* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 2nd * Chapter 220 : Call it what you want.

Madam Vanderbilt stood in the grand foyer of Le Châteauesque Manor, watching the once peaceful estate unravel in the wake of Serena's presence. Her sigh was long and weary, laden with bitterness.

"What a mess this has become," she muttered, shaking her head. "That girl is nothing but a storm in silk gloves. If she stays, the Vanderbilt name will be dragged into the mud."

Two members of the household staff, who had been arguing in the hall for nearly an hour over Serena's presence, finally left the manor—one slamming the door behind them. The air was thick with tension.

Meanwhile, word of Alexander’s accident had reached Cornelius.

The old man rushed to the hospital without hesitation. The harsh glow of the surgical light outside the operating room cast a sterile pallor across his deeply lined face. He stood silently, watching the doors as if sheer willpower could compel them to open.

Colton, standing nearby, glanced at the older man with concern. “Cornelius,” he said gently, “Alexander will pull through. Why don’t you go home and rest?”

But Cornelius barely heard him.

The weight in his chest mirrored a familiar pain—the same agony he’d felt upon learning of Marken’s death. That helpless dread. That suffocating grief. He couldn’t bear it again.

Three hours passed.

Finally, the doors to the operating room creaked open. A nurse pushed Alexander out on a gurney, his skin pale beneath the soft white sheets, an oxygen mask secured to his face.

Cornelius stepped forward, heart hammering in his chest. “Doctor Malik,” he rasped, “how is he?”

Dr. Malik removed his mask. There was a furrow in his brow, but not the grim kind. “The wound on his back is deep. He’ll run a high fever for a few days, and there’s a concussion to monitor. But there’s no immediate threat to his life. He’s being moved to the ICU to stabilize.”

Cornelius let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His knees nearly buckled with relief.

But the peace was short-lived.

A shrill voice pierced the hospital corridor like a blade.

“How many more people does that girl Serena have to ruin?!”

Madam Vanderbilt had arrived—and she brought a storm with her.

Cordelia, distraught and recently returned from her family’s home, followed in behind, her grief bubbling over into fury.

“Cornelius!” Madam Vanderbilt bellowed. “You’re just going to sit there while our family falls apart? Make Alexander divorce her—now!”

Cornelius turned, visibly shaken. She reached for him, grabbing his arm with a grip far too strong for a woman of her age and size. His breath hitched; the strain on his body nearly brought him to collapse.

Staff rushed to intervene, but Madam Vanderbilt shoved them aside. Her eyes were wild with fury.

“I don’t care what you say! That woman is poison! If she stays, there will be no peace in this family.”

Cornelius finally raised a hand, silencing the corridor.

“Enough,” he said, his voice thin but firm. “We’ll wait until Alexander wakes up before we talk about divorce. This isn’t the time.”

Madam Vanderbilt sneered but said nothing more. She collapsed into a nearby chair, fuming.

What Cornelius hadn’t told anyone—not even Serena—was the full truth.

No one had revealed to him that Alexander’s injuries had anything to do with Serena. No one had mentioned how she had helped save him, or that she had risked her own safety.

And Cornelius, worn and disappointed by his grandson’s perceived coldness, saw no need to involve her. Let the boy learn the consequences of his choices in silence, he thought. Why drag the girl into more chaos?

---

Alexander remained unconscious for three full days.

During those three days, the Vanderbilt household teetered on the edge of collapse.

Cordelia returned to her family’s estate in tears. In response, emissaries from her family stormed the Vanderbilt home, demanding answers—and more importantly, demanding that Serena be expelled.

They were humiliated. How could a woman of such low origin bring this much disgrace to such a powerful name?

Frederick, Alexander’s father, remained conspicuously absent. He hadn't spoken a word in Serena’s defense—further evidence that his bond with Cordelia had long since withered to indifference.

Despite the firestorm erupting around her, Serena heard none of it.

Cornelius had merely called her once, his tone surprisingly calm. “Focus on your responsibilities at Morales for now,” he’d said. “There’s no need to worry about us.”

Serena, buried in company matters, had taken him at his word.

The Morales family’s internal reorganization was nearing its climax. Senior leadership roles were being finalized, but Serena still didn’t fully trust many of the candidates. Most were unfamiliar faces, promoted swiftly under pressing timelines.

She had only one reliable person by her side: Marilyn.

To compensate, Serena spent hours poring over the profiles of newly elevated executives, learning every detail she could—from former employment history to personal affiliations. In this high-stakes corporate world, trust was earned, never given.

At the same time, she had dispatched a private investigator to Charleston, the town where the infamous child mix-up had occurred decades ago. Her hope was to finally unearth the truth of what happened there—the missing child, the silence, the secrets.

But so far, the investigation had yielded nothing.

And so, she waited.

Waited for answers.

Waited for the storm in the Vanderbilt family to either pass… or destroy everything in its path.

--- 

At long last, Alexander stirred.

The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the hospital room, mingling with the faint hum of machinery. His lashes fluttered open, revealing a pair of hazy, bloodshot eyes. Blinking against the overhead lights, the first thing he saw was Cornelius sitting silently by his bedside.

