* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 2nd * Chapter 218

Dear Gentle Readers, do not worry, we have gone through this far with the story... this author will surely end with a grand happy ending

***

Alexander’s knuckles blanched as he gripped the steering wheel, fury burning through his veins. The car’s engine roared beneath him as he slammed down on the accelerator, slicing through lanes like a blade through silk. The moment he arrived at the Vanderbilt family office, he strode in, pulled out his phone, and coldly dialed a number.

Victoria.

She had already returned to the Laurent estate, her nerves fraying as the evening wore on. Trent’s delay hadn’t gone unnoticed. His silence—and Alexander’s earlier mention of an “investigation”—had set off alarm bells in her head. She had wasted no time alerting Diana.

Diana Richardson, mild-mannered and always one to avoid confrontation, was out of her depth when it came to the vicious undercurrents of Vanderbilt family politics. Her only son, Raphael, had never shown interest in the family's legacy. And so, when Victoria came knocking, desperate for intervention, Diana felt obligated to help—despite knowing little of what she was stepping into.

Now, as Victoria’s phone vibrated in her hand, her breath caught in her throat. It’s him.

She swallowed hard and answered, forcing her voice into a calm lilt. “Alexander.”

At his desk, Alexander didn’t bother with pleasantries. His voice was low and direct, “Did you instruct Trent?”

The question sliced through the silence like a scalpel.

“Alexander, I…” she began, faltering. She wanted to deflect, to lie—but Ava’s face flashed in her mind. That slap… that scar…

“She nearly ruined my face!” Victoria snapped, her control fraying.

“And you nearly destroyed her hand,” Alexander replied flatly, his voice devoid of warmth. “Do you really think your face is more valuable than hers?”

The words hit like ice water. Victoria stood frozen, her lips parted but no sound emerging. Bitterness swelled in her throat.

Realizing she was at a dead end, she reined in her rage. Her voice dropped, laced with venom she tried to hide. “Understood. I won’t pursue it.”

Alexander hung up.

A second later, the phone slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. Her scream echoed through the room as she swept her arm across her vanity, sending perfumes, mirrors, and cosmetics crashing to the ground.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged fury. Then she called in her staff.

“I want everything on that woman. Ava—her background, her family, her job. Who is she married to? I want every single detail on my desk by tomorrow!”

The bodyguards exchanged nervous glances. One of them finally spoke up, “Yes, Miss Laurent. We’ll start investigating right away.”

Victoria’s breath hissed through her teeth as she kicked a shattered compact case, glass crunching beneath her heels.

Ava.

That name had become her obsession—her rival, her humiliation, her rage. That woman had stolen her spotlight, clawed her way into Alexander’s life, and now had the nerve to challenge her status.

She slammed her fist on the vanity, imagining Ava’s face beneath it.

She was supposed to be Alexander’s first love. The only one who mattered.

And now? He kissed another woman in public. He defended her. Punished his own cousin for her.

Unforgivable.

Victoria stood trembling as a knock echoed at the door.

A calm voice came from the hallway. “Victoria, take a look at tomorrow’s bidding materials. No one knows for sure if there are complications with that land parcel.”

She opened the door to find her mother, Winona Laurent, holding a thick folder.

Victoria took the documents, her voice low. “Got it.”

Winona stepped into the wreckage of the room, her eyes scanning the mess with a weary sigh.

“Aether Group is bidding too. That means a lot of eyes will be on you—and Ava. You need to keep your composure. Don’t let your emotions ruin what we’ve spent a year preparing.”

Victoria nodded, jaw tight.

“We’ve worked too hard to let this slip. And one more thing—has Alexander said anything about the land?” Winona asked.

“No.”

“You should ask. If there’s anything hidden about this property, he’d know. He wouldn’t let his future wife walk into a loss, would he?”

Victoria’s mouth twitched. She didn’t reply.

Everyone in the Laurent family—her mother included—still believed she’d marry into the Vanderbilt legacy. It had always been spoken of like a foregone conclusion. Her relationship with Alexander had elevated her status. Her business credibility. Her place in the social hierarchy.

But none of them knew the truth.

The distance.

The coldness.

The way he looked at Ava now—how he never once looked at her that way.

Winona took one more look at her daughter. “And don’t let Alexander see you like this. You know how Mrs. Vanderbilt Senior is—she favors elegance over emotion.”

Victoria nodded again, slower this time, her breath steadying as she forced her fury back beneath the surface.

“I understand.”

But behind her eyes, the storm had only just begun. 

---

Ava stood outside the towering gates of the Upper West Side residence, the evening air crisp and cool against her skin. Her hand throbbed with every pulse, but the thought of going upstairs, dealing with the Vanderbilt family’s hovering gaze, did not appeal to her. Instead, she hailed a yellow cab, her mind focused solely on one thing: getting her hand examined. She didn’t need their pity.

The ride to the hospital was quick, but each passing moment felt like an eternity as she clutched her injured hand close to her chest. The city’s lights flickered like distant stars, casting an eerie glow against the windows. As she stepped into the hospital’s lobby, the sterile smell of antiseptic made her stomach twist in discomfort.

Dr. Malik, a tall and reserved man with a reputation as one of New York's finest surgeons, greeted her in the examination room. He barely glanced up as he reviewed her medical report, but his voice remained calm and professional. "There's nothing major, but be more careful next time," he advised, his fingers brushing lightly against the bandaged area. His eyes flicked to the details on the page in front of him—Ava’s name and age neatly printed at the top.

Ava nodded, relieved, but the sense of tension in the air was palpable. She wanted to leave, to put the incident behind her, but her thoughts lingered on the conversation that had yet to unfold.

Just as she was about to step out, Dr. Malik's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and a knowing look crossed his face. It was Alexander. "I'll take this," he murmured before answering.

"Dr. Malik," Alexander’s voice crackled through the line, smooth but laced with concern. “I need you to take another look at her hand.”

Ava’s injury, though minor, was important. Alexander’s words had a peculiar urgency. "I’ll be at the hotel tonight. Bring her with you."

Dr. Malik’s curiosity piqued. "Are you talking about your little designer?" he asked, his tone light, but with a hint of amusement.

Alexander didn't deny it. "Her hand is important. It’s crucial that there are no lasting effects. Please, come by tonight and check it thoroughly."

Dr. Malik raised an eyebrow, sensing that this wasn’t just about the hand. "Why not simply have her visit the hospital?" he questioned.

