* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 2nd * Chapter 217

Dear Gentle Readers,

This author feels saddened by those who accidentally paid for what was supposed to be a free / non-paying chapter. Hence please enjoy... 

"Ava, you’ve been unusually fiery with me today,” Alexander observed, stepping closer. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over her face, trying to read the storm hidden beneath her calm expression.

“Why?” he pressed, voice low and measured.

Ava’s jaw tightened, but her voice remained poised. “Mr. Vanderbilt, that’s a question I should be asking you. Miss Laurent is inside... yet here you are, chasing after me. Why?”

Her words sliced clean, precise and without hesitation.

Alexander didn’t have a clear answer himself. He was drawn to her, inexplicably and irrationally. A pull he couldn’t explain—one that ignored reason and protocol. Reaching out, he idly twirled a strand of her dark hair between his fingers, letting its silken texture slide over his knuckles.

“You just saw your husband’s cowardice on full display,” he remarked, his tone casual but edged with something deeper.

Ava shrugged. “So what? I like him. That’s enough.”

Alexander smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in wry amusement. “Your taste is... unique.”

“Takes one to know one,” she shot back, eyes steady.

What followed was a familiar verbal sparring match—barbs veiled in charm, insults dressed as observations. He teased her for loving a man who wouldn’t defend her, and she retaliated by pointing out his fixation on a woman as cold and cruel as Victoria Laurent.

Eventually, Alexander’s amusement cooled. He stepped back, straightened the collar of his coat, and said with quiet finality, “Meet me at the hotel tonight.”

Ava folded her arms, her expression unreadable. “Mr. Vanderbilt, I’ve already told you—I’m willing to pay you thirty million.”

His expression darkened instantly. Without warning, his hand snapped forward and clamped around her chin, lifting it until her eyes were forced to meet his.

“I gave you thirty million once—for a painting. Now you want to throw the same amount at me like it’s some transaction? Do I look like a man you can buy off?” His grip tightened. “Ava, I don’t want to lose my temper with you. Maybe you don’t fear death... but does your family feel the same?”

The air between them turned to ice.

Ava didn’t speak. Not because she was intimidated—though she was—but because she had no comeback that could erase the truth of his threat. She could hold her own with him in a battle of words, but when Alexander cornered her like this, she realized how fragile her position truly was. He had power, reach, and no shortage of ruthlessness.

Unless she disappeared abroad, she’d never be free of his grasp. But how could she leave now? James was still healing, and her family was a mess. He had three months, maybe less. She couldn’t abandon him—not yet.

Alexander watched her wrestle silently with herself, then spoke more softly. “Come with me to the hotel.”

Ava’s gaze shifted to the shadows nearby. There, half-concealed behind a stone column, stood Victoria—watching them.

Ava remembered the pain in her hand, the injury Victoria had inflicted, and the glint of possessiveness in the woman’s eyes whenever Alexander’s name came up. Ava suddenly smiled—not from amusement, but strategy.

If Victoria had nearly broken her hand out of jealousy... why not strike where it would hurt the most?

Alexander reached for her again, his fingers curling gently under her chin.

“Alright,” he said, voice rougher now, “let’s go.”

Then he kissed her.

Ava didn’t resist. Instead, she leaned into it—not because she wanted to, but because she wanted Victoria to see. To seethe. To understand that the man she thought belonged to her was no longer playing by her rules.

Alexander deepened the kiss without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of Ava’s head, the other anchoring her firmly to his side. She had to tilt her head back to meet his lips properly, and for a moment, it looked like passion. Real passion.

From her place in the shadows, Victoria froze.

She had never been kissed like that by Alexander. Not once. In all their time together—dinners, events, even nights alone—he had never crossed that line. He was always distant, courteous, guarded. She used to think he was simply reserved, maybe even a man who didn’t enjoy intimacy. She used to respect that.

But now, watching him kiss Ava as if the world around them didn’t exist, Victoria felt her stomach twist.

And then there were the bruises she’d seen earlier—on Ava’s neck. The kind that didn’t come from casual touches. The kind that betrayed hunger. Need.

No. This wasn’t a one-time whim.

Alexander had chosen her—that woman. Not the heir to the Laurent fortune, not the one who’d been groomed to be by his side. No, he wanted the damn designer.