Alexander opened his mouth, instinctively wanting to ask about her—Ava—but the weight of Cornelius’s expression silenced him. The elder’s face, etched with fatigue and deeply drawn lines, said enough. The days of turmoil had aged him even more.

Seeing him awake, Cornelius pressed the nurse call button. “Dr. Malik, he's awake,” he said quietly.

Dr. Malik arrived moments later, professional and composed, but concern shadowed his face.

“He sustained a serious concussion,” the doctor said after a quick exam, his tone clinical yet cautious. “He’ll need to rest. No strenuous activity—mental or physical—for some time. He’s lucky to be awake so soon.”

Cornelius nodded grimly and gestured to Jonathan, who had been hovering in the corner of the room.

“Get him some water.”

Jonathan obeyed, his expression unreadable. Unlike Alexander, he’d escaped the ordeal with only minor bruises, and for the last few days, he hadn’t left Alexander’s side.

Cornelius, still seated near the bed, cleared his throat.

“Do you know who did this?” he asked quietly.

Alexander’s gaze remained on the ceiling. “No. But my people are investigating.”

Cornelius gave a slow, thoughtful nod. Silence followed. The kind of silence that grew heavier by the second.

Then, quietly, the elder asked, “Is there someone you care about now?”

The question hit harder than expected.

Alexander’s first instinct was to deny it. To scoff. But something in him stilled. A memory. A flicker of soft laughter in a rain-drenched cave. Her fingers brushing through his hair.

He said nothing.

Cornelius saw right through the silence. “I thought so,” he murmured. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

The weight of that acknowledgment hung between them.

“I didn’t tell Serena about what happened,” Cornelius added after a pause.

That surprised Alexander. His eyes met his grandfather’s, slightly widened.

“Grandfather—”

“I’m not blind,” Cornelius interrupted. “You want out. You’ve wanted it for some time. So I’ll say this now: If your heart is already somewhere else... then you’re no longer worthy of Serena.”

The words were gentle, but they carried a sharp finality.

“There’s a condition,” Cornelius added. “Because of the investments our family made into the Morales family, she’s requested a three-month grace period. After that, you’ll both sign the divorce papers. You’ll be free of each other, no obligations. No ties.”

Alexander was stunned by the swiftness of it all. He had expected drawn-out negotiations, threats of disinheritance, more arguments.

But instead—this. Quiet permission.

His lips curled into a faint, almost disbelieving smile.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Cornelius rose with effort, leaning on his cane. He moved toward the door, pausing just as he reached it. Without turning, he said over his shoulder, “May you have no regrets.”

Alexander stared after him, watching the cane tap rhythmically against the polished floor until the door closed.

No regrets. He let the words settle in his chest. How could he ever regret leaving a woman like Serena?

“Rest assured,” he whispered, “I won’t.”

And yet, Cornelius’s silence as he left felt more like quiet disappointment than relief.

After a long pause, Alexander turned to Jonathan. “Where’s Ava?”

Jonathan shifted awkwardly. “When you were admitted, Cornelius arrived soon after. Since then, Madam Vanderbilt and others have come by... but Miss Alvarez hasn’t visited.”

Alexander’s chest tightened—not from pain, but from something deeper. A dull, aching sting.

Not even once?

“Give me my phone.”

Jonathan handed him a freshly purchased device with a new SIM. Alexander took it wordlessly.

Across the city, Ava was seated in a quiet boardroom, her hair twisted into a sleek knot, files neatly arranged in front of her. Her phone vibrated. When she saw his name flash on the screen, she hesitated—then answered.

“Alexander,” she greeted, cool and composed.

He was still bandaged heavily, speaking with the hoarseness of someone recovering from a close brush with death.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just some work,” she replied.

A pause.

He stared at the ceiling tiles. “So… you’re not planning to visit me?”

Ava swallowed.

Cordelia had been relentless. Madam Vanderbilt even worse. The past few days had been hellish—her inbox flooded with threats, abuse, even insults to her late mother, Elena.

“I heard about what happened,” she said carefully. “But your family has... made it very clear I should stay out of it.”

Alexander said nothing.

From Rita, Ava had learned that Cordelia’s family was demanding a divorce. The patriarch had agreed to the three-month timeline. That should have brought her a sense of closure.

Instead, it felt like standing at the edge of something she couldn’t name.

“Alexander, I’m... busy here too.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, without warning, he hung up.

The silence in the room afterward was deafening.

Jonathan placed a glass of water on the nightstand, gently. “Sir,” he ventured, “I think... maybe she doesn’t even know you’re trying.”

Alexander scoffed, bitterly. “Who said I’m pursuing her?”

Jonathan didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Alexander leaned back against the pillow, breath shallow. His wounds throbbed, but not as much as the tension lodged deep in his chest. He exhaled slowly, lowering his lashes in a rare moment of surrender.

After a pause, he asked, “Have those shoes arrived?”

Jonathan blinked. “Yes. Two pairs, as you requested.”

“Good. Find a way to send them to her.”

Jonathan didn’t ask why. He already knew.

The Vanderbilt family might be collapsing behind them, but somehow, Alexander still remembered the exact curve of Ava’s ankle in those rhinestone-laced heels.

