* FREEBIE * 2nd * Chapter 273 : Can you stop pushing me away like this?

The atmosphere in the car was heavy with unspoken tension.

Serena sat silently in the back seat, her eyes fixed on her phone. She hadn’t said a word since they got in. Jonathan drove up front, quiet as always, while Alexander sat beside her, their legs barely brushing—yet the warmth of that subtle contact radiated through the thin fabric of her trousers like a live wire.

Outside, the city lights flickered past the windows, casting soft, shifting shadows that played across Serena’s face. The dim interior of the car only amplified the contrast between her stillness and the occasional flicker of emotion that crossed her features.

Ten minutes passed.

She hadn’t even looked his way once.

Alexander’s initial frustration gradually morphed into helplessness. He studied her profile—the tight line of her lips, the way her hand rested on her knee, her posture slightly rigid. She looked as though she were lost in thought, weary from whatever had burdened her day. Her eyes eventually fluttered closed, as if trying to shut out the world, but the crease in her brow betrayed that her mind was still working.

Her right hand clutched her phone, but her left hand sat idle on her knee.

After a moment’s hesitation, Alexander slowly reached out and wrapped his hand around hers.

Serena’s body tensed immediately. Her eyes opened, locking onto his. His pupils were dark, steady, unreadable—but intense.

Her heart gave an involuntary jolt.

She tried to pull her hand back, instinctively distancing herself from the emotional undercurrent she could already feel creeping in—but he didn’t let go.

She tugged again, more firmly this time.

Instead of releasing her, Alexander went further—interlacing his fingers with hers, holding on tightly.

The car’s confined space suddenly felt warmer, heavier. Serena’s skin prickled with heat, and a fine sheen of sweat began to form at her temples. She wasn’t sure if it was the work stress or the man beside her who was making her flush, but the feeling was dizzying.

In the dim lighting, she glanced at him again. For a split second, through the shifting shadow and glow, he didn’t even look like himself. It was someone softer. Someone unfamiliar.

And then he leaned in.

His head dipped toward her shoulder, resting lightly at the crook of her neck. The heat of his breath fanned across her skin, sending a shiver up her spine. Her fingers, still entangled with his, trembled slightly.

“Alexander, you...” she began to whisper.

But her voice caught as his lips brushed her collarbone—a teasing touch, gentle yet electric. The sensation rippled through her, both numbing and alarmingly addictive.

Alexander had always been direct. There was never ambiguity with him. If he wanted her, he took her. There was no middle ground, no slow dance of flirtation. Just fire.

And her body—damn her body—it never lied.

She had been nearly twenty-seven the first time he touched her. He had a kind of possessiveness in this domain that was impossible to fend off. From that first night—intense, all-consuming—to every time after, the way he ignited her was terrifying in its power.

No matter how firmly she rejected him in her mind, her body reacted like it had a will of its own.

Every inch of her skin recognized his nearness. Every nerve sparked at his touch.

Even now, as her heart warned her to stop—her body responded with aching familiarity.

A physiological truth she could neither explain nor deny.

“Don’t do this,” Serena whispered, her voice unsteady.

She pressed gently against his head, trying to push him away, but Alexander only murmured, “You clearly like it.”

And he wasn’t wrong. Her body betrayed her, trembling beneath his touch. The way he moved—so effortlessly, so confidently—set every nerve ablaze. She hated that he could read her so well. No woman could will away the flood of hormones or deny the soft quiver that coursed through her at the slightest graze of his fingers.

His hand trailed downward, slow and deliberate, the tips of his fingers tracing the hem of her skirt. With a silent press of a button, the privacy screen between them and the driver slid up, casting them into their own shadowed world. His other hand caressed the inside of her thigh, smooth and firm, before sliding further—until it reached her center.

He touched her with a rhythm that made her breath catch and her legs tense—each movement deliberate, each pause electric. Her back arched involuntarily as he moved, drawing out a quiet gasp that she couldn’t swallow.

When his fingers withdrew, they glistened faintly.

Serena, cheeks flushed and lips parted, sat stunned, momentarily forgetting every thought about deadlines, meetings, and the heavy weight of work. Her pulse thundered in her ears as he nonchalantly brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting her as if sampling a rare delicacy.

It shattered her.

Seeing that sculpted, aristocratic face—so refined, so regal—perform such an indecent act made something inside her crack open. The contradiction was unbearable. His nobility made the act feel even more sinful, more intoxicating. She turned away, biting her lip, cursing him silently for knowing exactly what he did to her.

Alexander said nothing. He simply reached for his phone, as if the moment between them hadn’t existed at all. His expression remained composed, unbothered—aloof. Then he pulled out his laptop, his fingers—those same fingers—now dancing effortlessly across the keyboard, tapping commands into place.