Victoria’s nails dug into her palms, crescent moons of fury forming in her skin. So much for his self-control. So much for her belief that he could be patient, reasonable, faithful. That illusion had been shattered by the sight of his hand tangled in Ava’s hair.

If he could kiss her like that, what else had they done?

She didn’t feel jealousy. She felt vengeance burning in her chest.

It wasn’t enough to ruin that woman’s hand. I’ll make sure she never sees the sun again.

Back outside, Alexander broke the kiss, his eyes glittering with something unreadable. His voice had softened. “Go to my car.”

Ava arched a brow. “Mr. Vanderbilt isn’t giving Miss Laurent a ride?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached down and gently took her uninjured hand.

Inside the car, he didn’t let her sit in the passenger seat. Her left hand was still sore, and the seatbelt would dig into it. He motioned toward the back seat with surprising care.

Then, casually, he pulled out his phone and called Victoria—completely unaware that she was still standing nearby, frozen in disbelief.

“Victoria,” he said, voice cool and detached, “go home without me. I have something to handle.”

On the other end of the line, Victoria trembled.

She wanted to scream, to cry, to demand an explanation. But she knew better. If she made a scene now, Alexander would turn cold. Colder than he already was.

No—she had to be careful. Calculated. She needed time to bring Ava down completely. Slowly, methodically.

“…Okay, Alexander,” she replied, her voice syrupy and smooth despite the tremor in her chest.

As the call disconnected, she turned around and headed back into the restaurant, her face a porcelain mask hiding the tempest inside. 

Liam remained seated alone at the table, his chopsticks idle between his fingers, the warmth of the food long forgotten. The scent of spices hung in the air, but it no longer stirred his appetite. His gaze drifted blankly across the restaurant, though his thoughts were anything but still.

It wasn’t hard to piece together what had just happened.

Alexander had pursued Ava.

Of course he had.

The man's blatant hostility toward Liam now made perfect sense. It wasn’t business—it was personal. He must’ve known, or at least suspected, that Liam was Ava’s husband. And instead of backing off, Alexander had acted with the possessiveness of a man used to taking what he wanted.

No wonder there had been that veiled menace in his voice, those loaded glances, the subtle ways he cut Liam down.

As Liam sat there processing the bitter truth, the door slammed open. Victoria reappeared like a storm rolling in, her stiletto heels striking the floor with sharp, purposeful steps. Her face was taut with fury, her eyes practically blazing.

Without warning, she launched into a tirade.

"What’s your relationship with Ava?!" she spat, her voice venom-laced. "That bitch actually seduced Alexander! She’ll get what’s coming to her, believe me."

Liam barely had time to react before she switched targets.

"And you—God, you’re pathetic. Your companion was taken right in front of you, and you did nothing. Nothing!" she sneered. "Have you ever seen a man like you? What kind of spineless coward just sits there?"

She snatched her designer bag from the chair beside her and let out a bitter laugh.

"But I guess it fits, doesn’t it? Bringing her to this low-class place. She belongs here. Women like her... they don’t deserve better."

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and pure disdain.

Liam didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. He simply sat there, his fingers still clenched around the chopsticks.

He wasn’t without pride—but what good was pride against someone like Alexander Vanderbilt?

How could he fight a man with bottomless wealth, influence, and the power to destroy a career with a single phone call? Even if Ava was legally his wife, what could he truly do to stop a man like that from taking her away?

He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening.

Liam hadn't expected it to come to this—not from Alexander. He had underestimated him, assuming the man was indifferent, maybe cold, but never this brazen.

Now he saw clearly.

And despite his silence, something in Liam shifted.

Not resentment. Not anger.

But a slow, bitter realization. 

---

The hotel room was quiet, but tension hung heavy in the air.

Ava stood near the door, her body stiff as she hesitated inside the lavish suite. The soft glow of gold-toned sconces cast shadows across the room, bouncing off velvet drapes and the polished surface of the marble coffee table. Despite the luxurious surroundings, she felt hollow. Cheap. Like a silk dress on clearance—worn, beautiful, but undervalued.

She loathed herself for not pushing him away.

But she told herself—just three more times. Then he’d have no excuse to come near her again. That thought, brittle and shaky, was all she had left to cling to.

Before she could fully turn around, she was suddenly pressed up against the wall just inside the doorway. Without preamble, without a single warning, Alexander moved behind her—his breath hot on her neck, his hands already tugging at her clothes. He entered her in one swift movement, his groan low and satisfied.

