* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 1st * Chapter 173 : Still trying to run away?

Dear Gentle Readers , 

Have you been enjoying the story thus far?

The mystery will be revealed in time, why Alexander was unable to recognise Ava Roselle-Vega as Ava Alvarez/Serena Morales, and why he only remembered spending a passionate night with a mysterious woman whose name he did not know... 

This author hopes you will continue enjoying this story, the 1st branch, the one that most readers wanted (with less complicated plots and loose ends). This author must admits that at first, he did not enjoy writing Chapter 161-165 of the 1st branch however, after taking some time and truly thinking about the story, the author finally came up with the plot that he actually enjoys writing and he hopes that you, Gentle Readers, will also enjoy reading it. 

Yours, 

Ethan 

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At Hawthorne Court, London, the afternoon light poured softly through the tall windows of Ava’s office, gilding the polished mahogany desk and the contract spread open upon it. The faint scent of lilies from the lobby drifted in through the cracked door, mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee.

Ava studied the document with a steady expression, the pen poised between her fingers yet unmoving. She did not look at the check resting beside it, the crisp paper glinting with obscene generosity. Money no longer had the power to sway her. Instead, she turned toward the small sofa by the window, where Cello sat cross-legged, a hard-bound storybook balanced neatly on his knees.

“Cello,” she asked quietly, “are you really sure you want to take this job?”

From the first page to the last, he hadn’t lifted his eyes. “I’m sure.”

Ava uncapped the pen, the metallic click loud in the gentle hush of the room. “If you’ve changed your mind, it’s not too late.”

Another page turned. “No.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips—equal parts pride and ache. She bent over the document and signed her full name in the last column marked *Guardian*. Her script flowed in elegant strokes, the letters of *Ava Roselle-Vega* shimmering faintly under the light.

The staff member who had brought Cello back from the audition placed his glass down and rose quickly. “Well, I’ll head back now, Ms. Vega. Follow-up arrangements will be handled by our specialised team. They’ll contact you soon—please cooperate as needed.”

“Of course,” Ava said with her professional smile. She escorted him to the door, murmured thanks, and waited until his footsteps faded down the corridor before she returned to the sofa.

Lowering herself beside her son, she slipped an arm around his small shoulders. “My son is truly amazing,” she said softly, “making enough money for a new house so quickly. It looks like Mummy might retire early, hmm?”

Cello finally set his book aside, his serious little face turning toward her. “I can make money now. If Mummy doesn’t want to work, Mummy can stop. I’ll support you.”

The simplicity of it pierced her heart. Ava drew him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. His hair smelled faintly of soap and sunlight. “Good son,” she whispered. Her fingers combed through his soft hair, her eyes glistening with warmth.

For this child, she had traded youth for responsibility, love for secrecy, comfort for survival—and she had never once regretted it. He was her proof that every sacrifice had meaning. Time itself had confirmed it: **he was the best gift life had ever given her.**

“Since my son is going to be a model soon,” she teased lightly, “we’ll have to buy new clothes.” She checked her watch. “Give me a few minutes to finish my work, and then we’ll go to the mall.”

At her desk again, she noticed the check gleaming under the lamp. She picked it up, scanning the neat line of zeroes with a faint, incredulous smile. “Speaking of which, the head of this company is quite amusing—offering a million pounds straight to this little rascal.”

“That’s because your son is worth it,” Cello said matter-of-factly without looking up.

Ava laughed softly and tucked the check into her chequebook. “Wrong,” she said, eyes fond. “My son is **priceless**.”

Just then, the desk phone rang, its shrill tone slicing through the warmth of the room. Ava’s brow creased when she saw the caller ID. “What does this annoying devil want now?” she muttered, snatching up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Come to my room.”

The voice on the other end was smooth, low, and unmistakably authoritative—**Alexander Vanderbilt**.

Ava’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the handset, though her tone stayed even. “May I ask what Mr. Vanderbilt needs?”

A pause. Then, “You have a son, Miss Vega, don’t you?”

Her heart stopped. *Why would he ask that?* For an instant, air seemed to thin around her. Could it be that he already knew—about her, about Cello?

“Why do you ask, Mr. Vanderbilt?” she managed, forcing her voice steady.

“To meet in person.”

Then the line went dead.

“Hello? Mr. Vanderbilt?” Only the monotonous dial tone answered.

“Damn it,” she hissed under her breath, slamming the receiver down.

Without a second thought, Ava rounded the desk and strode to the door, yanking it open—only to hesitate. Her gaze fell on Cello, still quietly absorbed in his book, the soft lamplight haloing his small figure.

“Cello, you—” She stopped herself.

The boy lifted his head, puzzled.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “Just wait here for Mummy a moment, all right? I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay.” He lowered his eyes again, turning another page with serene focus.

Biting her lip, Ava slipped out, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor as she made for the elevator. The doors closed around her with a muted chime.

Inside the mirrored box, she folded her arms and stared at her reflection—the cool, capable hotel manager staring back at her bore little resemblance to the frightened wife who once trembled under Alexander’s gaze. Yet her pulse betrayed her, quick and erratic.