Serena averted her gaze, determined to focus on something—anything—else. But her eyes betrayed her again. She kept catching glimpses of his wristwatch gleaming under the cabin light, of his long, graceful fingers flying over the keys. And all she could think about was what those fingers had just done.

Her skin burned. She cracked open the window, letting the night air whip into the car and across her face. The cold helped—slightly.

Was this his revenge? she wondered.

For her being preoccupied earlier, for keeping things professional, for treating him like just a man and not the infuriating temptation he was?

She peeked at him again.

His face was calm, focused—like a man reviewing sensitive reports. Not a hint of what he’d just done lingered on his features. He hadn’t so much as glanced her way again. His indifference irked her more than the act itself.

Serena exhaled and looked down, her fingers tightening around her tablet as she forced herself to concentrate again. But no matter how hard she tried, her peripheral vision kept drifting back to him.

His hands. God, his hands.

He had the hands of an artist—lean, sculpted, expressive. Better than any model’s. There wasn’t a single part of Alexander that wasn’t devastatingly flawless. His face. His body. Even the parts hidden under tailored suits and practiced charm—especially those parts.

He had the elegance to draw admiration and the raw masculinity to stir lust. It was a dangerous combination.

Serena clenched her jaw, annoyed at herself.

She refused to be just another woman seduced by his beauty.

The hum of the keyboard filled the silence between them until the car gently rolled to a stop. The driver didn’t speak. The air in the cabin was still thick with heat, despite the cool breeze drifting in through the open window.

And all Serena could think was how hard it had become to breathe.

---

The front doors creaked open as a servant stepped aside to let them in. Serena was the first to exit the car, her heels clicking softly against the stone driveway, followed closely by Alexander. The scent of trimmed hedges and aged wood wafted gently in the cool afternoon air.

Inside the house, Cornelius stood at the threshold of the living room, leaning on his cane, his sharp eyes already trained on them. The light streaming from behind cast long shadows across the floor, illuminating the lines etched deep into his aged face.

“Grandpa,” Serena greeted sweetly, her voice warm yet a touch apologetic—she had just realized she’d come empty-handed. Before she could offer to make it up to him, she paused mid-sentence.

Alexander had already turned to the servant, giving a quiet but firm instruction. “Bring in the gifts from the trunk.” Then, with composed ease, he addressed Cornelius. “Grandpa, these are the gifts we prepared for you.”

Serena blinked, her surprise betraying her composure. She hadn’t expected him to prepare anything in advance, and his thoughtfulness subtly erased the awkwardness she’d felt a moment earlier.

One by one, the elegantly wrapped boxes were brought inside. Cornelius’s gaze lingered on them, his chest rising with a deep sigh. If only things had been different—if only these two had found harmony from the beginning—they might have had a great-grandchild crawling around by now.

He cast Alexander a sidelong look, half disappointment, half regret.

“Come in, sit down,” Cornelius finally said, gesturing toward the living room. “Serena, what have you been keeping yourself busy with lately?”

Serena stepped inside, her voice calm but straightforward. “I’ve taken over my father’s company recently. We struggled to land any business, so I spun off a division and started a new venture with a smaller team.”

Her words, especially "couldn’t get any business," hit Alexander like a stone to the chest. He knew all too well—he was the reason the Morales Group had lost support in the first place. His silence grew heavier.

Cornelius, meanwhile, was watching Serena with genuine admiration. He took her hand in his own, his fingers cool but steady. “You’re handling everything so well,” he said with pride. “Just like—” He paused, nearly saying Marken, but caught himself, mindful of Alexander’s presence. “Just like all the brightest kids I’ve seen. You paint beautifully, you run a company fearlessly… Serena, you really are something special.”

A pink flush crept up Serena’s cheeks. “I’m still learning,” she said modestly. “Most of what I know comes from reading business books and listening to public lectures.”

“And that already puts you ahead of most,” Cornelius replied. His tone carried both affection and regret. She had always been serious about everything she did—disciplined, composed, never one to complain. It was what had drawn him to her from the start. And why it still stung that things hadn’t worked out.

His eyes drifted to Alexander, who sat silently nearby, posture stiff, his face unreadable.

“And what’s Alexander been up to lately?” Cornelius asked, already knowing the answer.

“Work,” Alexander replied flatly, the single syllable tinged with exhaustion.

He shifted in his seat, wincing ever so slightly. The injury on his back still throbbed with every breath, every movement. He refused to show weakness, but the pain simmered just beneath the surface.

Cornelius gave a dry chuckle, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Of course. You’re always working. Yet despite all that effort, here you are—alone.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened. Couldn’t he go easy on me for once? Especially in front of her?

Cornelius’s irritation was palpable. He was tempted, in that moment, to ask Alexander to leave—to let Serena stay for dinner and send his grandson packing. But part of him still clung to hope. Despite the countless disappointments, despite promising Serena he wouldn’t meddle, Cornelius still wished to see the two of them find their way back to each other.