“Tell me,” he murmured darkly against her skin. “Who’s better—me or your husband?”

Ava clenched her jaw, eyes fixed on the wallpaper ahead of her. She didn’t answer.

She had him figured out now: Alexander Vanderbilt was powerful, yes—but also ruthless, impulsive, and strangely juvenile in the most dangerous way. He wanted to win at everything, even in love, even in bed. He needed to be chosen, even by a woman he claimed not to care for.

And he was younger than her—only by a few months, but it felt wider than that now. Twenty-three, still. Just shy of manhood in some ways, though hardened by a military past and a life of clawing his way upward. His grandfather had mentioned it once—how Alexander had joined the military young, refused to take the comfortable path laid before him, and carved out his own brutal reputation instead.

He was the wild son. The one who refused to be tame.

And now, here he was again, staking a claim with the same ferocity he brought to business deals and battlefield strategy.

He remembered her promise: three more times. So even if her husband had been present, Alexander wouldn’t have cared. He wouldn’t hide. He was never going to pretend to be anything but what he was—a man who took what he wanted.

“Say it,” he growled again.

When she remained silent, he thrust harder, with the kind of force that turned frustration into punishment. And yet—even then—he was careful not to jostle her injured hand.

“Ava,” he muttered, his voice lowering into something between a warning and a sigh, “everything about you is fine… except your taste.”

Ava kept her eyes closed. Let him finish. That was the only thought running through her mind. Just let it be over.

Perhaps sensing her detachment, Alexander didn’t push further. He kept the pace consistent, careful, uncharacteristically restrained. He didn’t tease. Didn’t play his usual mind games. And when it ended, he even wiped the sweat from her brow with a gentle touch, like it was muscle memory from a life he’d never lived.

She could barely keep her eyes open.

It hadn’t hurt, but it hadn’t satisfied either. There’d been no passion, no electricity—just a countdown. And now that they were down to two, Ava allowed herself a quiet sense of victory.

It was over. For tonight, at least.

She reached for her phone. The screen read 2:04 a.m.

“You still don’t plan on giving me your personal number?” Alexander asked, his voice low.

He reached toward her phone, but she tucked it back into her purse without a word.

His expression hardened instantly, the warmth vanishing like it had never existed. A wall came down behind his eyes. He’d spent the entire night holding back, trying to please her—he thought she should be grateful. But now, when it was time to offer him the smallest sliver of vulnerability, she froze him out.

Frustration twisted in his chest.

He could easily find her number, of course. With a few calls, her entire contact history would be laid out before him. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her to give it to him. Willingly.

Yet here she was, acting like the cold one. Like the man who didn’t care once the bed grew cold.

Ava began dressing, pulling her pants up slowly. With one hand injured, the motion looked awkward and stiff. When she reached behind herself to fasten her bra, her fingers fumbled and slipped. She tried again. And again.

Alexander watched silently at first, amused.

He expected her to ask for help. She didn’t.

By the sixth attempt, something in him stirred—an ache he didn’t want to admit was sympathy. With a sigh, he stood and stepped behind her, his fingers deftly fastening the clasp. Ava didn’t turn around. She just continued getting dressed.

But as she reached for her coat, he rested his chin on her shoulder, his arms slipping around her waist.

“Are you really leaving?”

She stiffened. The vulnerable tone in his voice caught her off guard—so subtle, so fleeting, she almost missed it. But it was there.

She let out a soft, ironic laugh. “Mr. Vanderbilt, if I didn’t know better, I might think you’ve fallen in love with me.”

Alexander stepped back like she’d slapped him. “Do you think I’d fall for a married woman?”

Ava shrugged into her coat and gave him a tired smile. “Stranger things have happened. Even you aren’t that rational all the time.”

He frowned, glancing toward the window. “Are there even cars out there this late?”

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “This is a hotel. There are always cars.”

Those words landed heavier than she expected. He said nothing more, just sat there, brooding, as she grabbed her purse.

At the door, his voice rang out again.

“You’re really not going to give me your private number? In your eyes, I don’t even rank as high as Alexei?”

He chuckled bitterly as soon as he said it, like the thought itself was absurd.

“I’m just joking,” he added, brushing it off. “The work number’s fine. Two more times, and I’ll probably be tired of you anyway.”

Ava felt no sting. That kind of threat only worked when you cared.