"Because I want to keep her close," Alexander responded, his voice low, leaving Dr. Malik to wonder just how much the man was willing to reveal.

"Alright," Dr. Malik replied, intrigued. "I’ll be there at nine."

As soon as he ended the call, Alexander reached out to Ava.

When Ava saw his name flashing on her phone, a twinge of irritation bubbled up. Not now, she thought. She pressed "answer" and forced herself to sound indifferent. "Mr. Vanderbilt," she greeted, her voice as cool as the night air outside.

"I’ve arranged for a specialist to examine your hand tonight," Alexander said, his voice softer now, a note of genuine concern creeping through. "Aren’t you worried?"

Ava had just finished her consultation with Dr. Malik, who had reassured her that with care, she’d be fine. “There’s no need,” she replied dismissively, already feeling frustrated with his persistence.

She remembered Rachel’s words: Dr. Malik was the best surgeon in New York, after all. Alexander’s choice in having him personally examine her hand didn’t escape her.

"I’ve already spoken to him," Alexander continued. "Dr. Malik is an internationally acclaimed surgeon. Your hand won’t suffer any lasting damage."

"My hand is fine," Ava insisted, her voice firm.

There was a brief, pregnant silence before Alexander added, “I’ve made the appointment. I’d like you to come.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken expectations.

Ava's patience wore thin. "Mr. Vanderbilt," she began, her tone growing colder, "If it weren’t for the Manhattan project, I would resign."

Alexander’s sharp intake of breath crackled through the line. Ungrateful, he thought. His frustration flared. "Must you be so ungrateful?" His words came out harsh, but Ava, already spent, simply ended the call without another word.

When she arrived at Le Châteauesque Manor, the sprawling estate loomed before her, its silhouette softened by the golden hues of the setting sun. She barely glanced at the imposing façade as she instructed Aunt Torres not to bother with her evening meal. She had business to attend to.

Inside her room, Ava pulled up her laptop and began her search. The plot of land she had been eyeing for months lay in the eastern part of the city—a relatively quiet area, once primed for development. Perfect for residential projects. But something about the delay in its bidding process didn’t sit right with her.

She poured over the documents for over half an hour, her frustration mounting as each click of the mouse led to dead ends. It was no surprise. If the truth behind this land was easily accessible, why would so many companies still be bidding on it?

She sighed, reaching for her phone.

Victor picked up after the second ring. "This involves government planning," he explained immediately. "That land was once a hot commodity. It was supposed to be a free-trade zone, the only one in the area. But why has it been delayed for a year? Ask Alexander. He’ll know more."

Victor’s voice was laced with suspicion. Rumors had started circulating about Alexander evicting Ava, and those whispers were already making their way through a small circle of insiders. His father, still a powerful figure, had likely been informed about the land’s political implications.

"Around two years ago, the area was supposed to be connected to the subway. A commercial district was also in the works. The land’s price remained high, even as the bidding process slowed. But now? The big players have pulled out, leaving only smaller companies scrambling for a piece of the pie. The Fair family, for example, is barely scraping together enough funds to stay in the running."

Ava's mind raced. The situation was becoming clearer. The land wasn’t just about profit—it was about power. And control.

As she sat back, contemplating her next move, her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

It was exactly nine o'clock when Dr. Malik arrived at the hotel. He stepped inside, expecting to see Ava, but only Alexander stood by the desk, papers spread out before him.

Dr. Malik paused at the door, his gaze scanning the room. "Where’s your little designer?" he asked, half-amused.

Alexander froze, the pen in his hand stopping mid-motion. His brow furrowed. She didn’t show up?

Dr. Malik set the large medicine kit down, his expression thoughtful. "Did she give you trouble?" he asked, his tone light but edged with curiosity.

Alexander, clearly irritated, set the documents aside. "Why did you come back early?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Dr. Malik raised an eyebrow but decided to humor him. "I was supposed to stay in Italy for five years, but came back after four. I heard you missed the last gathering. Let me tell you what’s been going on."

He settled in as he spoke, his voice relaxed, "A month ago, during a routine examination, we learned that the Reinaldi family’s daughter—the ‘princess’—isn’t actually Mr. Reinaldi’s biological child. The baby was swapped at birth. The real heir is still out there, and only Mr. Reinaldi knows. It’s…complicated."

He took a sip from his drink, leaning back as he continued, "Mr. Reinaldi invested heavily in our hospital. He asked me to handle the investigation. And now, here I am."

Dr. Malik’s story hung in the air, the weight of it settling heavily over Alexander. 

Alexander was no stranger to the Reinaldi name.

The family had built their empire on the silver screen, rising from the golden age of silent black-and-white films to become titans in the modern entertainment industry. Their legacy was engraved in the annals of cinematic history, and their grip on the globally renowned Oscar Awards stood as a glittering symbol of their cultural dominance.

The Reinaldis had three children—two sons, flanking a single daughter like bookends around a priceless treasure.

The older son was the epitome of decorum and restraint, the kind of man who calculated before he acted, who carried the family name with stoic dignity. Alexander had met him several times during his years abroad and found him reliable, if somewhat guarded.

The younger Reinaldi, however, was another story—a notorious playboy with a trail of scandal that stretched across Italy like spilled wine across an expensive rug. Wild, indulgent, and brash, he was everything the elder was not.

And then there was the daughter—the Reinaldi princess. Or, as it turned out, not a Reinaldi at all.

The revelation that she bore no biological connection to the family had detonated like a quiet bomb, reverberating behind closed doors. It was a secret few knew, but the implications were vast. The girl who had once been groomed as the heir to a billion-dollar film dynasty had unknowingly become the center of a long-buried tragedy. It was no surprise they'd been targeted.

Alexander listened in silence as Dr. Malik recounted the story.

“I was personally commissioned by Mr. Reinaldi to come back early,” Malik said, voice low, fingers curling around the handle of his medical bag. “He wants me to find the hospital where the baby swap happened. Quietly.”

Alexander leaned against the armrest, his face unreadable.

Malik gave him a lingering glance. “Hugo said the Vanderbilt family’s planning to expand into film. If that's true, crossing paths with the Reinaldis is inevitable.”

He moved to the door but turned before leaving. “If your designer still wants her hand looked at, tell her I’m available anytime.” Then, with a knowing smile, he left.

Once the door shut behind Malik, Alexander tossed the document in his hand aside, letting it slap flat against the polished surface of the coffee table.

He was about to pour himself a drink when his phone buzzed.

Victoria.