He was quiet until Jonathan spoke again.

“There’s something else. News from the house.”

Alexander didn’t look up.

“Serena’s been exposed as the daughter of your father’s first love. That woman—Elena.”

Alexander blinked. “What?”

“It’s true. Cordelia lost her mind. Now all of New York knows you’ll be divorced in three months.”

Alexander tilted his head back and gave a dry, humorless laugh.

“Well, then,” he muttered, “I guess I owe Mother one.”

He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the mattress, resigned to the storm brewing just beyond the hospital’s walls.

Three more months.

He would wait.

But only if Ava stayed within reach.

--- 

The call with Alexander ended abruptly. Serena stared at the phone screen for a long moment, her expression unreadable, when Marilyn stepped into the room.

“Serena, the senior leadership is gathered and waiting. They're uncertain about the sudden strategic shift with the Morales family,” she said gently.

Serena rose and smoothed the front of her blazer. Though composed on the surface, there was a steeliness in her gaze. She was now the majority shareholder of Pinturas Grande. With most of the stock consolidated under her name, her word was law.

Among the remaining power-holders was Eduart White, the newly appointed Director of Human Resources. In his early forties, Eduart had never drawn much attention. His promotion had been a diplomatic decision—a placeholder appointment meant to keep tensions low. He wasn’t known for vision or ambition, but importantly, he wasn’t divisive either. Neutral. Harmless.

As Serena stepped into the boardroom, the tension in the air was palpable. The unfamiliar high-level managers stood respectfully, only seating themselves once she took her place at the head of the table. Every eye was on her—waiting, cautious, perhaps skeptical.

“Have you all reviewed the proposals?” Serena asked calmly, her voice carrying the confidence of someone who had already anticipated resistance.

A few hesitant glances were exchanged.

Finally, one executive spoke up, choosing his words with care. “Yes, we’ve reviewed the proposals, but… this pivot into film and television—it’s a significant risk. Our company has always been rooted in manufacturing. We have no experience in entertainment.”

Serena leaned back slightly, her posture relaxed but authoritative. “If I hadn’t secured the partnership with Cornerstone Construction and Volkov Co. Inc., do you honestly think Pinturas Grande would still be standing?”

That question alone drew silence. The truth was undeniable. After Pinturas Grande was nearly devoured by Victoria’s acquisition stunt, it was Serena who had kept the ship afloat.

In the aftermath, the company had been in chaos. It was only in the past few days that the dust began to settle, and a new leadership structure took form. Serena addressed the room with sharp clarity.

“I hold 100% of the shares. That means I hold 100% of the authority. In the coming days, Marilyn will assign new performance evaluations. Those who can’t meet expectations will be replaced.

“As for the film and television industry—we’re not transforming Pinturas Grande into a film studio. The core business will continue. But I’ve invested in Hugo’s screenplay, and projections suggest it will yield returns tenfold within six months. Compare that to the sluggish profit margins of the paint business.”

The executives listened more intently now. Their expressions shifted, some intrigued, others calculating.

“You were all invited here by me,” she continued. “And you're being paid ten times the market standard. In today’s economy, your salaries are on par with industry veterans with a decade of experience. Are there any objections?”

None.

Serena pressed forward. “Let me be clear. The company has been running inefficiently for years. Overstaffing, outdated processes, poor departmental synergy. For instance, the H.R. department routinely works overtime—yet their core tasks could be completed before noon. That’s a sign of bloated structure, not dedication.”

Eduart’s brow twitched slightly, but he remained silent.

“I’m not looking to lay off staff,” Serena clarified. “Instead, I plan to reallocate talent. We’re launching a new entity—E.A. Marilyn has already registered it. This new company will handle all entertainment investments. If any of you are willing to oversee this venture, now is the time to volunteer.”

There was a beat of silence as the weight of her vision sank in.

“E.A. will operate from the top floor,” she continued. “The senior leadership of Pinturas Grande will relocate one level down. All reports from both companies will still come through me. Those joining E.A. can begin reviewing potential film investments immediately. While our initial capital is limited, the short film market is expanding rapidly. It’s where the next wave of opportunity lies.”

Her gaze swept the room, measuring their reactions. “I’m allocating one million to each of you—temporary capital for your first investment. Choose wisely. Learn the market. Make connections. Today’s unknown actor might be tomorrow’s star. If E.A. succeeds, you will all have a share in its profits. This isn’t just my venture—it’s ours.”

The room, once heavy with skepticism, now buzzed with restrained excitement.

One executive leaned forward, eyes bright. “Serena, where exactly is E.A.’s workspace?”

Serena smiled faintly and gestured downward. “Right beneath us.”

She stood, commanding the room effortlessly. “Let’s begin the transition. Have your teams arrange the move. E.A. takes the top floor. Pinturas Grande leadership will shift down. You’ll receive your capital allocations by the end of the week.”

The moment the meeting concluded, energy rippled through the group. Senior leaders broke into discussion, the weight of change now fully upon them.

Marilyn turned to Serena with a small, knowing smile. “You really do know how to start a fire under people.”

Serena simply adjusted her cufflink and replied, “All it takes is the right spark.” 