Alexander might have been a skilled lover, even considerate in small, precise moments—but that didn’t mean anything outside this room. There were other powerful men. Better ones. Ones who didn’t toy with people like pieces on a board.

She said nothing and left.

The door closed with a soft click. Alexander stared at it in silence for a long moment before reaching for the pillow she had used. He hurled it across the room, where it thudded softly against the wooden door. Then he collapsed back onto the bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, a storm of thoughts rolling behind them.

---

Ava arrived at Le Châteauesque Manor just before 3 a.m., exhausted and spent. The taxi ride had cost her two hundred dollars, but she didn’t even blink at the fare. She dragged herself upstairs and collapsed onto her bed, not bothering to undress.

Her body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.

The after-effects of something gentle were far worse than something rough, she realized. The softness stayed with you longer.

But that tenderness didn’t touch her heart—not anymore.

Not after the child.

Not after everything he’d taken from her.

And so, mercifully, sleep came quickly. 

---

When Ava woke up, the morning light spilled gently through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—a message from Marilyn.

[ The contract with Volkov Co. Inc. has been signed. ]

Ava exhaled, a small thread of tension uncoiling inside her. With both Darby Construction and Volkov Co. Inc. secured for the second half of the year, the Morales family’s financial situation was at least temporarily stabilized. But the problems ran deeper than money—internal management remained in a state of disarray.

She sifted through the executive candidate files on her laptop. The shortlisted names were all promising on paper: prestigious degrees, solid credentials, polished portfolios. But beyond those resumes, she barely knew them. There was no instinct to rely on, no relationship to trust.

Just then, Marilyn called again, her tone steady and professional.

“Mr. Morales, I wanted to flag something. The bidding for the east district land takes place tomorrow. It’s a project that was originally approved by Mr. Alfonso Morales last year, intended to expand production lines and scale operations.”

Ava nodded silently, the memory of Alfonso’s plans returning with a twinge of emotion. Even though the vision was his, she now bore the responsibility of seeing it through.

“I’ve emailed you the list of companies participating,” Marilyn added.

Ava clicked open the message. One name jumped out immediately—Hengfa Group.

The Laurent family.

They were veterans in real estate, and land acquisition was second nature to them. Given Victoria’s prior attempt to seize the Morales family business, Ava knew this shared bidding stage would draw eyes. Spectators would come not just for the project, but for the unspoken tension between two rival women. The public reunion would be its own drama.

“Marilyn,” Ava said, “you’ll go in my place.”

“Understood,” Marilyn replied, no questions asked.

After breakfast, Ava received a call from Darby Construction. The Manhattan site was progressing well, but a previous request she had made—to include a painting studio on the second floor—now required her final input. The architects needed to know whether to modify the original plans.

She recalled bringing it up briefly to Alexander. He hadn’t given her a clear answer then.

Taking a breath, she called him.

No answer.

She frowned and tried a different number—the one she typically used for more formal communication. The moment the line connected, it was disconnected. Deliberately.

Moments later, a message popped up on her screen:

[ Call me using your personal number.] 

Ava stared at the message, jaw tightening. He already knew her personal number. He had always assumed it was his wife’s. That was the irony—he couldn’t distinguish her identity even now, and she wasn’t about to correct him. It would be best to keep things clean. Just three more months and she could go abroad—out of reach, out of sight. By then, Cornelius's condition might also have taken a turn.

She didn’t reply to the text.

Instead, she headed straight to the Vanderbilt estate.

---

In his office, Alexander sat behind his desk, irritation slowly building. Her silence grated on him. He tossed his phone aside with a sharp flick of his wrist, the sleek device skidding across polished mahogany. For half an hour, he distracted himself with paperwork—until a soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding.

“Come in,” he said flatly.

The door eased open. Ava stepped inside.

“Mr. Vanderbilt.”

His pen stilled in his hand. When he looked up, his eyes paused on her.

She had removed the bandage from her injured hand. It hung lightly at her side now, pale but healing.

She was dressed simply but strikingly: black wide-leg trousers and a fitted white blouse with puffed sleeves cinched neatly at the waist. The soft fabric complemented her delicate frame, the monochrome palette sharpening her porcelain skin and making her legs seem impossibly long. The effect was understated elegance—and for Alexander, completely disarming.

It was the first time he’d seen her in something so relaxed, so unguarded.