Her voice came through the line, smooth but tinged with calculation. “Alexander, the Richter Group is bidding on the Eastside land tomorrow. What’s your take on its worth?”

Before he could answer, a knock came at the door.

His brow furrowed in irritation. He ended the call abruptly, walked over, and opened the door.

Ava stood there.

Her hair was freshly washed and neatly tucked behind her ear, skin luminous under the hallway light. The simple outfit she wore—black trousers, a pale blouse—made her look soft and oddly serene. Her right hand, still splinted and loosely wrapped, hung quietly at her side.

Alexander blinked, momentarily disarmed. Then he stepped aside, wordlessly allowing her in.

“I’ll call Dr. Malik to return,” he said, reaching for his phone. “You’re late.”

She stopped him gently. “My hand’s fine. I came to ask you for a favor.”

He raised a brow but gestured toward the sofa. “Go on.”

Ava sat down, smoothing her trousers. “Miss Laurent must have asked you about the land in the eastern district.”

Alexander said nothing, but the flicker of tension in his eyes confirmed her guess.

Ava had considered going through Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. for the truth, but she knew better. If she asked the elder Mr. Vanderbilt and discovered anything of value, Victoria would learn of it through Alexander anyway. She had to confront him directly.

“Even if I don’t tell her,” Alexander said slowly, “do you think you’ll come out on top in this? If you're not asking me for help, then who?”

Ava met his gaze evenly. “You never know until you try.”

The plot of land in question was valued at nearly ten billion dollars. The Laurent family had misused funds in the past, and now, they were scraping for liquidity. Should they fail to secure the land or suffer losses in the process, their financial position would weaken dramatically.

Cash flow was everything. Without it, no company—no matter how large—was safe.

Alexander leaned back, folding his arms. “Why should I help you?”

Ava's eyes didn’t waver. “Because you want a divorce, don’t you? If you support me in this, I’ll ensure that when it happens, she walks away quietly—no scandals, no claims, no chaos.”

His brows rose slightly.

He had never truly cared for his wife. The marriage had been nothing but a strategic alliance. But the Morales family was nothing if not opportunistic. If he filed for divorce without preparation, he might lose billions.

Worse, his grandfather supported Serena.

Though Alexander didn’t care about the money, he wouldn’t let Serena have a cent more than necessary. His wife had yet to name her compensation—an ambiguity that could lead to headlines. Ava’s promise offered a way out.

He rose, walked over, and pulled her gently into his arms. “You’ve built a lot of useful connections for someone who just designs interiors.”

She didn’t resist. She understood—this was his way of saying yes.

“Stay tonight,” he murmured, brushing his lips against the curve of her neck.

Alexander believed in her. Ava had always been composed, strategic, and unwilling to betray his trust. He needed her finesse now more than ever. The woman trapped at his side—Serena—wouldn’t release him easily.

“Have you worked with the Morales family before?” he asked, brushing his fingers down her spine.

“Possibly,” she replied vaguely.

His arms tightened around her.

But the moment was shattered by the shrill ring of his phone. Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. Again.

Alexander’s jaw clenched. He shrugged on his coat and released her. “I won’t tell Victoria,” he said at last, already halfway out the door.

Ava followed him to the elevator. “If something’s urgent, don’t let me keep you.”

They stepped inside the elevator. As the doors slid shut, Alexander turned without warning and kissed her hard.

It wasn’t tender—it was the kind of kiss that branded. One that left her breathless and swaying. Her knees weakened beneath her, and she gripped his jacket to stay upright.

The elevator hummed softly, neither of them pressing a button. Eventually, it came to a stop, the underground garage silent around them.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. “Jonathan will take you home.”

“I can grab a cab,” she said quietly, gathering her composure.

The phone rang again—insistent, urgent.

“You should go,” Ava murmured, stepping out as the elevator doors opened.

Alexander climbed into his car, casting one last look at her through the window. She stood there under the pale overhead lights, still and calm, her hair tucked behind her ear again.

He wasn’t sure what it was about that image, but it left a strange weight in his chest.

As the car pulled away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something—something important—had just slipped through his fingers.

--- 

The moment Alexander stepped onto the marble steps of the Vanderbilt estate, a porcelain teacup came hurtling toward his chest.

It shattered against him, ceramic shards bouncing off the tailored fabric of his suit and skittering across the stone floor. The sound rang sharp and final through the grand corridor, followed closely by a bellow that reverberated through the entire house.

“Kneel! Kneel outside until you die!”

Alexander didn’t flinch. Wordlessly, he lowered himself to his knees.

Inside, seated regally beside the hearth, was his grandfather—Mr. Vanderbilt Sr.—leaning heavily on an ornate cane, his expression thunderous with disappointment and rage. Beside him sat Trent, barely recognizable.

Trent’s face was grotesquely swollen, the skin discolored in angry shades of purple and red. His lips were cracked, his eye sockets puffed shut, and a thin trail of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. He resembled a man who’d faced a firing squad and survived—but only just.

“G-Grandpa...” Trent croaked, voice hoarse, his entire body flinching when his gaze landed on Alexander. Even in agony, the fear was unmistakable.

Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. rose unsteadily, the tip of his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor as he approached. His breath was shallow, his steps slow, but his presence still carried the gravitas of a man who once ruled an empire.

“What did Trent do to deserve such a brutal beating?” he demanded.

Trent opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was thick with blood, and no words came out.

Alexander remained composed, his posture ramrod straight despite being on his knees. His voice was calm, but each word was sharpened like a blade.

“Do you remember the night I returned to the country? You wondered why I left the party early,” he began. “Trent drugged me that night. I ended up sleeping with a woman.”

The cane paused mid-step. Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. staggered slightly, as if someone had pulled the rug from beneath him.

Trent’s pupils shrank in terror. That night… he had planned it, yes. But the plan had failed. Alexander had been too sharp, too cautious. Trent had hoped to humiliate him, to destroy his relationship with Victoria by catching him in a scandal. But nothing had come of it—until now.

Alexander continued, his voice colder than steel. “That night changed everything. I took responsibility for what happened. But Trent tried to manipulate me using the woman involved. That was his second mistake.”

Trent trembled. He wanted to scream that it wasn’t true, that Alexander was twisting everything. But in his current state, even forming coherent thoughts was a challenge.

Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. rubbed his forehead, expression darkening with each word. “To coerce a woman, to exploit her for leverage—have you no shame, Trent?”

He turned, voice crackling with fury. “You’ll kneel tonight. All night. And reflect on what you’ve become!”

