especially not ones with this kind of weight.

“Yeah,” Alexander replied, his tone even, unbothered.

“For Serena?”

“Yeah. I told you—I like her.”

Hugo paused for a moment, then asked, “Xander, do you like her… or do you love her?”

There was a silence on the line. A rare thing, coming from Alexander.

After a few seconds, he replied, “Is there a difference?”

Hugo leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. As one of the top screenwriters in the industry, he’d written a hundred kinds of love, but this kind of question still caught him off guard.

“Well, think of it this way,” Hugo said. “In our world—guys like us—‘liking’ is easy. It’s like owning something beautiful. Like a rare watch or a sleek car. Or, yeah, a pet. You show it off, take pride in it. But love? Love's a whole different beast. Love is messy. Possessive. It's when someone else looks at her, and you feel something twist in your gut. It’s dark and raw and real. Love exposes your soft spots. That’s why most people in our circle don’t talk about it. It’s too risky.”

He paused, letting that sink in before adding, “I just hope that if it is love, you won’t treat her like one of your soldiers. Don’t try to control her. That kind of thing—you’ll regret it. But if it’s just a passing crush... well, do what you want. It’s your ten percent.”

Alexander didn’t respond right away. His answer was low and simple.

“It’s just like that.”

Hugo let out a long, tired breath. “Alright,” he said. “Just don’t screw it up and come crying to me later. Not every girl gives second chances—and Serena sure as hell isn’t the type you can cage. You want her? You let her breathe. You smother her, and she’ll run.”

Alexander frowned slightly, eyes drifting toward the woman beside him.

“I don’t get it,” he admitted.

In his mind, it was simple: if you cared for someone, you held onto them. You didn’t let them go. It didn’t matter how—just that they were close. Safe. Yours.

“You’ll get it one day,” Hugo said. “Hopefully before it’s too late.”

When the call ended, Alexander tucked the phone away and looked down at Serena. Her breathing was slow and even, her lashes still against her cheek. The weight of the day had knocked her out completely.

He slid under the covers, gently pulling her into his arms.

And for the first time in days, he felt… calm.

A small smile touched his lips as he held her tighter.

By all logic, he should’ve let her stew in that holding cell a while longer. Maybe then she’d understand how much she needed him. Maybe she’d be grateful.

But back in that sterile conference room, surrounded by noise and agendas, he hadn’t been able to focus. Not with the thought of her sitting alone behind cold walls, maybe scared, maybe crying.

He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t think straight.

Lucca’s call had been the excuse he needed, and he’d dropped everything.

Now, with her in his arms, Alexander realized this was what he truly wanted. Not revenge. Not power plays.

Just her.

“Serena?” he whispered.

She didn’t stir.

Ten minutes passed.

He tried again, a little bolder this time. “Serena?”

Still no response. But knowing she couldn’t hear him gave him courage.

He smiled softly and whispered again, like he’d been waiting forever to say her name without pretense.

“Serena…”

Ten more minutes ticked by.

And then, perhaps too full of her name to hold it in, he repeated it aloud.

“Serena.”

“Serena.”

From the other side of the bed came a low, groggy growl. “Shut up.”

Alexander blinked, caught off guard. His lips parted, but no words came out. His face twisted into a sheepish, boyish grin—and he obediently shut up.