Something stirred in his chest.

“What is it?” he asked, forcing his attention back to the documents.

“It’s about the Manhattan property,” she said. “Last time, I asked whether we should reserve a south-facing studio. The architects need a final decision.”

Alexander raised his eyes again, noting the precision in her tone. Always business.

“If your future partner enjoys painting,” she continued, “a studio overlooking the garden would be ideal. I’ll coordinate the exterior planting and manage the sunlight angles. It should be an inspiring space.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, unexpectedly.

Ava blinked, caught off guard. Her answer was cool and composed: “Whether I like it or not isn’t important.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Fair point. Let’s add it.”

Then, as if dismissing the topic, he glanced back at the file in his hands. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Do you have size preferences?”

“Not too small. It should have a private bathroom. Painters need space to clean their brushes and palettes.”

Ava blinked again. She hadn’t expected him to care about such details. “Got it,” she said.

“And the walls,” he added. “Keep them white. Paintings will go up—yours and others. Arrange them by region. European landscapes separate from Asian ones.”

He was still flipping through documents, but she could sense his mind was already arranging the gallery in his head.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, I understand.”

“And no portraits,” he added smoothly, barely looking up. “I don’t like faces staring at me.”

Ava bit the inside of her cheek. So many specific requests. But he was the client, and it was her job to meet those expectations—even if he was clearly piling more on her plate.

“You’re Remmington’s disciple,” he said nonchalantly. “I trust your taste. Seven or eight paintings should do.”

Ava frowned. “Doesn’t Mr. Vanderbilt already own a collection?”

Of course he did. Priceless canvases. But Alexander leaned back slightly, wearing a look of smug satisfaction.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he said lazily, “You’ll handle it. I’ll take care of the payment. There are a few auctions coming up. You should come with me.”

Ava wanted to refuse his invitation to the auction, but the matter concerned official business. It wasn’t personal—it was professional, and she couldn’t afford to damage her reputation by appearing unreasonable or unwilling.

Besides, these weren’t ordinary purchases. The paintings that Alexander intended to buy weren’t just decorative—they were investments, each worth billions. He wanted seven or eight of them for the Manhattan studio. That meant the collection alone would cost between seven to eight billion dollars, even with a conservative estimate of one billion per piece.

Alexander casually flipped through his itinerary on his desk. The next major auction was scheduled for three days from now, and according to the organizers, at least four high-value pieces would be available.

He hadn’t originally planned on attending, but now, the idea of Ava accompanying him made the event worth rearranging his calendar for.

“There’s an auction in three days,” he said without looking up. “It’s the perfect opportunity. You’ll come with me.”

His tone made it clear—this wasn’t a request. It was a directive.

He glanced at a conflict on his schedule—a meeting with overseas partners. He’d reschedule it.

Ava tried to reason with him. “As long as the final selection meets your expectations, and Miss Laurent’s as well, isn’t that sufficient?”

Alexander lifted his gaze, his voice dry. “Ava, who’s the client—me or her?”

That shut her down.

She left the office shortly after, her mind in a fog of frustration. Her heels clicked hollowly against the marble floor, but she didn’t notice. When she entered the restroom, she caught sight of her reflection—tense shoulders, furrowed brows, a weariness in her eyes.

She took a slow breath and leaned forward to splash cool water on her face. Letting him get under her skin was a form of caring she couldn’t afford. Not now. Not when everything still hung in the balance.

As she straightened and reached for a paper towel, a quiet rustle caught her attention.

Victoria.

She had been standing behind her all along, perfectly composed, as though waiting for the right moment to strike.

Ava didn’t flinch. She had no desire for another scene.

Victoria, fixing her lipstick in the mirror beside her, kept her voice neutral but laced with venom. “No matter how hard you try to seduce Alexander, it’s useless. He won’t marry you. Women who throw themselves at men like you are nothing but cheap.”

Ava didn’t respond at first. She simply let her injured hand hang at her side and gave a slow, amused smile.

“Funny, didn’t you throw yourself at Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. not too long ago, Miss Laurent?”

Victoria’s hand froze mid-touch-up. Her expression turned glacial. She snapped her compact shut and stepped closer.

Then, without warning, she seized Ava’s injured hand and yanked it toward the running faucet.

Ava’s breath caught in her throat. Pain flared instantly through her healing fingers. The doctor’s stern warning echoed in her ears: Protect your hand. Avoid pressure. Avoid water.