How did he find out? she thought, jaw tightening. And what does he want now?

As the elevator rose, a darker fear surfaced. Could it be that he came for Cello?

Her stomach knotted. Don’t even think about it, she warned herself fiercely.

That was her son—her life’s single pure truth. No one, not even Alexander Vanderbilt, would ever take him away.

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The elevator slid to a halt on the 56th floor, its polished steel doors parting with a soft chime.

Ava stepped out, her heels striking the marble in a clipped, steady rhythm. The corridor stretched long and silent, lined with recessed lights and gilt-edged mirrors reflecting her tense composure.

Each stride felt like a countdown. 

By the time she reached Alexander Vanderbilt’s suite, her pulse was hammering beneath her ribs. She pressed the doorbell, the quiet tone sounding much louder in her own ears.

The door opened—not to Jonathan, thank God—but to Finn Huntley, Alexander’s London-based assistant. His professional smile didn’t quite mask curiosity.

“Miss Vega,” he greeted, gesturing courteously. “Mr. Vanderbilt is expecting you.”

Ava exhaled through her nose, relief flickering through her chest. At least it’s not Jonathan Walker.

Because although her disguise could fool someone in passing, Jonathan had known her too well—seven years ago, and he was bound to get suspicious, or worse, find out that she was his boss’s ex-wife and ex-mistress.

She stepped inside.

The suite was a study in understated opulence: clean lines, muted ivory walls, the low hum of city traffic pulsing faintly through glass. But what caught her breath wasn’t the decor—it was Alexander, sitting on the sofa, a folder of glossy photographs fanned across his lap.

And in those photos—Cello, her son.

Ava’s stomach clenched. Her gaze darted to her son’s bright smile frozen on paper—each angle, each shot too perfectly composed.

Her mind raced. Why does he have these?

Alexander’s eyes lifted from the photographs, meeting hers across the room. They were the same cold, unreadable shade that once stripped her to the bone.

He gestured with a subtle incline of his chin toward the sofa opposite him. “Sit.”

His voice hadn’t changed—smooth, low, threaded with command that made her pulse tighten in reflex.

Ava inhaled deeply, then walked forward with quiet grace and sat down, every movement deliberate, as though performing before an enemy who studied weakness. Her gaze swept over the room—polished marble, an untouched tea set, a fruit knife gleaming on the coffee table under the soft golden light.

“What would Miss Vega like to drink?” Finn asked politely.

Ava turned her head slightly, offering a small, calculated smile. “A freshly ground black coffee from the restaurant on the twelfth floor. Thank you.”

Finn blinked, caught off guard by the pointed specificity. “Right away,” he said after a beat, masking confusion behind trained courtesy.

Her tone had been neither rude nor sweet—it was the tone of someone accustomed to command, not service.

As the assistant departed, the door closing softly behind him, Ava’s lips curved faintly. Her eyes, once gentle, now glinted with steel.

No bodyguards. No witnesses. Just her and him.

If this turned into a fight—verbal or otherwise—she would not lose.

Alexander set the photographs aside, his fingers resting loosely on the folder. His next words fell with cold precision.

“I will take Cello to Paris in three days.”

The statement hit her like a physical blow.

He said it so simply—so casually—as if deciding what tie to wear to dinner.

“This children’s clothing campaign requires high-end street photography,” he continued calmly, “and Paris has the aesthetic we need.”

Ava’s lips parted, then curved into a sharp, incredulous smile. “You think you can just take him away?” she said, her voice low and trembling with restrained fury.

Alexander raised an eyebrow, finally meeting her eyes. “Why not?”

Her fingers inched toward the fruit knife, pressing down on its handle. Her words came like shards of glass. “Because he’s my son. Wherever I am, that’s where he’ll be.”

He regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her astonishment, he gave a slow, almost thoughtful nod. “You can go with him.”

Ava blinked, thrown off balance. For a second, she thought she’d misheard him.

He leaned back slightly, tone level, pragmatic. “He’s still a child. It’s natural for his mother to accompany him. Consider it part of the arrangement.”

For a moment, she could only stare.

Part of the arrangement? Was that how he saw her? A contractual extension of her own son?

Rage flushed through her.

Her hand clenched tighter around the knife, her composure cracking as she rose abruptly to her feet. “My son isn’t going anywhere!”

Alexander’s eyes followed her movement, lingering briefly on the tension in her knuckles before meeting her glare. His voice cooled, hardening like tempered glass.

“Miss Vega,” he said evenly, “do you have an objection to the contract?”

Her breath caught. Contract?

He gestured toward the folder of photographs, irritation faintly creasing his brow. “You signed your consent. Guardians are required to cooperate with the company’s travel and production plans. If you’re withdrawing, I need to hear your reason.”

Ava’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her eyes dropped to the photos on the table—each one perfectly lit, perfectly staged. They weren’t paparazzi shots at all; they were professional production stills.

