* FREEBIE * 2nd * Chapter 285 : You’d better stay away from my husband.

Back at Le Châteauesque Manor, the quiet of the evening was broken only by the soft shuffle of paws on polished marble. Rex, her loyal golden retriever, kept nudging Serena’s feet with his nose, a silent plea for attention. But Serena wasn’t in the mood for games. Her gaze was fixed on the stack of documents before her—though they were upside down, and she hadn’t even noticed.

Across the room, the glow of her computer screen spilled across the desk. A headline blinked on the news feed: Vanderbilt Group and Vortex Automotive Group Seal Landmark Partnership.

Serena’s eyes narrowed slightly. Alexander Vanderbilt—CEO of the Vanderbilt Group, financial prodigy hailed by both Wall Street and Silicon Valley—was clearly playing his next move. But what exactly was his endgame?

A notification popped up. An interview clip had just been released—Alexander in Italy, speaking to a well-known journalist.

The video loaded, and there he was: perfectly tailored suit, posture straight as if the chair had been made for him, every movement controlled. His voice was measured, deliberate, yet the occasional sidelong glance he threw at the camera carried an almost dangerous charm. The corners of his mouth curved ever so slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to suggest he was in on a secret no one else knew.

Alexander rarely agreed to interviews, and even less so face-to-face ones. The Italian press was already ablaze, and within hours the video had crossed borders, flooding social media back home.

Online, the comment section was in chaos:

> Mr. Vanderbilt’s genes are illegal. Why hasn’t he done interviews before? Afraid the world couldn’t handle it?

If he joined the entertainment industry, half the male actors would have to retire.

I’m a fan now. Not just rich—brilliant, too. That’s unfair levels of perfection.

If he kissed me, I’d faint. Those lips… too dangerous.

His Adam’s apple. His hands. Everything about him is a weapon.

The words blurred together on the screen, but Serena didn’t need to read them all—she could feel the truth of them.

When she’d first seen the interview thumbnail, she’d known exactly how the internet would react. Still, nothing had prepared her for the sight of him like this—unreachable, magnetic, effortlessly dominant.

Her pulse picked up. Without warning, her mind betrayed her, flashing back to the night before last—the quiet press of the mattress, the sudden heat of his touch, the way his presence felt far too close and yet not close enough. Seeing him in the video only sharpened the memory, and the rush of it made her breath catch.

If these netizens knew what he was like behind closed doors… they’d probably stop breathing entirely.

With a sharp snap, she slammed her laptop shut—harder than intended.

“Ms. Morales, are you alright?” Aunt Torres’ voice broke the silence. The older woman stood in the doorway, concern etched on her lined face. “Your cheeks are awfully red.”

Serena reached up, fingers brushing her warm skin. “I’m fine, Aunt Torres. Really. You should get some rest—I’m skipping dinner tonight. Going to bed early.”

She stepped into her en suite bathroom, hoping the cool tiles and quiet might steady her pulse. But just as she set her phone on the counter, a message buzzed in from Marilyn.

[Ms. Morales, we’ve locked in the lead actress. Should we go with a newcomer for the male lead? I’ve sent their profiles to your email. All supporting roles are cast. Once we pick the lead, we can start filming. Mr. Rossi is ready to roll.]

Serena glanced toward the darkened laptop in the other room. She could turn it on, review the files… but her body felt heavy, her mind thick with exhaustion.

[Rest for now,] she typed back. [It’s the weekend tomorrow. Everyone’s been working hard.]

[Got it, Ms. Morales. Good night.]

Serena set the phone down, the glow of the screen fading into the dark. Her thoughts drifted, hazy and disorganized, until the edges of the world began to blur.

That night, Serena dreamed of her wedding—but the groom standing beside her wasn’t Alexander. She knew exactly who it was, and the realization made her palms damp and her chest tighten.

The venue was dazzling—rows of fresh flowers spilling their fragrance into the air, champagne flutes glinting under soft golden lights, and guests smiling as they offered warm congratulations. But then the atmosphere shattered.

The double doors at the end of the aisle burst open with a deafening slam. Alexander strode in, flanked by a wall of bodyguards. His tall frame cut an imposing figure against the warm, romantic backdrop. His voice was sharp, almost trembling as he demanded,

“What am I to you?”