Victoria knew exactly what she was doing.

Ava reacted on instinct. Her leg shot out and connected with Victoria’s stomach, sending her reeling backward. She collided with the door of a bathroom stall, the force loud and jarring.

Ava clutched her hand, her eyes wide with panic. Had the injury reopened? Was it worse now?

A deep red began to pulse behind her eyes. She couldn’t let this go.

Without thinking, she grabbed the hand sanitizer bottle on the counter and hurled it at the mirror, shattering it with a sharp crack. Then she snatched up a jagged shard of glass, her chest heaving as she stalked toward Victoria.

For a moment, Ava didn’t look like herself. The polished designer, the calm negotiator—she was gone. In her place was a woman pushed to the brink.

Victoria scrambled backward, her eyes wide with terror. “What are you doing?!”

But Ava didn’t answer. She simply raised the glass.

Another sharp kick landed squarely in Victoria’s chest. She gasped, blood flecking her lips as she slumped to the floor.

“You’re insane!” she shrieked.

Ava didn’t seem to hear her. The shard hovered inches from Victoria’s cheekbone.

Then—a hand caught her wrist.

Strong. Unyielding.

Alexander.

Victoria collapsed in relief, trembling. She began to sob.

“She’s insane, Alexander! Look at what she tried to do to me!” She crawled toward him, trying to throw herself into his arms.

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at Ava.

And his gaze was unreadable.

---

Later, as Ava sat quietly in the backseat of a cab, her phone buzzed with a message from Rachel. It was a video.

She tapped to play it—and froze.

It was the footage from the day she was attacked. Her hand, her painting hand, being crushed beneath a boot. The man’s face, grainy but visible. His posture. The license plate of the car.

Rachel had searched for nearby dashcams in parked cars and stitched together a clear narrative.

The video made Ava’s stomach twist. She swallowed against the nausea rising in her throat.

Then Rachel called.

“It’s him,” she said. “The guy fits the description. We even have a partial plate match.”

Without hesitation, Ava forwarded the video to Alexander.

He had said he would investigate.

Now he had everything he needed. 

*

Ava stood by the curb, waiting for a taxi beneath the slate-gray sky. The air was heavy with the scent of impending rain, and the low hum of the city buzzed faintly in the background.

Suddenly, a sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of her. The tinted window lowered with a soft mechanical whir, revealing Alexander behind the wheel.

“Get in,” he said, voice low.

Ava didn’t move.

“I’ll take you to the man who hurt you,” he added.

That stopped her breath.

She hesitated for only a moment longer before opening the door and slipping inside. The weight of his words and the steely look in his eyes left little room for doubt—he meant it.

Once inside, the car remained still. Alexander didn’t drive off right away. Instead, he glanced at her bandaged hand.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked.

Ava looked down. The original wrapping had been soaked and hastily removed. In its place was a makeshift splint, not nearly enough to protect the injury.

Alexander shifted to the back seat and returned with a compact medical kit. Without asking permission, he took her hand gently and began rewrapping it, layer by careful layer.

The bones beneath her skin were still misshapen and bruised, the injury stark and fresh. Just looking at it stirred something in him—rage, guilt, and a sickening sense of helplessness.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to keep his composure. “If it was Victoria,” he muttered, “I won’t protect her.”

Ava closed her eyes, offering no response. Her silence grated at him.

It was always like this with her—never grateful, never soft.

With a frustrated flick, he tossed the medical kit into the backseat and slammed his foot on the accelerator.

They drove in silence.

By the time they reached the private villa, dusk had begun to settle, casting long shadows across the grounds. A man, bound and bruised, had already been dragged into the living room and slumped like dead weight in a chair.

The moment Ava saw him, her chest clenched.

That face—she knew it instantly. He was the one who had crushed her fingers with a baseball bat. His figure had haunted her nightmares, the phantom pain in her hand pulsing in sync with her heartbeat.

Even now, with him bound and helpless, fear prickled down her spine.

Alexander watched her reaction closely.

“It’s him?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

Without another word, the man was dragged out of the room. A door slammed shut down the hall, and moments later, muffled screams began to bleed through the thick walls.

Alexander stood still, then pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and leaned back against the marble-topped console. The ember glowed softly in the dim light.

“This guy’s one of Trent’s,” he said, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. “You know him?”