Trent whimpered but didn’t dare protest further. The room was suffocating, the authority of the patriarch absolute.

Once the old man turned away, assisted by the butler, Alexander finally met Trent’s gaze.

His eyes were terrifying—cold, ruthless, unblinking.

Trent’s body convulsed with another shiver, and he instinctively lowered his head, praying the floor would swallow him whole.

The servants quickly moved to escort Trent away, their movements cautious and quiet. No one dared speak. Alexander remained kneeling in the vestibule, a solitary figure cast in the pale moonlight filtering through the windows.

Upstairs, Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. collapsed into his armchair, face pale, a trembling hand reaching for the cup of tea offered by the butler.

“Sir, please calm yourself,” the butler said gently.

The old man didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was distant, as though lost in some private battlefield of regrets and grudges.

“I wonder if I was wrong to let Serena marry him,” he murmured, more to himself than to the butler. “He’s rash, stubborn... constantly involved with women. What kind of husband is that?”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Perhaps a few years from now, Serena will be gone—and only then will Alexander understand what he lost.”

The butler remained silent, unsure whether comfort or agreement was more appropriate.

Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. leaned forward slowly, pressing two fingers against his temple. His entire frame seemed to fold into itself with exhaustion.

“Let him kneel. Let him stew in his regret. I won’t lift a finger to help him.”

“But why punish him so harshly?” the butler finally asked, almost in a whisper.

“Because he needs to understand,” the old man growled, “that power comes with control. You don’t get to act like a warlord in your own house—not without consequence.”

He took a deep breath, just as the shrill ring of his phone sliced through the quiet.

The butler handed it to him. The caller ID flashed across the screen.

Serena.

The harsh lines on the old man’s face softened instantly.

He pressed the answer button and raised the phone to his ear.

“Serena,” he said, his voice now a low, warm rumble—tinged with fondness, as if saying her name could melt the storm still raging within him. 

“Mr. Vanderbilt Sr., I need to ask about the land on the eastern side of the city,” Serena said, her voice calm but edged with concern. “The Morales family is preparing to bid on it tomorrow, but I’ve found out the bidding was postponed for a year. Several major companies that were once interested have all withdrawn. Is something wrong with the land?”

On the other end of the line, Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. sat in his study, the amber glow of the lamp highlighting the age and wisdom in his deeply lined face. His gaze drifted to the window, where moonlight spilled in, casting soft shadows on the antique wood paneling. He contemplated summoning her for an in-person discussion but quickly dismissed the thought. The image of Alexander still kneeling outside, unrepentant and bruised by pride, soured his mood.

“I’ve already spoken to your father about it,” he replied evenly, his voice gravelly with age and authority.

For a brief moment, Serena blinked in confusion—her first thought was of her own father, Alfonso. But she quickly realized he meant Alexander’s father, Frederick Vanderbilt. Since she had married Alexander, Frederick was now her “father” in name, though the title felt increasingly hollow.

“The land was originally zoned for commercial use and a subway line,” Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. explained. “A year ago, it was one of the hottest investments in the city. Plans even included a prestigious elementary school nearby, making it ideal for upscale residential development. But companies didn’t back out because they sensed trouble. They simply couldn’t afford to wait.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “The business world is volatile, ever-shifting. If the Morales family intends to use that land for industrial purposes—say, factory development—there’s no issue. But if your intent is residential, then yes, you’d take a heavy loss.”

Serena’s brows knitted. “Have there been any official changes to the commercial zoning or the school plans?”

“There have,” the old man confirmed grimly. “Both projects have been pulled. The elementary school is no longer on the table, and there’s speculation that the subway line might be rerouted. This will all be made public next month. That’s why the bidding was suddenly rescheduled—because once the news breaks, no one will touch that land.”

Serena’s chest tightened. So that was it—an elegant trap dressed as an opportunity.

“Thank you, Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. I understand now,” she said, gratitude softening her tone.

The elder Vanderbilt’s voice turned gentler. “It’s rare for you to come to me like this, Serena. I know you avoid it because of my health. But I’m no fool—I know my limits. If you ever need clarity, guidance, or even wish to speak about leaving Alexander, you come to me.”

He coughed—a low, rattling sound—and when he spoke again, there was weariness beneath his gravelly baritone. “That boy has become hopeless. He flirts, he lies, and he chases what he can’t keep. He doesn’t deserve you. If you’ve stayed silent out of loyalty to me, then I’ve only made your burden heavier. Don’t let my wishes bind you.”

There was a long silence. Serena lowered her gaze, her lashes casting crescent shadows against her cheeks. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but clear. “You must have noticed it too, Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. He doesn’t love me.”

The old man’s eyes closed briefly. Of course he had noticed. One could not fake affection—least of all the kind that revealed itself in a glance. Alexander’s eyes never warmed when Serena entered a room, but the moment that other woman’s name came up—the very one Trent had attacked—his gaze sparked like flint.

He had always believed Serena stood a chance. Even knowing Alexander had no clear sense of love, he’d hoped that time, proximity, and Serena’s unwavering steadiness might eventually ignite something in him. But now… he wasn’t so sure.

“Serena,” he said gently, “tell me what it is you truly want.”

“I’ll endure the marriage for three more months,” she said. “For your sake. If by then, nothing has changed, we’ll part ways quietly. Without fuss. Without scandal.”

Her offer was graceful, diplomatic. It allowed them both to save face—her from shame, and him from guilt.

He took ten seconds to consider, his expression unreadable.

“Very well,” he said finally. “I will support whatever you decide, my dear.”

Serena exhaled, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. With his blessing, one of the largest obstacles had been removed.

“I have just one more question,” he said after a pause. “Was there ever anything real between you and Alexander? Did he love you? Or was it... fabricated?”

Serena’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her seat. She could have lied. But what would be the point now?

“I willingly entered the relationship,” she admitted.

Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. slammed his hand down on the armrest, his fury barely restrained. “So he took advantage of your loyalty and dragged you into this marriage—only to chase after another like a dog in heat. That shameless boy.”

He muttered something under his breath and then spoke louder, more resolute. “Three months. When he finally realizes what he’s thrown away, I will stand beside you.”

Serena lowered her head again. She couldn’t bring herself to speak of divorce any sooner—not with this man. Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. was the only one in that entire house who had ever treated her with warmth. He had believed in her from the beginning, championed her when she married Alexander, and even extended generous support to the Morales family.