When Serena returned to her office, the air buzzed with the energy of transformation. Outside, desks scraped across tile floors and voices mingled—some excited, others uncertain—as employees shuffled into new workspaces.

Change was happening fast.

Serena paused for a moment near the window, watching as her vision began to take shape. When Alfonso had overseen Pinturas Grande, his strategy was simple: expand production lines at any cost. He equated growth with steel and machinery, not innovation or diversification. That tunnel vision had left the company bloated, inefficient, and increasingly irrelevant in a shifting market.

Now, it was her turn to change the story.

Marilyn, loyal as ever, followed close behind, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “Serena,” she said with a small smile, “I’ll follow you, no matter what.”

There was something about Serena’s presence—especially in front of the older male executives—that was unmistakably commanding. Her voice was calm but never cold, confident without being brash. She never raised it unnecessarily, yet it always carried authority.

Serena rubbed her temples, fatigued but resolute. “I don’t know if I’m good at this,” she admitted, “but I know we can’t keep clinging to the past. Short-form videos are exploding. If we move fast, we might carve out a place before the market fully matures.”

“You’re right,” Marilyn agreed. “It might seem impulsive, but the Morales family’s been stagnant for years. We’ve survived more on reputation than strategy. And these new companies? They’re already rewriting the rules. Catching up will be a nightmare if we stay on the same track.”

Serena nodded, thumbing through a stack of internal reports. Her eyes landed on the corner of the page, then drifted toward a janitor entering the office—a new face. Something about it made her pause.

“Marilyn, where’s the janitor who used to clean this floor?”

“You mean Tatiana?” Marilyn frowned. “She hasn’t shown up for three days. We tried calling, but no answer. We had to bring someone else in.”

A strange sense of unease prickled at the back of Serena’s neck.

Just then, the office door slammed open.

Sergio barged in with two police officers in tow. Behind him came Martina, her expression sour and swollen with self-righteousness.

Sergio’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Serena behind her sleek glass desk. “She’s the one responsible!” he barked. “My wife died from overwork in this building!”

Serena froze.

Tatiana was dead?

That quiet, overworked woman who’d scrubbed floors without complaint? Serena’s mind flashed back to their brief interactions—Tatiana had always seemed tired, but never sick. She’d endured life with Sergio, a mother-in-law who treated her like a servant, and two ungrateful sons who demanded more than she could give. And yet, she’d never spoken up.

Standing slowly, Serena looked Sergio in the eyes. “Where is her body?”

Sergio looked ready to lunge. “You’re going to pay for this. A life was lost! Your company worked her to death!”

Serena remained composed, but inwardly, her thoughts were racing. Was he serious? Tatiana never even worked overtime. She was a janitor—no deadlines, no meetings, no pressure. If anything, she was the one employee rarely touched by corporate stress.

One of the officers raised a hand. “Ma’am, we’ll need to conduct a formal survey of the workplace.”

Serena nodded. “Go ahead. You’ll find that Tatiana wasn’t forced to work overtime.” Then she added coldly, “And while you’re investigating, I suggest you look into Mr. Sergio here. I’ve seen the bruises on Tatiana’s arms. She’d been a victim of domestic abuse for years.”

Sergio bristled. “What the hell are you implying?”

Martina shoved her way to the front. “Now you’re accusing us of murder? Your father didn’t support us, and now you’re dragging us through the mud!”

Serena sighed and sank into her chair, exhausted by the theatrics. “I'm cooperating with your investigation, but I’m not going to let this become a circus. If Sergio's abuse contributed to her death, the authorities should know. You want an investigation? Let’s investigate all of it.”

The lead officer turned to Sergio. “We’ll be paying a visit to your home.”

Martina's defiance collapsed like wet paper. She suddenly sat down on the floor, wailing, “We won’t leave unless you compensate us! This is injustice!”

Serena didn’t even look at her. She picked up her phone, dialed the security desk, and said coolly, “Send someone to escort these people out.”

Martina immediately climbed to her feet and began muttering curses as she was led away.

The police were courteous but firm. They left to follow up on their inquiries, and Serena remained at her desk, staring at the floor where Martina had just been sitting. She wasn’t coldhearted—she knew Tatiana’s death deserved attention. But compensating an abusive husband who’d leeched off his wife for years?

That was what made her sick.

Later that night, Serena and Marilyn began digging into Sergio’s life.

“Here,” Marilyn said, handing over a file. “This is everything we could find about their household finances. He doesn’t spend a single cent of his income on the family. Tatiana paid for everything—groceries, bills, school, even their mortgage. She was their maid, their nanny, their mule.”

Serena scanned the documents, a tight knot forming in her stomach.

And now Sergio had the gall to parade into her office, playing the grieving widower, turning public opinion against her. He’d already leaked the story to online forums—blaming Tatiana’s death on corporate overwork—hoping to stir public outrage.

He hadn’t even shown her a funeral photo.

He just wanted money.

If she didn’t act quickly, her name—and face—would be all over the internet.

Serena stood, her jaw set. “We’re not waiting for the media to do our job for us. Let’s move. Tonight, we follow him.” 