Ava didn’t answer.

Alexander stared at the curling smoke for a beat longer before nodding to the far end of the room. “Go sit behind the sofa.”

Ava blinked, unsure.

“There’s a chair there,” he added. “Just stay out of sight. You don’t need to see this.”

Something in his voice—calm but laced with something volatile—compelled her to obey. She crossed the room and slipped behind the couch.

Minutes passed.

Then, the villa door opened again. Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall.

“What the hell is this?!” a furious voice barked.

It was Trent.

He stormed into the room, but before he could say another word, Alexander stepped forward and drove a brutal kick straight into his chest. The force of it sent Trent flying, crashing against the floor with a grunt. He curled into himself, coughing violently, blood seeping from his lips.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Trent wheezed, stunned. “If Grandfather finds out—”

Alexander didn’t speak. His face was carved from stone.

He’d watched the video earlier. Just sixty seconds of grainy footage, but it was enough. Ava’s scream. The sound of her bones shattering. Her shaking hands. Her face twisted in agony.

He hadn’t been able to finish it.

Every time he saw the bat come down, it felt like it was his own fingers being crushed.

Trent spat more blood and glared up at him. “You’d do this over some woman? You’ve gone mad. Grandfather won’t forgive this. You’re protecting a designer—what’s she to you?”

He scoffed, blood now staining his teeth. “Isn’t Grandfather still hung up on that hideous girl from the Fair family? You think he’ll let you run around with some mistress on your arm? You’re finished. Just wait—”

Alexander crouched beside him, all cold elegance and fury reined in by steel.

“You think I’m scared of Grandfather?” His voice was soft, deadly.

“I’ve already booked your ticket to northern Burma. There’s a little operation there that needs oversight. You’ll go tonight. I’ll explain everything to him myself. I’m sure he’ll be very understanding.”

Trent’s eyes widened in terror.

“No. No, you can’t—Alexander, you wouldn’t!”

But Alexander was already rising to his feet. “You’re lucky I don’t break your fingers in return.”

Trent scrambled on the floor, humiliated and sputtering. “You’re obsessed with her, aren’t you?! That woman—what’s so special about her?!”

Before he could finish, Alexander drove the heel of his shoe into Trent’s face.

“Enough.”

Trent let out a low groan, barely conscious. Blood oozed from his nose, now crooked, and his eye had already begun to swell shut.

“Change your attitude over there,” Alexander said coolly. “When I’m satisfied, I’ll think about letting you come back.”

Trent’s only answer was a feeble, gurgling cough.

As the guards dragged him away, Alexander’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Diana Richardson.

His expression didn’t shift—but something in his eyes did. 

“Aunt.”

Alexander pressed the answer button, but his boot remained planted firmly against Trent’s bloodied face.

There was a beat of silence on the other end before Diana’s calm, composed voice filtered through.

“What did you do to Trent?”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed slightly, the chill in them deepening. “I’m not sure what my aunt is referring to.”

“Don’t play dumb, Alexander. Whatever Trent did, he’s still your cousin. If I don’t see him by tonight, I’ll inform your grandfather. Have you forgotten what he said after your brother’s death? He swore none of you were ever to harm each other again.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened. The mention of that old wound grated on him like glass under skin. With an impatient grunt, he kicked Trent aside.

Trent groaned, spitting blood onto the floor as he whimpered hoarsely, “Aunt… help me…”

Diana heard it. Her silence deepened into a disapproving weight.

“Alexander,” she said, tone clipped, “I heard what you did was because of Ava. Didn’t you say she meant nothing to you? Just a transaction, wasn’t that it? If so, why would you brutalize your own family over a mere business arrangement?”

Alexander didn’t answer. He signaled his men with a flick of his fingers. They hauled Trent up from the floor. His face was grotesquely swollen, lip split, one eye nearly shut. He stumbled, but his glare remained venomous.

The words he wanted to shout barely made it past his bloodied lips: “Alexander, could it be… you’ve fallen for her?”

Despite the searing pain, that thought gave Trent a twisted sense of victory.

He’d always resented Alexander—his arrogance, his cold detachment, his effortless dominance. But if this Ava woman was his weakness, then Trent had discovered a chink in the unbreakable armor.

Everyone had assumed Alexander’s heart belonged to Victoria. They all believed he was waiting for her. But no—his actions had always been too indifferent, too calculated.