During the family’s early financial struggles, it had been the Vanderbilt name that secured their initial investment. And again during the second round of funding, his influence had opened doors. If she were to divorce Alexander coldly, it would seem heartless.

So she had given him a three-month window—a silent tribute to the man who had always stood by her.

And in truth, she had other motives.

Her father, Alfonso, was gravely ill. His condition had rapidly deteriorated, and Serena knew in her heart that three months might be the most he had left.

If she could stabilize the Morales family during that time, if she could find a way to preserve their legacy, it would be her final offering to him.

In this way, she would fulfill her duty—to both families. And when that chapter ended, she could walk away with her head held high.

As she massaged her temples, her thoughts turned once more to the unsolved mystery that still haunted them: the missing Morales child.

Alfonso had begged her to find that child—the one who vanished more than twenty years ago. Her trip to Charleston had yielded nothing. In truth, with her limited resources and growing responsibilities, uncovering the truth in three months was almost impossible.

But still, she would try. It was all she could do. 

---

Serena contacted Marilyn that evening, informing her she would personally attend the bidding the following day.

By morning, Serena prepared herself for battle—not one fought with weapons, but with poise, silence, and precision. Knowing she would likely cross paths with Victoria and other sharp-eyed competitors, she dressed carefully. A wide-brimmed wool hat shaded her face, sunglasses concealed her sharp gaze, and a pale mask covered her expression. An oversized cashmere coat draped loosely around her frame, concealing her figure—and more importantly, her still-healing hand.

When she arrived at the venue, the low hum of media chatter buzzed faintly at the perimeter. A few photographers lingered, but the bidding wasn't making front-page news. The property on the eastern edge of the city, once a coveted investment, had lost much of its sheen. Without major conglomerates in the running, the cameras had turned their attention elsewhere.

Serena and Marilyn stepped into the auction hall, the space filled with the muted clink of porcelain cups and the low murmur of pre-bid conversations. Her eyes scanned the room, landing quickly on a familiar figure. Victoria sat a short distance away, surrounded by a polished circle of executives from the Richter Group, all dressed in expensive, sharp-cut suits that practically exuded influence.

In contrast, the Morales family had sent no board members. The family was still mired in internal disarray—upper management appointments had yet to be finalized. It was just Serena and Marilyn. No fanfare. No entourage.

As they took their seats, Serena heard a soft chuckle ripple from Victoria’s direction—mocking, dismissive. She paid it no mind, settling deeper into her seat like a queen unmoved by the noise of the court.

Victoria, however, was watching her intently. Her eyes narrowed, trying to pierce through the disguise. But Serena had come prepared. The oversized coat disguised her silhouette. Her makeup was minimal, and her hat was tilted to hide the lines of her face. All that was visible was a slender frame and a stoic presence. Still, Victoria’s lips curled into a cold, knowing smile.

Then, movement at the entrance caught Serena’s eye.

Alexander.

He entered alone, his stride casual but commanding. The media, surprisingly deferential, lowered their cameras as he passed. No flashbulbs. No clicks. No whispers. It was as if they knew better than to photograph the president of the Vanderbilt family without permission.

Serena blinked, caught off guard.

Why was he here?

Victoria, with a practiced smile, stood up immediately and waved. “Alexander, over here!”

He didn’t glance in Serena’s direction, instead heading straight to Victoria’s side. He sat next to her, appearing entirely uninterested in the event around them.

A small nameplate marked the Morales family's position—plain and unadorned, unlike the elaborate ones before other representatives. Serena's brow furrowed. Hadn’t Alexander promised not to reveal the land’s secret to Victoria? And yet here he was, siding with the opposition.

He had left her side the night before, his mind visibly burdened. Now he seemed... unbothered.

As he adjusted in his seat, Victoria leaned in and whispered, “Alexander, remember the promise? Once this is over, I’ll give you what Marken left behind.”

He gave her a disinterested glance. “After the bidding ends. One dinner, and I’ll take it.”

Victoria grinned. “Of course. Would I dare deceive you?”

Alexander didn’t answer.

She turned her gaze toward Serena, gloating. Her eyes gleamed with the thrill of impending triumph.

As they waited for the bidding to begin, waitstaff circulated with tea and water. Across the room, polite chatter buzzed softly—bidders lightly probing one another’s intentions with feigned innocence.

Then Victoria stood again, tugging Alexander’s arm. He followed reluctantly as she made her way toward Serena.

Victoria’s steps were slow and deliberate, her heels tapping confidently on the marble floor. She stopped in front of Serena’s seat, flashing a smile that was anything but friendly.

“Miss Morales,” she said, voice smooth with false civility, “I didn’t get the chance to properly greet you last time. I’m Victoria from the Richter Group. And this gentleman”—she gestured to Alexander beside her—“well, you know who he is. I don't think he needs an introduction.”

Serena pulled her mask up slightly and lowered the brim of her hat, obscuring her eyes. Marilyn rose and offered a pleasant but firm smile.

“Ms. Morales caught a cold today,” she said diplomatically. “Her throat isn’t in good shape. We'd hate to pass anything along.”

Victoria’s eyes glinted. “Why is she always sick?” she muttered under her breath, loud enough to be heard.

Alexander’s eyes flicked toward Serena’s veiled face. Something unreadable passed through them—contempt, maybe. Or perhaps discomfort. He turned to leave, but Victoria held him back a moment longer.

“Alexander, don’t you think you should at least ask if she’s alright?” Victoria coaxed, dripping false concern.

Alexander’s jaw clenched subtly. That was all the answer he gave before walking away without another word.

Smug, Victoria leaned down slightly, whispering, “You may be married to Alexander, but he’s never called you his wife, has he?”

Serena didn’t move.

Her silence only emboldened Victoria. “By the way,” she said, lowering her voice further, “I’m pregnant.”

Serena’s lashes trembled ever so slightly.

Marilyn blinked, startled, and glanced toward Victoria’s stomach.

Victoria grinned, hand casually resting on her flat belly. “You’ve been married this long and still haven’t conceived. Meanwhile, I’m carrying his child. He told me you make him sick, that he’s filing for divorce.”

Serena didn’t respond.

Just then, the host appeared onstage, signaling the start of the bidding.

Victoria pivoted, preparing to walk away triumphantly—until Serena’s voice, soft but sharp, reached her ears.

“Mr. Vanderbilt once said he’s only ever slept with one woman. I wonder... was that woman you?”

Victoria froze.

The blood drained from her face.

Serena continued, her tone as even as it was lethal. “If not, then whose child are you carrying, Miss Laurent?”