---

Alexander Vanderbilt sat upright in the hospital bed, a thick bandage wrapped around his torso, his expression composed but edged with lingering fatigue. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, its soft lighting muted against the grey hush of early evening. Colton stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, delivering a low-voiced report.

“The origins of those attackers are murky,” Colton began, voice clipped with tension. “After the incident broke, they disappeared fast. No IDs, no biometric traces. My guess—they crossed the border illegally. Some foreign organization, likely contracted. What’s strange is the timing… they seemed to be after something specific.”

Alexander’s gaze narrowed. “Victoria gave me a bracelet not long ago. I thought it might’ve been the trigger.”

“My men already looked into that.” Colton shook his head. “It’s just a plain accessory. No tracker, no tech, no chemical residue. But it’s possible someone thought otherwise. Maybe that bracelet was used as a signal, even unintentionally.”

Alexander leaned back against the pillows, the fabric rustling softly. “There were two groups.”

Colton nodded grimly. “One was more professional—cold, precise. The other... cruder. That one came from your uncle Hudson.”

Alexander’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Trent's father.”

“Yes. And speaking of Trent... you beat him bad. I heard the injuries were so severe he needs help going to the bathroom. Permanently.”

Alexander snorted, amused. “You’re serious?”

“Not disabled, but close enough. Blunt trauma. Nerve damage. He’s in diapers now,” Colton said with a touch of dark humor. “You didn’t just break his body—you crushed his dignity.”

Alexander chuckled, unrepentant. “Good.”

Colton studied him for a beat, eyes unreadable. “You’re provoking the entire family just for Ava. You realize that, right?”

“They were already against me,” Alexander replied calmly, taking a slow sip of warm water. “They’ve been trying to kill me since I was a child. Only difference now is, they're being more obvious about it. Without my brother around, they think I’m vulnerable.”

He set the glass aside and continued, voice laced with disdain. “Hudson is an idiot, just like his son. Hot-headed, sloppy. And my second uncle’s family is watching quietly from the shadows, waiting for a clean shot. Cowards.”

Colton hesitated before speaking again. “In all our years in the army, you were always the one who walked out unscathed. No matter the mission, no matter the odds. But this time, you’re hurt because you care. That makes her—Ava—your weakness. And soon, your enemies will know it.”

Alexander’s gaze hardened, but he said nothing.

“You remember what they taught us,” Colton pressed. “Don’t expose your weaknesses. Ever. If you do… you won’t survive in our world.”

Colton’s voice dropped, edged with warning. “I did some digging. Ava doesn’t want a divorce. Seems like she’s planning to have a child.”

The room fell deathly silent.

Alexander’s knuckles went white around the cup. “…A child?”

Colton nodded once, slow and deliberate. “It’s common. In wealthy families, having a child means securing your position. In hers, it might be survival.”

Alexander’s chest rose sharply with a ragged breath. A storm passed through his eyes—something close to betrayal, maybe even fear.

Colton could see the reaction he was aiming for. It confirmed everything. “Weakness,” he thought again. “Remove it before it becomes irreversible.”

Alexander didn’t speak again after that. His expression turned glacial.

Colton left without another word, boots echoing down the hospital hallway. Behind him, the sterile air of the hospital room hung heavy.

For a long time, Alexander remained unmoving, alone in the silence. The shadows in the room lengthened with the setting sun.

Then, after thirty minutes of quiet, he reached for the phone.

It rang only once before she answered, her voice soft and distant. “Mr. Vanderbilt?”

“Come here,” he ordered.

Ava blinked, checking the time. It was already past eleven.

“…Can I come tomorrow?”

“Now,” he said sharply. “Don’t forget who got hurt because of you.”

She fell silent. With a resigned breath, she slid out of bed and began dressing. Her injured hand was still tender—stiff, resistant—but she managed to fasten the buttons of her coat, one slow movement at a time.

The drive to the hospital was quiet. The streets, slick from earlier rain, shimmered under streetlamps. When she arrived, the corridor outside Alexander’s room felt unnaturally still, the pale light casting long shadows down the marble floors.

She pushed the door open gently.

A cold draft escaped from the room, brushing against her like the breath of something waiting.

A chill went down her spine.

Alexander lay in bed, the faint glow of a reading lamp illuminating only half of his face—sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and eyes darkened by something unreadable.

And as he looked at her, the silence between them stretched… tight as a pulled thread. 

*

Alexander Vanderbilt watched silently as Ava stepped through the door. His eyes, dark with a mixture of fatigue and fury, flicked toward her.

He lifted a hand and beckoned her over. Wordlessly, she walked closer—until, without warning, his fingers clamped around her chin.

He tilted her face toward the sterile hospital light, studying her features like she was a puzzle that refused to be solved. But what he felt wasn’t confusion. It was a surge of possessive rage.

“Alexander, that hurts,” she muttered, flinching under his grip.

“I hope it does,” he said coldly, his voice low and bitter. “I hope it hurts enough to remind you what you’ve done.”

Then, without hesitation, he rose from the bed. He was still bandaged, his movements stiff, but his body pressed against hers, backing her into the edge of the hospital bed. One hand braced the railing, the other undid the buttons of her coat.

Ava froze.