So instead of pushing Alexander away, he masked his hopes with a half-hearted suggestion and a dash of strategy.

“There’s a painting request from the Valcrosse family upstairs,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway. “Serena, Alexander—I want the two of you to handle it together. Dinner won’t be ready for another two hours. If you both work on it, you’ll finish faster.”

There was a glimmer of intent in his eyes.

Work together, and maybe—just maybe—the distance between them would begin to close.

--- 

Serena was known as the final protégé of Caspian Remmington—a name that still echoed in art circles. Caspian had made his legacy through classical painting, and Serena had inherited both his discipline and instinct for detail.

It wasn’t the first time Serena and Alexander had painted together. Long ago, back in Charleston, she had discovered that Alexander not only had a natural flair for painting but that their creative instincts seemed curiously aligned. Without needing to speak, they understood balance, tone, and composition in the same way.

Cornelius, ever the matchmaker, was clearly hoping to recreate that moment. And in front of him, Serena couldn’t bring herself to say no. She nodded with polite composure.

Cornelius gave a small wave of his hand. “Alexander knows where my study is. Everything you’ll need is already set up. Once you’ve finished, I’ll send someone to collect the painting.”

Alexander stood up at once, eager and composed, clearly unwilling to disappoint his grandfather.

Serena followed him upstairs, her steps slow but steady.

She had been in Cornelius’s study before. The space was steeped in old-world charm, filled with the rich scent of mahogany and old books. A towering wall of shelves held leather-bound volumes, their gilded spines catching the light like quiet sentinels of wisdom.

In the center of the room sat a broad, carved wooden table. The materials had already been prepared: rice paper stretched neatly across its surface, bordered with delicate golden trim and a handwritten inscription indicating that the piece would be a gift for the Adams family.

Serena examined the paints. For this piece, the palette leaned cool—shades of gray-blue, soft pine green, and icy lavender. A neat rack of traditional brushes lined the wall nearby, their tips pristine and fanned like feathers waiting to dance.

But even with everything ready, her mind was blank. She wasn’t sure what they should paint. She glanced toward Alexander—and found him already looking at her. Their eyes met briefly in the stillness of the room, before both turned away, the charged air between them hanging unspoken.

She broke the silence first. “What should we paint?”

They’d been pulled into this on short notice. She hadn’t had time to think of a subject.

Alexander leaned forward slightly. “Let’s paint the one you did in Charleston,” he suggested.

Serena blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t expected him to mention that.

The Charleston painting had been a quiet collaboration between them. They both remembered every brushstroke. Choosing it again meant they wouldn’t have to plan much—they could just create.

“Okay,” she said simply.

She poured water into a shallow dish and began mixing pigments with practiced ease, the colors blooming like petals in a bowl.

Alexander stepped closer, trying to start a conversation. “When I went back to Charleston, I looked at that painting again. It’s still pretty good.”

“Mm,” she murmured.

He tried again. “That night, you spilled paint on me, remember?”

“Sorry,” she said, not looking up.

Alexander’s attempts to draw her in were met with quiet indifference. Her tone was even, but distant—her focus absorbed by the delicate movements of her brush.

He tried several more times, mentioning this or that, little anecdotes meant to spark laughter or at least a reaction. But Serena remained composed, responding only with nods or soft, clipped answers. It felt like he was speaking into an empty room.

Eventually, his patience frayed. Frustrated, he set his brush down with a snap and said coldly, “I’m not painting anymore.”

Serena didn’t even flinch. “Take a break then. I’ll finish it.”

She didn’t glance at him. Didn’t pause. Just continued painting, as though the shift in mood hadn’t happened.

Alexander stood frozen behind her. His gaze lingered on the curve of her shoulders, the graceful tilt of her head. She bent slightly over the table, fully absorbed in her strokes, the candlelight casting soft shadows across her neck and the edge of her cheek.

Not even a glance.

He clenched his jaw and stalked to a chair in the corner, downing two cups of water in frustration. And still, the fire in his chest didn’t calm.

Then—without thinking—he moved behind her.

As Serena added a final detail to the foreground, warm hands suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind. His touch was firm but tentative, as if seeking reassurance in the quiet. She froze, the paintbrush stilled mid-air. The air between them shifted, heavy with emotion neither of them had named aloud.

The room was utterly silent—except for the soft gasp that left her lips.

“Serena,” he said softly, his voice gravelly with regret. For once, Alexander sounded small—human. Vulnerable. “I was wrong. Next time… next time I’ll look into things properly before I act.”

His arms tightened around her waist as if trying to anchor himself to her. His breath was warm against her shoulder, and his voice, usually cool and composed, had turned raw. “I was wrong. Can you stop pushing me away like this?”