Victoria spun on her heel, her composure cracking. “You... you—” Her voice rose uncontrollably before she caught herself. The press was present. She couldn’t afford to lose control now.

Breathing hard, she forced a cold smile. “We’ll see who Alexander supports,” she spat before striding away.

Marilyn leaned over and muttered, “What a rotten egg.”

Serena chuckled softly. “Marilyn, do you have a boyfriend?”

Marilyn nodded. “Seven years and counting.”

The two women sank back into their chairs, blending into the soft murmur of the room as the host began to speak. 

The host's opening speech was heavy with ceremony, filled with polite introductions of attending executives and a meticulous breakdown of the development plan for the land in the city’s eastern corridor. Then came the number that shifted the room’s energy: a base price of 130 million.

The Richter Group wasted no time placing the first bid. Their offer was quickly echoed and raised by a handful of competing firms, inching the price upward to 200 million in no time.

Victoria’s sharp eyes flicked toward Serena, expecting hesitation. But Serena, calm beneath the brim of her wide hat and shielded by sunglasses, raised her paddle with effortless grace. “210 million,” she said with quiet confidence, without sparing Victoria so much as a glance.

The subtle snub stoked Victoria’s fury. She snapped her gaze to her team, ready to bid again, but one of her senior executives leaned in. “Miss Laurent, we’ve hit our ceiling. 200 million was our limit.”

But Victoria had already stopped listening. Her pride surged ahead of reason. She lifted her paddle again.

“250 million from the Richter Group!” the host announced.

Seated beside Serena, Marilyn grew visibly tense. She knew the Morales family couldn't afford to play this game. Serena, however, raised her paddle once more, elegant and unshaken.

“330 million from Aether.”

Victoria reacted instantly. “350 million!”

The host echoed her bid with growing excitement, noting the intensity of the duel between the two women.

At that moment, Alexander leaned slightly toward Victoria. His tone was casual, but there was steel beneath his words. “She’s driving the price up on purpose.”

The realization dawned too late. Victoria’s hands began to tremble. “I already called 350 million.” Panic crept into her voice. She looked to Alexander with desperation. “If I win this bid... will we suffer a loss?”

Alexander’s expression darkened. “More than a loss. It’ll bleed you dry.”

But Serena had already lowered her paddle.

“350 million going once.”

“Going twice.”

“Sold to the Richter Group.”

The finality in the host’s voice echoed like a gong. The Richter Group had won—on paper. But in reality, they had just been checkmated.

Victoria was left seething. Serena stood, calm and triumphant, and began making her way to the exit. Victoria hastily rose to follow her—but was intercepted by one of her bodyguards, whispering something urgent into her ear.

For the moment, she suppressed her fury. Turning to Alexander, she forced a dazzling smile. “The reservation’s ready. Let’s go.”

Alexander didn’t move. His eyes followed Serena’s retreating form as it vanished out the doors. His jaw was tight with thought.

It hadn’t been a huge sum—150 million above the cap—but it was the kind of wound that could fester. The Richter Group’s current cash flow wasn’t healthy. Now they were saddled with overpriced land and impending development costs.

Victoria tugged on his sleeve, voice low. “Wait for me in the car.”

He nodded silently and left the building, the door swinging shut behind him.

Inside, Victoria turned to the bodyguard. “What did you find?”

He handed her a folder. “The intel we pulled last night... it’s true. We double-checked. Ava Alvarez is your opponent. And she’s also... Mr. Vanderbilt’s wife.”

It felt like the ground cracked beneath her feet.

Her knees went weak. Her breath caught.

“Impossible,” she whispered hoarsely, but the file in her hands said otherwise. Harvard graduate. Remmington’s apprentice. Ava Alvarez—Serena Morales—everything she thought she knew twisted and burned away.

She tore the documents apart, her fingers trembling with rage. “How could this be?!” she hissed, kicking over a chair in front of her.

“Miss Laurent, please—media are still present,” her team warned.

“Damn the media,” she muttered, storming toward the exit with her bodyguard shielding her from view. She only realized how suffocating the atmosphere had been once she stepped out under the unforgiving sunlight.

The truth burned.

Alexander had fallen for his own wife. And worse—he didn’t even know it. He thought she was someone else, and the woman he thought he loved, her, Victoria, had just been humiliated—again—by the same woman.

She clenched her fists, jaw tight. If Alexander ever discovers the truth, he’ll fall harder than he already has.

Just then, she spotted Alexander waiting by his car. Composing herself, she handed him a velvet box. “A gift—from Marken,” she said sweetly. “I’m not sure if he gave me anything else. Could you... take a look?”

The bracelet inside had no markings, purchased by Victoria long ago from a nameless shop. Even if he tried to trace it, he’d find nothing.

Alexander studied her pale face. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?”

“I’m not feeling well,” she lied, voice trembling from more than just the sun. “I think I’ll go home.”

He said nothing, watching her walk away before his driver pulled off into traffic.

Victoria stood alone under the searing heat, a plan already forming in her mind. She had no time left. If Alexander finds out who Ava really is... it’s over.

Her phone buzzed.

Victoria: [You bitch. Are you laughing at me? I know the truth now, Serena!]

---

Back at Le Châteauesque Manor, Serena had just returned and was sipping a glass of warm water when the message arrived. Her lips curled with mild amusement.

Before she could respond, her phone rang again.

Alexander.

“Would you join me for dinner?” he asked. “We need to discuss the upcoming auction.”

Serena glanced at the message from Victoria again, then at the screen flashing Alexander’s name.

Her smile deepened. 

“Mr. Vanderbilt, I’ve nearly completed the investigation,” Ava said coolly, her voice steady over the line. “We can discuss it online.”

On the other end, Alexander sat beneath the warm halo of a desk lamp, flicking a silver lighter open and closed with slow deliberation. The tiny flame danced, casting glimmers of firelight across the sharp planes of his face.

“The ninth time,” he murmured, as if answering a different conversation entirely—one only he was having.

The sound of the doorbell pulled Ava from her thoughts. She rose from her spot on the sofa and padded barefoot toward the door, her damp hair tucked into a loose bun, wisps curling at her temples from her recent shower.

When she opened the door, Alexander stood on the threshold, fresh-faced with beads of water still clinging to his hairline. He had showered too. His black overcoat hung from one shoulder like a casual afterthought. The scent of his cologne—amber, musk, and something darker—lingered as he stepped inside.