His eyes glistened, equal parts longing and fury.

“Serena, I just don’t understand… why does everyone choose him over me?”

Her heart pounded so violently it hurt. His gaze was raw, desperate, and accusing—love and hate warring in the depths of his expression.

She felt her breath catch, and in that instant, fear jolted her awake.

Her forehead was slick with cold sweat. She switched on the lamp at her bedside, the warm glow pushing back the darkness, yet the ache from the dream clung stubbornly to her chest.

Sitting up, she took in slow breaths, but the restlessness wouldn’t fade. She got out of bed and pushed open the window. A cool night breeze rushed in, wrapping around her, carrying away some of the tightness in her chest.

Why would I dream something like that?

She rubbed her temples; a sharp, pulsing pain throbbed behind her eyes. Sleep had been elusive lately—too many sleepless nights, too many tangled thoughts about the company. By the time the first pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, she had already decided to head into the office anyway.

Before she could leave, a call came from the property management at the Upper West Side. Her maintenance fees were two months overdue.

Since her identity had been exposed, Serena hadn’t stepped foot in that apartment. After paying the overdue amount, she instructed the property office to put the place up for sale. She wouldn’t live there again—it was better to turn it into cash.

She didn’t expect another call just hours later.

“Ms. Morales,” the staff member said, excitement in their tone, “there’s a buyer who wants your place. She works nearby and needs to sign today. There aren’t any other listings in the community, and she’s really set on yours.”

Without hesitation, Serena drove to the Upper West Side. On the way, she called a moving company to clear out her belongings.

The handover was swift. The buyer—a woman in her thirties with a neat haircut and bright, eager eyes—stood in the doorway, practically glowing with satisfaction.

“Thank you so much,” she said warmly. “I’ve been looking for a home here for ages. I’ll move my furniture in right away. I wish you all the happiness in your life.”

Serena passed her the keys. Just like that, it was done—the fastest property deal she had ever closed.

--- 

Two hours later, just as Serena was settling down for dinner at Le Châteauesque Manor, her phone buzzed. It was property management again.

“Ms. Morales,” the voice on the other end said, urgent and uneasy, “you need to come and see this.”

Serena’s brow furrowed. She immediately thought the new owner might have done something drastic.

When she arrived, the cheerful woman from earlier was now curled on the living room sofa, sobbing uncontrollably. Several uniformed police officers stood nearby, their presence turning the air heavy.

Serena stopped at the doorway, puzzled. “What’s going on?”

The new owner lifted her head, eyes red and swollen, and shot Serena a glare filled with accusation. “I knew it! No one sells a house that quickly unless something’s wrong. Now I see what it is—you’re disgusting!”

Serena stiffened, caught between confusion and irritation. Clearly, the woman was panicking. She turned to the nearest officer. “What happened?”

The cop pointed upward. “Take a look.”

Serena followed his gesture and froze. A large section of the ceiling had collapsed, exposing a nightmare—dozens of tiny black cameras crammed together, their dark lenses gleaming under the light like a cluster of unblinking eyes.

A prickling chill shot up her spine. Her stomach lurched. She instinctively stepped back, her breath quickening.

The officer explained, “She knocked down the chandelier while moving furniture. The workers installing a new one discovered the cameras. When they opened the ceiling, they found it was packed with them. As the previous owner, you’d know something about this… right?”

Serena’s mind went blank. The sheer density of cameras made her skin crawl, and her trypophobia flared so violently it felt like a physical ache. She could almost feel those lenses watching her even now.

Her throat tightened. Without answering, she turned and bolted to the bathroom, where she retched until her body shook.

When she returned, pale and trembling, the woman’s voice was shrill and breaking. “I’m done with this house! I want my money back—now!”

Serena couldn’t blame her. Anyone, especially a woman living alone, would be terrified. A ceiling full of hidden cameras? That image would haunt her forever.

Taking a steadying breath, Serena spoke, her voice still thin from shock. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea either—I was just as horrified as you. I’ll refund you. I’m not selling this house to anyone.”