He hadn’t just mishandled things—he’d avoided his feelings, dodged the truth, and then let everything spiral out of control. Jared’s recent fiasco had only worsened things. In hindsight, he couldn’t blame her for the distance she now kept, like a wall she refused to lower.

Serena froze. His arms circled her midsection, but her focus remained on the canvas in front of her. She carefully peeled his hands away, wary of jostling the inkwell beside her. One slip, and hours of delicate work would be ruined.

"I'm working on something intricate. Don't distract me," she said coolly, eyes never leaving the page.

She was nearly finished with a detailed ink painting, the kind where even a twitch of the wrist could alter the composition. Each stroke had to be precise, deliberate. This wasn’t the time for emotional theatrics.

“If you’re bored,” she added, “go downstairs. Stop hovering.”

Alexander fell silent but didn’t leave. Instead, he sat behind her, arms slack at his sides, eyes quietly fixed on her back.

She didn’t acknowledge him again. If he wouldn’t listen to her words, she wouldn’t waste more breath. She returned to her brushwork, letting silence speak instead.

A knock came at the door.

Without looking up, she gently nudged him away. He resisted for a moment, childishly clinging to her like a dog refusing to let go of a favored toy. She’d seen this part of him before—the selfish streak, the emotional immaturity masked behind his polished exterior.

“Let go,” she said evenly.

He obeyed—reluctantly—and slumped into a nearby chair, arms crossed as he watched her in silence.

“Come in,” Serena called out.

The door creaked open. A house servant entered, carefully balancing a tray with two cups of steaming tea.

“Mr. Alexander Vanderbilt, Ms. Morales,” the servant greeted them with a respectful bow. “You’ve been working hard. Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt asked me to bring you some tea.”

He set the tray down on the small table near the window and quietly exited.

Serena took a deep breath and wiped the tip of her brush clean, preparing to switch to a larger one for her final strokes.

But before she could reach for it, Alexander was there again—wordlessly.

“I’ll help,” he said, already taking her used brush and walking it over to the basin of clean water.

She didn’t respond, only changed pens and resumed her work.

The room fell into a kind of quiet rhythm—the occasional drip of water as Alexander cleaned the brush, the gentle scratch of her pen against parchment. It was almost... domestic.

Soon, she noticed a shadow falling over her canvas. He had quietly returned, now picking up another brush and mimicking her movements beside her.

For a moment, Serena allowed herself to glance sideways.

He was focused. Completely still. When he worked with intention, his face lost its arrogance, replaced by a sort of noble seriousness. His sculpted features—sharp jawline, straight nose, dark lashes—looked almost statuesque in the warm lamplight.

How many times had she lost herself staring at this face in the past? Of all the people she had known, Alexander’s beauty remained unmatched. Natural. Effortless.

She quickly turned her attention back to the canvas, grounding herself in her work.

Minutes passed in silence—then twenty more. Then forty.

At last, Serena placed her brush down and leaned back, stretching her fingers. The painting was complete. A small ache pulsed in her joints, but a quiet satisfaction lingered in her chest.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

The work spoke for itself. 

Just as Serena reached up to massage her aching shoulders, a warm, elegant hand appeared from behind, gently pressing into the tense muscles at the base of her neck.

A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips before she realized whose touch it was—Alexander.

Her eyes widened, and she instinctively tensed. “I can do it myself,” she said quickly, trying to shrug off the unexpected intimacy.

But Alexander didn’t let go.

Before she could react further, his other hand slid around to her waist, fingers pressing firmly into the spot where the muscles tightened with stress. The soothing rhythm of his movements sent a shiver up her spine. Her knees wobbled under the sensation—it was so good, so unexpectedly intimate, her scalp tingled.

He guided her gently into a nearby chair, never breaking eye contact. His gaze was unreadable—too intense, too focused. Serena's breath hitched, uneven and shallow. She reached up to bat his hands away, but just then, he pressed a pressure point along her waist, and the sudden relief drew a sharp gasp from her.

“Alexander!” she snapped, half in protest, half in flustered shock.

He finally stopped, lifting his hands but not moving away. “Was it uncomfortable?” he asked softly, his voice rich with knowing amusement.

Serena sat there breathless, her cheeks glowing pink from more than just the massage. She looked away, willing herself to regain control. The massage had been undeniably effective—but there was no denying he had crossed a line.

Then came a knock at the door, followed by the familiar, measured voice of Cornelius from outside.

“Xander, Serena, is the painting finished? It’s time for dinner.”

Serena jolted upright as if someone had splashed cold water on her. She quickly smoothed her clothes, straightened her blouse, and brushed down her skirt with slightly trembling hands.

Only after ensuring everything was in proper order did she rush to the door and open it, her composure barely intact.