She knew what this posture meant—had felt it before. She turned her head slightly, panic crawling into her throat. “You’re not healed yet. This isn’t the time—”

Alexander didn’t pause. “You owe me,” he said flatly. “One more time. I’ll take it whenever I want.”

His voice carried no heat, only grim finality. That’s what made it worse.

She stopped resisting—not because she wanted to, but because the words "one more time" echoed too loudly in her mind. She had agreed. That this would end.

But even as her body stilled, something about her surrender unsettled Alexander. The softness of her compliance felt wrong. It wasn’t trust—it was indifference. She simply wanted to get it over with.

That realization tightened something sharp in his chest.

Abruptly, he pulled back. With a sharp breath, he buttoned her coat back up, smoothing the fabric with quiet precision.

Perplexed, Ava looked at him. And then came the question—soft, but heavy.

“After the tenth time... would you still want me?”

She didn’t answer. Silence stretched between them like a thread pulled taut.

Alexander returned to the hospital bed, leaning back on his hands, his bandaged chest rising slowly with each breath. “You don’t want to be with me anymore?”

Ava swallowed hard. “I’m married.”

He scoffed. “And does your husband make you feel what I do?”

She glanced at the clock on her phone. It was past one in the morning. Her voice stayed level. “Mr. Vanderbilt, you need rest. I should go.”

His gaze flicked to her phone—and lingered. That phone, the one with no personal contact number for him. No name saved under his. It reminded him that for all the time they’d spent together, he was still... nothing.

Then his eyes dropped to her stomach. And something poisonous twisted in his gut.

“Is there a dead body in your belly?” he asked.

The words dropped like a blade in the quiet room.

Ava froze. Her ears rang, heart thudding. She stared at him, stunned.

Alexander, seeing no denial, felt his anger deepen into something uglier.

“So it’s true. You were pregnant. And with a man like him?” His voice was dripping with disgust. “Only someone like you would fall for that kind of fool.”

Ava’s spine stiffened. Ice crept from her chest to her limbs.

She turned, prepared to leave. No more words.

But he caught her wrist.

“You won’t even listen?” he snapped. “You care enough to carry his child, but you won’t even talk to me?”

She looked at him sharply. Her eyes burned—not with tears, but with the weight of fury long held back. “It’s none of your damn business.”

Alexander’s expression darkened. “What did you just say?”

“I said—” she took a deep breath, facing him fully now, her voice clear and unwavering— “it’s none of your business whether there’s a child or not. Or whether it’s alive or dead. It. Has. Nothing. To. Do. With. You.”

A tense silence followed. His hands curled into fists. Then he lunged, pulling her tightly into his arms.

“No connection?” His breath was hot at her ear. “You think I’ve been by your side for weeks just for nothing? I’ve spent more time with you than your husband. What the hell do you take me for?”

Ava pushed his chest, hard. “An extramarrital affair,” she said flatly. “A lover, nothing more. That’s what you are, Alexander. Call it what you want.”

He stared at her, stunned.

But she was already walking to the door.

“You said it yourself—one more time. This was it. Do what you want. It’s the last time.”

She opened the door and stepped out, letting the quiet click of it closing behind her say everything she couldn’t.

---

Alexander had never known fury quite like this. While Hugo teasing him as Ava's lover could pass as typical banter between close friends, hearing the same label from her—spoken with cold detachment and unspoken intent—cut deep. It wasn’t just a joke. It was a line drawn.

He threw open the hospital room door and stormed down the hallway, catching sight of Ava just as the elevator doors began to slide shut. With one powerful step, he jammed his hand between them and yanked her out by the wrist.

Ava didn’t resist. She thought he’d called her for that again—for one last night—and she was too tired to protest.

Back in the hospital room, the door slammed behind them. Without warning, Alexander shoved her against the wall, a hand pressed over her mouth.

“Lying there like a corpse,” he growled near her ear, “did you really think I wanted to sleep with you?”

Ava’s eyes blazed with anger, even as her mouth was muffled beneath his palm.

Outside, a nurse called out politely, “Mr. Vanderbilt? Is everything alright?”

Alexander, still restraining Ava, called back coolly, “Just a friend visiting. Everything’s fine.”

The nurse, reassured, walked away.

Lowering his head, Alexander bit her lip—hard. The sharp sting of blood mingled with the heat of his breath.

“You think I’m just your plaything?” His voice was a venomous whisper. “You’re not even worth being a bed partner. If I wanted release, I’d pay for someone better than you.”

Ava’s fury erupted. Her fist slammed into his back, right where the wound had only just started healing. His face paled instantly, muscles spasming from the pain, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even flinch.

“You speak with contempt,” he muttered, voice like gravel, “but your body tells the truth.”

She was silent. Rage buzzed behind her eyes like a hive of wasps. The air between them grew heavier, more suffocating, until the sound of morning rounds broke the tension. Only then did Alexander finally release her.

Ava slid down the wall, too exhausted to stand. Her body trembled as she knelt, fingers fumbling to adjust her disheveled clothes.

Alexander’s eyes flickered with something—guilt, perhaps, or shame—but it quickly gave way to his ever-present bitterness.

“Make sure you take your pills,” he said sharply. “I don’t want to end up like your husband—raising someone else’s child.”