The woman’s sobs softened. Seeing Serena’s ashen face, she seemed to realize the accusation had been misplaced. She wiped her cheeks awkwardly. “I… I’m sorry. I thought you’d set it up, like you were into something shady. I shouldn’t have yelled, but I can’t stay here another minute.”

Serena gave a faint nod. “I’ll call the bank and have the money returned.”

The woman wasted no time. Grabbing her bag, she hurried out like the house itself might swallow her whole.

Serena stayed behind with the police just long enough to give her statement, though the image of those cameras wouldn’t leave her mind. Even after walking out, the phantom feeling of being watched clung to her skin.

By the time she got back to Le Châteauesque Manor, her body was already giving out. The adrenaline faded, leaving only exhaustion and a bone-deep chill. Her fever spiked fast.

It wasn’t surprising—fright like that, piled on top of weeks of stress, could shatter anyone’s system.

Aunt Torres took one look at her and insisted on driving her straight to the hospital.

From her hospital bed, Serena forced herself to text the company’s senior leadership: In the hospital. Won’t make it in tomorrow. Contact Marilyn for anything urgent.

The moment she sent it, the phone slipped from her fingers, and darkness claimed her.

--- 

In Italy, morning light crept through the tall glass windows of Alexander’s hotel suite. He stood barefoot on the polished wood floor, the cool breeze of early spring drifting in as he pushed open the balcony door.

Outside, a light drizzle softened the cobblestone streets below, and the distant rooftops glistened like polished clay under the morning mist. Above them, a faint rainbow arched against the pale sky—a quiet, fleeting moment of beauty.

Alexander pulled out his phone. It had been on airplane mode for days; dozens of calls and messages had piled up, but he barely glanced at them. His eyes only searched for one name—Serena.

There it was.

She had sent a single line: Where are you?

A faint grin tugged at his lips. He lifted his phone, framing the rainbow in the shot, and snapped a picture. His fingers flew over the keyboard:

[Guess.]

If she’d been paying attention to the financial headlines, she might already know where he was.

He hesitated, then sent another message:

[Serena, isn’t it beautiful?]

No reply. He figured the time difference meant she was still asleep.

[I miss you, but I won’t be back for a few more days. Got a lot going on here.]

He paused, then, almost without thinking, typed another:

[I really want to kiss you.]

The words stared back at him, unguarded and raw. A rush of heat climbed up his neck. Before he could second-guess it, his thumb pressed delete.

It was ridiculous—he’d faced down armed men without blinking, yet one soft, sentimental message had him fanning his face with a nearby folder.

When his heartbeat settled, he typed something safer:

[Wait for me to come back.]

This one felt more like him.

A sudden knock came at the door, followed by a syrupy, flirtatious voice calling his name. His jaw tightened instantly. Ever since his first day in Italy, that woman had been circling him like a vulture. Now she’d somehow tracked down his hotel room. Without opening the door, he phoned the front desk and instructed security to have her removed.

Two hours later, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, he was on his way to Vortex Automotive Group’s headquarters for another round of meetings when his phone rang. Jonathan’s voice came through, tight with concern.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, Ms. Alvarez is in the hospital.”

Alexander’s steps halted mid-stride, his pulse spiking. “What happened to her?”

“She seems to be exhausted,” Jonathan explained. “High fever.”

Alexander’s expression hardened, though a flicker of unease ran beneath it. “Got it,” he said curtly—already adjusting his plans in his mind. 

After ending the previous call, Alexander immediately dialed Mikhail.

“The fever’s down,” Mikhail reported without preamble. “She had a high fever last night, but she’s stable now. No major issues.”

Alexander exhaled slowly, though the knot of unease in his chest didn’t fully loosen. “Mikhail, I’m counting on you. While she’s in the hospital, I’ll have meals delivered three times a day. Make sure she eats—she might forget if she’s buried in work.”

“Understood,” Mikhail replied, tossing a pair of disposable gloves into a nearby trash bin with mechanical precision.

Once the call ended, he walked toward Serena’s hospital room with his usual quiet, unhurried stride.

Inside, Serena sat propped against the wall, laptop balanced on her knees, fingers moving quickly over the keys. The pale morning light streaming through the blinds softened her features, but the weariness in her posture was unmistakable.