No… The children’s clothing company—his company?

She had checked earlier that day, carefully, precisely. There had been no record, no tie to Vanderbilt Enterprises. Had he hidden it? Or acquired it quietly?

Before she could speak, a loud bang echoed from the suite’s washroom, followed by the hiss of running water.

Both froze.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then instinct took over. Ava dropped the fruit knife and sprinted toward the bathroom, heart hammering.

Alexander was right behind her.

Here’s your **polished and humanized version of Chapter 172 (Part 3/3)** — rewritten in the established *Billionaire Virgin Ex-Wife* tone: cinematic, emotionally charged, and rich in sensory detail, while keeping all events and character dynamics intact.

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## **Chapter 172 – Part 3/3 : The Unmasking**

The bathroom door gave a soft click before swinging open—

and a freezing jet of water struck Ava square in the face.

She gasped, the shock stealing her breath. Cold droplets stung her skin, clinging to her lashes and soaking her blouse through in seconds. The thin lenses of her glasses spared her eyes, but everywhere else was drenched.

“Damn it,” she hissed under her breath. Without hesitation, she rushed inside.

Steam mingled with mist as the shower hissed wildly, spraying the walls and floor like a ruptured fountain.  Through the blur on her glasses, she caught sight of the handle jerking violently, the valve sputtering water in every direction. She darted to the sink, twisting the emergency knob beneath it until the torrent slowed, then stopped with a groan of pipes.

Dripping and half-soaked, Ava turned—and froze.

A tall figure filled the narrow space behind her.  Alexander.

She had no time to step aside. She collided straight into the firm wall of his chest, the familiar scent of cedarwood and rainwater flooding her senses. Instinctively, her hands shot out to brace herself, but his reflexes were faster. Two strong hands caught her wrists, pinning them effortlessly above her head.

In the next heartbeat, her back met the cold, tiled wall.

“Mr. Vanderbilt—what are you doing?”

Her voice trembled, more from adrenaline than fear.

If this confrontation was only about the contract, then perhaps he didn’t know.  She could not—must not—reveal herself.

He said nothing.  Instead, he reached up and, in one swift motion, removed the black-rimmed glasses from her face.

Her wet hair clung to her temples; droplets rolled down her cheek and throat.  Without the disguise, her eyes—wide, luminous, unmistakably familiar—stared back at him. For a fleeting second, something like recognition flickered in his gaze.

Ava’s stomach knotted.  She tried to avert her eyes, to tuck her chin down and hide the truth written across her face, but his hand was already there—strong fingers tilting her chin upward.

“What’s the matter?” his voice dropped, rougher now, closer. “Can’t look at me?”

Ava straightened, forcing composure into her trembling frame. “Mr. Vanderbilt, please—show some respect. If you keep this up, I’ll call for help.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, a half-smirk shadowed by irritation. Water continued to spray from the broken showerhead, raining over them both. Droplets clung to his lashes, a single bead sliding down the sharp line of his nose before falling onto her flushed cheek. The droplet was icy; his breath was searing.

Ava’s pulse thundered. Her body betrayed her, heat chasing cold across her skin as she struggled against him. 

“Let go,” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Let go of me!”

His hold did not waver. His eyes—clear, cutting blue—searched her face with an intensity that made the world narrow to just their uneven breaths.

“Was it really you?” he asked, low and deliberate. “Was it you that night… seven years ago?”

Her heart stuttered. The question was dangerous, yet the uncertainty in his tone gave her the smallest lifeline. He wasn’t sure.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” she said, forcing calm through shallow breaths. “Mr. Vanderbilt has mistaken me for someone else.”

His fingers tightened against her jaw until her lips brushed the edge of his chin. His voice turned to silk edged with steel. “Then why are you trembling?”

Ava let out a breathless, furious laugh. “Because I’m a normal person, Mr. Vanderbilt. Anyone would panic if a disagreeable man decided to trap them against a wall!”

The insult hung between them, sharp and deliberate. Only two women had ever called him disagreeable—once, seven years ago, and once again, right now.

Same defiance.  Same height, same unyielding fire in the eyes.  His stare deepened.

Water continued to stream over them. Her soaked blouse clung to her body; her lips, flushed and slick from the droplets, gleamed faintly under the harsh bathroom light. His gaze lingered—too long, too intently—before memory overtook restraint.

That night.  That impossible, unforgettable night.

A muscle flickered in his jaw. The grip on her wrists loosened—just slightly.

Ava seized the moment.

With a surge of strength born from panic, she wrenched one arm free and shoved him sideways. He staggered half a step, startled, and she spun to flee.

But she barely made it a pace before his arms locked around her waist from behind, dragging her back against him with unyielding force. Her spine met the hard plane of his chest; his breath ghosted against her ear.

“Still trying to run away, Miss Vega?” he murmured, her name slipping past his lips like a secret.

Before she could answer, his hand gripped the lapel of her coat. One sharp tug— buttons scattered across the wet tiles, the fabric splitting open. 

The sound echoed between them, heavy and breathless.