Her hands froze.

She stood slowly, clothes now straightened, but her voice was rough with fatigue and heartbreak. “Alexander, we’re done. Ten times over.”

His jaw tensed. Her words stabbed deeper than he let on. Ten times over—and still, not once had she come to see him in the hospital.

She moved toward the door, faltering slightly, but steadied herself before she turned the handle.

“In the future,” she said, “don’t come looking for me again. Not for this.”

“Don’t worry,” he muttered, refusing to face her. “I won’t.”

She opened the door and stepped out, greeted by the nurse’s wide-eyed stare.

Ava didn’t look back. She knew what she must look like—clothes wrinkled, hair a mess, skin marked. But she held her head high.

Inside the room, Alexander clenched his fists beneath the sheets, breath ragged.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, it’s time to change your bandages,” the nurse said softly.

He gave no reply, just turned his back toward her. As she peeled back the bandages, the deep, inflamed wound glared up at her, still raw.

She worked in silence until she spotted the fresh scratches on his shoulders—faint red trails, clearly from fingernails. Her cheeks flushed, and without thinking, she reached out, fingertips brushing lightly over the marks.

Before she could react, Alexander turned sharply and shoved her away.

He grabbed the phone and dialed. “Dr. Malik. Come and remove this woman.”

The nurse paled, dropping to her knees beside his bed. “Mr. Vanderbilt, why her and not me? I’m cleaner than she’ll ever be!”

Alexander’s brow twisted in disgust.

Moments later, Dr. Malik entered. The air in the room was thick with tension. Wordlessly, he gestured for the nurse to leave. She scrambled out, humiliated.

Dr. Malik approached the bedside, gloves already on. “The wound’s healing slower than expected,” he reported. “The fever’s broken, but we still need to monitor for post-concussion symptoms. You’ll need at least a few more days.”

Alexander didn’t respond. He stared out the window, lost in thought.

Dr. Malik hesitated, then flipped through his chart. “There are also... fresh marks on your shoulders. Should I be concerned?”

“It's Ava,” Alexander said flatly, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the pillows.

The doctor raised an eyebrow but said nothing—though he couldn't help the edge of disapproval in his voice. “Perhaps... a little restraint would be wise. Healing requires rest.”

Alexander’s eyes snapped open. “You wouldn’t understand. That’s because you haven’t met someone you actually want.”

Dr. Malik sighed. “Perhaps. But even so, you said it’s over now?”

Alexander closed his eyes again. “Yes. It’s over. We’ve done this too many times.”

Dr. Malik doubted him. Men like Alexander didn’t just fall out of desire—not when that desire was tied to something deeper. He suspected this was far from over.

But for now, he simply nodded. “Very well.”

Alexander remained silent, lashes casting long shadows on his pale cheeks.

And for the first time in days, he looked... tired. Not from his injuries, but from something far more consuming: her. 

---

Serena returned to Le Châteauesque Manor, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. After a hot shower and a change of clothes, she collapsed onto her bed, barely able to lift a finger. Every muscle in her body ached from the relentless stress of the day.

But rest didn’t last long.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming call from the police station.

“We need you and Mr. Sergio to come in,” the officer said.

Dragging herself upright, Serena reluctantly summoned what strength she had left and headed to the station. When she arrived, Sergio was already there—along with Ricardo and Martina, the elderly couple who had made it their mission to turn grief into noise. Martina immediately pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at Serena.

“You killed her!” she wailed. “You murderer! You heartless witch!”

Serena stood stiffly in the fluorescent-lit room, her expression unreadable as the tirade unfolded. She turned calmly to one of the officers.

“Has the autopsy report been released yet?”

The officer gave her a tired look. “The body was cremated shortly after death. Tatiana’s maternal relatives were either absent or uninterested. Her husband made the decision, so there was no autopsy.”

Serena’s lips parted in disbelief. “So just because Sergio was her legal husband, he had the right to dispose of the body—without any scrutiny? That alone is suspicious!”

“You little slut! What kind of filth are you spewing?” Martina shrieked, her voice cracking with fury. But perhaps Serena's poise—or power—kept her from launching into a physical attack.

Serena took a sharp breath and steadied her voice. “Tatiana had been abused for years. There must be hospital records—dozens of them. You can’t ignore a lifetime of domestic violence just because she never formally complained.”

“Miss Serena,” the officer replied with a weary sigh, “we are investigating, but without a body or surveillance, it’s difficult. We need your understanding. And… since she worked at your company, maybe you can resolve this matter privately with Mr. Sergio.”

Serena’s jaw tightened. That answer, though polite, was laced with helplessness—the kind that came from having your hands tied by the limits of the law. Tatiana had been failed at every turn—by her family, by the legal system, and now by death itself.

“Did you find any documentation of the abuse?” she asked again.

“Just minor injuries, and without her pursuing charges, it was logged as marital disagreements.”

Serena stared blankly at the officer, a bitter taste rising in her throat. Her fingers curled at her sides.

Across from her, Sergio’s mouth stretched into a smug, oily smile. “You heard the officer. We can settle this privately. Ten million. If you don’t pay, I’ll keep flooding the internet with stories. Your company will be known for driving employees to death from overwork.”