This? This brutal retribution? It wasn’t indifference.

“Alexander, you’re finished…” Trent coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “I never thought I’d live to see you like this…”

Alexander stared at the cigarette burning between his fingers before casually flicking it into the trash.

Behind the sofa, Ava had been sitting quietly, her palms clammy with sweat. The sounds of violence outside—the dull thuds, the choking groans—had set her nerves on edge. Even without seeing it, she knew just how savage Alexander could be.

When the house finally fell quiet, she rose and stepped cautiously into the room.

Alexander stood by the open window, the breeze pulling at his shirt collar and tousling his dark hair. Smoke from another freshly lit cigarette curled around him, caught in the wind. The floor beneath him was streaked with crimson.

“Mr. Vanderbilt… are you alright?” she asked softly.

Alexander glanced at her, and when she stepped forward to gently take the cigarette from his fingers, he let her.

“You’ve smoked a lot today,” she murmured, flicking it into the trash beside the remnants of the last one.

His eyes studied her face—so calm, so quiet—and yet her words spun around in his mind like barbed wire.

Ava, you’re his downfall…

He didn’t want to hear it, but it echoed still.

“I assume Mrs. Richardson called because someone warned her ahead of time,” she added.

He heard her voice but didn’t register the words. Her lips moved, and he watched them, but he didn’t want explanations—he wanted silence.

So he pulled her to him and kissed her.

Hard.

The wind blew through the open window, rustling the curtains as his lips crashed onto hers. The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was raw, driven by fury and frustration. His grip on her waist tightened, dragging her against him. She gasped beneath the pressure, her hand clinging to his arm instinctively.

And yet, when the kiss ended, she didn’t pull away.

“Does Trent know Miss Laurent?” she asked, her voice breathless but calm. “There’s no reason for him to come after me otherwise. And how did Mrs. Richardson know about it so quickly? Who tipped her off?”

She looked at him with unsettling clarity, her gaze cutting through him like glass.

“If you really want to investigate, maybe you should start with their relationship. Or maybe… it’s because she’s carrying your child, and you can’t bear to confront her.”

Alexander’s jaw clenched. He still had one hand braced on the wall behind her, trapping her in place. With his free hand, he reached down to gently touch her wrapped fingers.

But she withdrew her hand before he could cradle it.

“If you won’t go after Victoria, then it ends here. I’m not going to fight over someone I can’t win against.”

His voice was quiet. “You nearly disfigured her. What more do you want?”

At that, Ava’s eyes dimmed, whatever gratitude she'd felt now vanishing. “Fine. Let’s go back.”

“Are you upset?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She shook her head.

She wouldn’t fight Victoria with words or fists.

She would destroy her reputation and her business instead.

Alexander fell silent.

Victoria was still necessary—for now. The key item Christopher had once mentioned might still be in her possession. If he pushed her too hard, she might hide it or destroy it. And Paul… Paul was sniffing around too. Everyone wanted that thing. Victoria was the only remaining link.

He couldn't explain this to Ava.

But he had just admitted something to himself: he cared about her. Whether it was obsession or something deeper, he didn’t know. Not yet.

“I never slept with her,” he said abruptly. “And the pregnancy? That was a lie. Don’t accuse me of something I didn’t do.”

His hand reached up to pull her collar slightly aside, exposing the curve of her neck. He leaned down and pressed a kiss there, soft, lingering.

“I did sleep with you,” he whispered.

Ava pulled away from him at last, but he took her by the wrist and led her out. They drove back to the Upper West Side in silence.

As the car idled at the curb, she reached for the door handle.

Alexander’s hand caught hers, their fingers naturally lacing together.

Ava paused, surprised. His hand was warm, long-fingered. It felt… tender.

They weren’t lovers.

They were two people who shared a bed. That was all.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, I’m going inside now,” she said flatly.

Alexander didn’t release her hand right away. Through the window, she saw him watching her carefully.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

“No need. I’ll eat at home.”

“You cook at home?” he asked.

“Yes. I can’t afford a maid.”

“Even with your hand like this?” he frowned. “Doesn’t your husband care?”

That made her stop.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned and walked into the building without another word.

Alexander watched her retreating form, his hand still tingling from her touch. Frustration coiled inside him like a spring, tight and bitter.

He sat alone in the car for a long time before finally driving away.

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