He didn’t greet her. Instead, his gaze swept the room, as if imprinting every detail of this private space into memory. “Have the sheets been changed?” he asked bluntly, already moving toward her.

Ava narrowed her eyes, her tone clipped. “I don’t sleep where others have slept. Yes, they’ve been changed.”

“And disinfected?”

“Of course.”

Only then did Alexander reach for her, his hand slipping around her waist with commanding ease. Without preamble, he hoisted her up—not gently, not playfully, but with the kind of practiced strength that sent a jolt through her. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

She expected him to carry her to the bedroom. Instead, he veered left.

The kitchen.

The marble kitchen island, typically reserved for meal prep, was suddenly her perch. She shivered at the cold beneath her thighs and the unexpectedness of it all.

“Turn off the lights,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing in the dim ambient glow. The situation was already outrageous; she didn’t want to see herself like this—didn’t want him to see her, exposed and breathless on a countertop.

He laughed quietly, the sound warm against her ear as his teeth grazed her earlobe. “Where’s the switch?”

“By the door,” she managed.

He obeyed without protest, plunging the kitchen into semi-darkness. She heard his footsteps again, the subtle click of buttons as he extinguished the rest of the lights. Now, only the twilight filtering through the windows lit the space, soft and hazy.

When he returned, he did so slowly, unbuttoning his tailored suit jacket with theatrical nonchalance. He dropped it onto a nearby chair. Then came the shirt, then the belt. As he reached her again, his hand wrapped around her waist, rougher this time. Calloused fingertips brushed her skin through the fabric, sending a tremor down her spine.

“So soft,” he murmured, his lips grazing her jaw.

There was something different about him tonight. His gaze burned, as though he were determined to mark her—to leave some invisible claim. Maybe if he'd always approached her like this, she might’ve fallen for him completely. But the reality between them wasn’t built to last. After tonight, only one night remained. Then the charade would end.

She felt the moment his eyes searched hers and sensed her drift. His mouth crashed back onto hers—urgent, impatient—pulling her out of thought and into sensation.

“I want to take you out,” he growled in between kisses. “Is that so difficult?”

Ava tried to pull away, to anchor herself in logic. “Maybe we should just meet at my place. Would that be more fitting for your beloved image of a ‘virtuous wife and mother’?”

But he didn’t let her finish. He grabbed her again—this time harder, more possessively—and silenced her with his body.

Three hours passed.

By the end, she was sprawled across the cool marble countertop, breathless and dazed. She believed it was over. But then came the snap of a switch—the kitchen light burst on, harsh and blinding. She winced and covered her eyes, the sudden brightness disorienting.

She blinked against the glow. Alexander was back—shirtless, his shoulders gleaming under the fluorescent light. In his hands: a pair of silver lace-up heels.

Her heels.

He knelt before her and gently lifted one of her legs, slipping her foot into the shoe.

“Mr. Vanderbilt... this isn’t necessary,” she said, her voice small. Embarrassment colored her cheeks as the cool leather hugged her foot.

He didn’t answer. His focus remained on the delicate straps as he laced them around her calves. The rhinestones caught the light and scattered it across her skin, turning her legs into gleaming columns of silver.

Rachel had given her those shoes—luxurious, a touch theatrical, meant more for display than wear. But now, worn like this, they became something else entirely. Her legs trembled as the cold of the marble island met the shimmer of silver against her flushed skin.

The click of her heels echoed softly as she adjusted her position on the counter, the sharp contrast between metal and skin making her breath hitch.

Alexander looked up at her then, gaze burning with some unspoken hunger.

And for the rest of the night, he made love to her with an intensity that felt like a question, and maybe even—an answer. 

---

Ava lay draped across the cool linen of the kitchen island, her limbs boneless with exhaustion. Her breath was shallow, her muscles slack. Even lifting a finger felt impossible. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him—Alexander—shirtless, clad only in dark tailored trousers. He held a crumpled white shirt in one hand, the fabric wrinkled and damp with sweat. Along the defined planes of his back, faint red crescents—evidence of her nails—marked his skin in streaks of fire.

Morning light had begun to seep through the windowpanes, painting the room in soft, honeyed gold. He said something to her—perhaps that he had a meeting?—but the words were muffled, distant, as if underwater.

A few minutes later, he returned wearing a crisp, freshly ironed shirt, the previous one abandoned. It occurred to Ava then: Jonathan must have delivered it.

Downstairs, outside the building, Jonathan stood beside the car, as punctual and composed as ever. Alexander, his steps unhurried but filled with quiet satisfaction, reached the vehicle and paused. “Select a few pairs of women’s high heels,” he instructed, his tone casual, as if requesting a business report.

Jonathan blinked. The task caught him off guard.

He wasn’t married. Never had been. His understanding of women’s fashion—especially shoes—was, at best, academic. Strappy? Pointed? Stiletto? Flats?

Still reeling from the unexpected request, Jonathan drove Alexander to the Vanderbilt estate. Once at the office, he presented a neatly organized digital catalog, filled with various high heel designs.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” Jonathan asked delicately, “which style are you looking for?”

Alexander leaned forward, inspecting the screen with surprising intensity. His gaze landed on a pair of pointed, strappy stilettos—similar to the silver ones she had worn the night before, the same ones that had imprinted themselves in his memory like a brand.

“These,” he said without hesitation, tapping the screen.

Jonathan raised a brow, silently noting how specific his boss had become. “How many pairs would you like?”

Alexander didn’t look away. “Start with two. Get the silver ones—but choose softer straps, they should glide over the skin. The surface should be highly polished. And find the same style in black. They’ll look striking against her complexion.”

Jonathan coughed lightly, unsure whether to be impressed or embarrassed. “Understood. I’ll have them air-shipped from overseas.” These were exclusive pre-launch styles, not yet available in local boutiques.

Alexander nodded, visibly pleased. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—rare, genuine.

He’d been carrying that smile since morning. It clung to him like the afterglow of something intimate. Even Hugo noticed it when he stopped by the office. Not even the close of a multi-billion dollar merger had ever made Alexander look this... relaxed.

“The film begins shooting tomorrow,” Hugo announced, leaning against the desk. “Thought you’d want to know.”

Alexander didn’t respond right away. His mind had momentarily wandered to the kitchen island, to silver heels wrapped around his back.

Hugo tilted his head. “Wes told me you brought Ava to a hotel under the guise of a hand exam. Smooth. But she still hasn’t agreed to your offer, has she?”

Alexander’s expression soured. “Do you two really enjoy dissecting my life this much?”