“Alexander just called,” Mikhail said. “He wants you to rest.”

Serena’s fingers stilled. At the mention of his name, something in her chest eased. She nodded faintly without looking up.

“He’s tied up abroad,” Mikhail continued, “but he’ll be back in a few days. Until then, don’t overwork yourself.”

As he spoke, he poured her a glass of water and set it on the bedside table. “Ms. Morales, please don’t make this harder for me. He told me to keep an eye on you.”

Mikhail’s presence was as it had always been—calm, efficient, almost surgical in its lack of personal warmth. He did what Alexander instructed, nothing more, nothing less. His polite exterior masked a core of steel.

Serena reached for the glass, her fingers brushing his in the process. The grip faltered, and water splashed over the blanket, soaking a large section.

In one swift motion, Mikhail yanked the blanket away to keep the spill from reaching her clothes. But Serena, flushed from fever and wearing only a light shirt, hadn’t fastened the top buttons. The fabric fell slightly open, revealing a glimpse of her bra.

Mikhail’s expression froze for half a second before he turned sharply toward the door. “I’ll get a nurse to change your blanket.”

Serena’s cheeks burned as she rubbed her temples, her headache suddenly worse. Perfect. Just perfect.

Back in his office, Mikhail debated for a moment before tapping out a quick message to Alexander:

> Mikhail: My bad.

Alexander’s reply came almost instantly.

> Alexander: What happened?

> Mikhail: I… kind of saw her naked.

Seconds later, Alexander’s name lit up his screen. Mikhail answered, and his eardrums were met with a clipped, icy tone. “What do you mean you kind of saw her naked?”

Mikhail pinched the bridge of his nose, recounting the entire incident in as few words as possible. “I had a nurse check on her afterward.”

There was a pause, and then Alexander hung up.

Moments later, Serena’s phone rang. By then, her bed had fresh sheets, and she was sitting upright again.

“Serena,” Alexander’s voice came through, low but softer now, “is your fever down?”

“Yeah,” she said.

There was a brief silence, then he asked abruptly, “What do you think of Mikhail’s looks?”

Her brows knitted. “What?”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “Why didn’t you reply to my messages?”

“I didn’t check my phone.”

His voice dropped lower. “I miss you.”

Those three words slid straight past her defenses, her heartbeat kicking up in her chest. She sat straighter, caught off guard and strangely flustered.

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t fill the silence. They simply stayed on the line, breathing in each other’s quiet.

Just as she was about to ask if he had more to say, his voice came again. “Do you miss me?”

Her face felt warm, her breath quickening. She didn’t respond to that either. Instead, she asked, “Are you confident about the bet?”

He looked out through a rain-speckled window, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “No, I’m not.”

Her pulse skipped. “Alexander, are you serious? If you lose, what happens to the Vanderbilt Group?”

She could already picture Justin’s smug face—there was no way he’d let Alexander walk away unscathed.

Alexander’s tone shifted, teasing. “If I lose, you can take care of me. Can I work at your company?”

“Alexander!” she snapped, half angry, half panicked. How could he joke now?

He chuckled softly, the sound mixing with the distant patter of rain. “Serena, I’ll be back soon.”

And then he ended the call, leaving her staring at the phone, pulse still unsettled.

---

Serena couldn’t shake the unease coiling in her chest. He’s not confident? The thought cut through her like ice. So… he’s really gambling with this?

The next second, she was on her feet—too fast. A wave of weakness slammed into her, and her knees almost buckled. Catching herself against the edge of the bed, she steadied her breathing before forcing her way toward the door.

“Ms. Morales, you’re still weak. You need to rest,” the nurse called after her, her tone laced with concern.

Serena didn’t slow. She went straight to the nurse’s station, completed the discharge paperwork with trembling hands, and stepped into the crisp evening air. Her phone was already pressed to her ear as she called Lucca, her voice tight.

It was about the Vortex Automotive Group—a company surrounded by a wall of secrecy. Their luxury sports cars sold so well they didn’t bother playing by the usual industry rules, and now, they were a critical part of whatever Alexander was risking himself for.

Her steps quickened, urgency pushing her forward. The thought of Alexander navigating this kind of high-stakes gamble made her chest tighten with a strange, restless ache.

By the time she found Lucca at a bar, her body had already given out once on the way—her vision blurring, her breath ragged. When she finally pushed through the bar’s glass doors, she was pale and sweating.

Lucca’s brows knit instantly. “Alexander worries you that much?”

The words jolted her. She froze for a moment, realizing this was his battle, not hers. So why was she moving like it was her life on the line?

Lucca leaned back against the bar counter, swirling the drink in his hand. “Ava, if this bet means that much to Alexander, my sister will help him. She likes him.” His tone shifted—half casual, half cutting. “You saw her when you came back, right? She’s been spoiled since birth. Can’t handle a drop of trouble. Even if she’s willing to throw twenty billion dollars at him, I doubt the Reinaldi Family would step in for real.”

The sting of his words landed hard. Serena knew the truth—her concern for Alexander meant she could only gather scraps of information, while someone like Chiara Reinaldi could simply buy her way into the outcome.

Lucca must have seen the shadow crossing Serena’s face because he slid a glass of wine toward her. “Ava, you might think it’s unfair… but that’s life. My sister already called me, by the way—asked me to ‘deal with you’ and get you out of the picture. I admire you, so I won’t. But my brother? He won’t be as soft. If he shows up in New York, he’ll do whatever she wants.”

Serena stared at the dark liquid in front of her, silent.

Lucca reached over and tapped her lightly on the head. “Look. My brother’s got two modes—either tearing into me or spoiling my sister rotten. Even if Alexander screws this up, he’s too damn talented to stay down. He could walk into Wealth Light Valley Street or Silicon Valley tomorrow and they’d fight to have him. The media in Italy love him—not because of his last name, but because he’s Alexander Vanderbilt. Simple as that.”

Still, Serena didn’t speak.

Lucca sighed and continued, “Remember the underground fight club I told you about? In Italy’s gray zones, you can trade anything—no rules. That place? That’s Alexander’s turf now. The Reinaldi Family tried to take it once and failed. Other families tried too—same story. When everyone else was bloody and beaten, Alexander swooped in and claimed it. My brother told me himself: don’t cross him. And you…” he smirked faintly, “…you and him? Different worlds, Ava.”

He pulled out a crisp white handkerchief and dabbed at her temple. She looked fragile—fresh out of the hospital, her skin clammy, hair sticking slightly to her cheek from the sprint over here.

“So,” he finished, “stop tying yourself in knots over him. Run your company. Live your life.”

Serena couldn’t recall how she left the bar. One moment she was staring at Lucca’s glass, the next she was gripping her steering wheel, city lights blurring outside.

Her phone rang. The sky had already deepened into a velvet blue. She glanced at the screen. The caller ID read: Mr. Vanderbilt.

She answered.

A sharp, sweetened voice hit her ear. “Are you Serena?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Chiara,” the voice purred, laced with arrogance. “You’d better stay away from my husband. I’ll let the Beatrice thing slide, but if you piss me off again, you’ll regret it. No one will help you then. I’m being generous right now—I don’t waste energy on people like you.”

Serena leaned back against her seat, a dry laugh escaping. “Does he even know you’re calling him your husband?”

“Of course he does,” Chiara replied instantly, smugness dripping from every word. “We had dinner tonight. He bought me flowers. What’s wrong with me calling him that? We’re getting married—I told my mom already. She’s having him over for dinner the day after tomorrow, so he won’t be coming back to you.”

Chiara was around Serena’s age, but her voice had the soft, airy sweetness of someone who had never known hardship.

Serena said nothing, though a small, bitter twist tightened in her chest. Women like Chiara never had to fight for anything—everything they wanted was simply handed to them. A paper cut would summon the best private doctor, while Serena had bled her way through survival, nearly dying more than once.

Chiara’s voice cut back in. “My husband’s here, so I’m done talking. Be smart, Serena. Lucca’s in New York—don’t make me send him after you. This is the last time I’ll say it: if you cause trouble again, I will make you regret it. Alexander’s mine. I’ve known him for years.”

The line went dead.