Hugo chuckled. “Ordinarily, no. But it’s fascinating—watching my cold, ruthless friend become twisted over a married woman.”

Alexander glared at him, but Hugo continued. “So tell me—what’s Wes like behind closed doors? Or is this you investigating the competition?”

Alexander returned to the file in front of him, but his grip on the pen tightened.

“Look,” Hugo said, dropping the teasing for a moment. “If I were you, and I actually liked her, I’d just go after her. Ava’s smart—she knows who’s worth choosing.”

Then, almost thoughtfully, he added, “Wait. You haven’t made a move... because you’re married. And you don’t want to drag her into the mess. Isn’t that it?”

The sudden, sharp pause in the air was answer enough.

Alexander didn’t deny it. He didn’t need to. His silence was the confession.

“You’re afraid,” Hugo said, the realization slowly dawning. “You’re not scared of Ava. You’re scared of what it would mean to actually want her.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like her that much. We both get what we need.”

Hugo’s brows lifted. “Did you spend the night with her?”

Again, silence.

“I mean, you didn’t spend the night in the same house she shares with her husband, did you?” Hugo added with disbelief.

Alexander’s eyes dropped back to the paper.

“You did,” Hugo muttered, unable to suppress a low whistle. “You really are something else.”

Despite his own well-documented romantic escapades, even Hugo had never crossed that line. It was one thing to pursue someone unavailable—it was another to defile the sanctity of a marriage bed.

Still, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “So when are you planning to marry that woman your family chose for you?”

Alexander’s mood darkened instantly. The warmth he had carried all morning vanished.

“Serena?” he muttered. “She’s no ordinary woman. That much is true.”

His tone was flat, almost grim. “But I’m not interested in how clever she is or how kind. I just want out.”

Hugo watched him closely. “And your grandfather?”

“I’ll wait,” Alexander said coldly, “and test Cornelius’s patience.”

He remembered too well the humiliation of kneeling for a night on cold marble. It was meant to break him—but it hadn’t. The storm between him and his family was far from over, but for now, he would bide his time.

The balloon inside his chest was slowly deflating, reality pressing inward again. The memory of Ava’s flushed skin in the silver heels flickered like a match in the dark. But as always, desire and dread warred inside him.

He wanted her.

But wanting her came at a cost he wasn’t sure he could afford. 

---

Meanwhile, unrest simmered within the Laurent household.

Victoria had spent the entire night in a downward spiral of hysteria, unraveling in the dark solitude of her bedroom. Her voice, now reduced to a rasp, had been worn raw from hours of crying and incoherent outbursts. Her once carefully composed poise had all but disintegrated.

Outside her locked door, Winona—her mother—paced back and forth, her knuckles repeatedly rapping on the polished wood. “Victoria,” she coaxed softly, trying to keep her tone from trembling, “please, let’s talk this through.”

But inside, Victoria was inconsolable. Her lips were bloodless, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. The humiliating revelation that Serena had been playing her all along had left her shattered. Not even the most painful of past slights—being sidelined at events, or mocked behind closed doors—could compare to this bitter truth.

She had been fooled, utterly and completely. The knowledge coiled in her gut like poison.

Winona, growing desperate, called for the butler to retrieve the spare key. She couldn’t bear another hour of watching her daughter self-destruct. “She hasn’t spoken to Mrs. Vanderbilt Senior in days,” she muttered under her breath. “And that woman—she’s your strongest pillar of support. You can’t afford to alienate her now.”

Inside, Victoria sat hunched on the floor, her body curled in on itself. When the door finally creaked open, she didn’t move. Her eyes were swollen, her gown wrinkled, her hair falling loosely in disarray. “It’s over,” she croaked. “I have no chance anymore.”

Winona knelt beside her and gently cupped her daughter’s pale face, brushing damp strands away. “Victoria. Listen to me,” she said firmly, locking eyes with her. “Alexander may not love you right now—but men change. Emotions are fleeting. It’s not over unless you let it be.”

Victoria looked up slowly, the tears still brimming. “He’s going to find out,” she whispered, voice shaking. “He’s going to know who she really is... and then it’ll be too late.”

“Then don’t give him the time,” Winona urged. “Be one step ahead. Remember what I taught you—patience wins wars. There’s always a way back in.”

A beat of silence passed before Victoria finally nodded.

“Good girl,” Winona said, smiling faintly. “When I married your father, I knew I wasn’t his first choice. But I knew how to wait. I knew how to survive. So do you.”

The words struck a chord. Victoria sat up straighter. Her limbs trembled, but a glimmer of resolve was returning. She would not be outplayed. Not by Serena. Not by anyone.

She clutched the edge of her vanity table and slowly rose to her feet. “I know what to do now,” she murmured.

Winona gave her an encouraging squeeze. “That’s my daughter.”

Later that morning, Victoria booked an emergency session at a high-end beauty salon. She endured ice packs and de-puffing masks, her skin soothed by the practiced hands of a silent esthetician. The swelling around her eyes faded slightly, her complexion brightened. Once her makeup was artfully applied, the mirror reflected someone close to her former self—poised, polished, composed.

That afternoon, she met Mrs. Vanderbilt Senior for coffee at a discreet café in the Upper East Side.

Victoria wore muted pastels and pearls—classic, conservative, a far cry from her usual show of confidence. She spoke softly, reminiscing about her childhood summers at the Vanderbilt estate, the long walks with Alexander, the way Marken had once teased her about her stubbornness. She laughed gently at old memories and paused strategically at others.

“I still remember when Marken brought me those honey cakes from Provence,” she mused, stirring her espresso with a slow, graceful hand. “He always said Alexander and I would end up together. I suppose he saw something in us before we did.”

The comment landed with practiced precision.

Mrs. Vanderbilt Senior's expression softened, her mind drifting back to a younger, simpler time. She reached out and touched Victoria’s hand. “You’ve always belonged with Alexander,” she said. “I’ve never doubted it.”

Victoria smiled demurely, eyes lowered. “That means the world to me.”

The conversation that followed was filled with carefully planted sentiment. By the end of it, Victoria had achieved exactly what she’d come for: she’d reestablished her narrative in the mind of the woman who could still influence Alexander’s future.

As she stepped into her chauffeured car, she allowed herself a small, satisfied breath.

She wasn’t defeated. Not yet.

She would bide her time. Gather her strength. Wait for the perfect moment.

And when it came, she would strike with precision.

Because Victoria Laurent had never been the type to surrender.