Ten million. He named the sum like it was pocket change. Serena could afford it—but she wouldn't hand a single cent to a man like him.

Her voice turned cold. “You can try. Let’s see who ends up ruined—me, or you.”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode out.

Behind her, Sergio bellowed at the officers. “Did you see that? She’s lawless! She threatened me!”

The officer ignored him.

Even though Serena had submitted evidence of Sergio’s long-standing infidelity, the truth was that it wasn’t a crime. Just immoral. And Tatiana’s silence over the years had now cost her everything.

Back in the car, Serena sat in the front passenger seat beside Marilyn, who had witnessed the entire confrontation.

“Serena,” Marilyn said quietly, “Sergio’s making a lot of noise online.”

Serena leaned her head back, her face pale and drawn. “It doesn’t matter. Without a complaint on record, the law won’t prosecute him. Even if he killed her.”

Marilyn clenched her fists. “So if he’s the murderer, he walks free—and we’re the ones paying damages?”

Serena nodded tiredly.

Marilyn swore under her breath. “What kind of society is this?”

Serena looked out the window, the city lights flashing like distant stars. “It’s why women need to choose their husbands carefully. Marriage is the only moment a woman gets to choose her future family. This is the man who stood outside the delivery room, signing off on her pain. The man who beat her behind closed doors and told the world it was just a disagreement.”

She paused, her voice hollow. “I warned her once, but she had been tamed—completely used to being abused. She never thought of divorce. She only thought about supporting the household.”

“And now he’s asking for two million?” Marilyn asked.

Serena nodded. “He already used the Morales family’s earlier compensation to pay off his mortgage. If we give him more, he’ll just use it to pamper his mistress.”

Marilyn’s face darkened. “He’s scum. What are you going to do?”

Serena's eyes narrowed. “We’re not done. Come with me tonight.”

She pulled out her phone and called Rachel, requesting a few of her most reliable bodyguards—men who could handle dangerous situations without asking questions.

That night, Serena instructed them to quietly track down Sergio’s two sons.

“If he killed Tatiana, those boys know. They were in that house.”

The police couldn’t arrest Sergio without hard evidence.

But Serena? She wasn’t bound by the same limitations.

Tatiana had worked for the Morales family for years, never once complaining, never asking for help. Now that she was gone, Serena owed her at least one thing—justice. 

Half an hour later, the two young men who had planned to go out for the night found themselves captured and dragged into a dim, locked basement by Serena’s bodyguards.

Neither had ever faced such a situation before. The sheer abruptness of being ambushed, blindfolded, and bound by strangers left them shaken to their cores. Panic seeped from every pore. Their muffled cries echoed against the concrete walls.

Serena stood at the top of the stairs, her gaze frigid. “Separate them,” she ordered.

At once, the guards pulled the brothers apart and took them into separate rooms for questioning.

The elder son, though pale, sat stiffly upright. Fear was evident in his clenched fists and darting eyes, but he held on to a veneer of composure. The younger one, however, crumbled the moment the door slammed shut behind him. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. He trembled so violently he couldn’t sit still. The air stank of urine—he had wet himself from sheer terror.

Serena chose to focus on the younger brother first.

Blindfolded, the boy whimpered as he was kicked to the floor. His face twisted in agony as a jolt of pain shot through his ribs. He clutched his side, trying to curl into himself, but the guards offered no reprieve.

“You’ll speak,” one of the bodyguards said, voice low and unforgiving. “Or you’ll bleed.”

From behind him, a dagger slid free of its sheath with a cold metallic whisper. The boy barely had time to scream before the blade pressed into the flesh of his foot—slow, deliberate, shallow at first. His screams echoed, animalistic and raw.

“I don’t know anything! Please—please don’t hurt me,” he sobbed, voice cracking under the pressure.

Another blade was drawn, its tip finding the muscle in his calf. The pain was worse this time, making his entire body convulse. It went on like this—slow torment—for thirty minutes. When the boy’s cries turned to hoarse whispers and blood soaked into the floor, he finally broke.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” he gasped.

The room fell still. The guard stepped back. Serena, standing just outside the doorway, folded her arms and waited.

“My… my father brought his mistress home that day,” the boy choked out. “We all knew about her—me, my brother, even my grandparents. She had money. She gave me and my brother cash every month. She owns two houses in the city, maybe more. My grandparents… they were all in favor of my dad divorcing my mom. They said she was too old, too rigid, always counting pennies.”

His voice wavered, thick with guilt and self-loathing.

“My dad liked the mistress but said she spent money like water. He didn’t want to divorce Mom because… because she was better at saving, at budgeting. But that day, he finally brought the woman home. They were going to discuss how to end the marriage. They were… in bed together when my mom came home unexpectedly. She caught them.”

Serena’s jaw clenched, her breath catching.

“She went crazy. Screamed she’d report my dad to his company, ruin him. My grandparents yelled at her, said she was ungrateful, said she was ruining everything. She didn’t care. She was… crying, furious. She told Dad she’d take everything from him.”

He paused, trying to breathe.

“My dad panicked. He hit her. She hit back. They struggled. She tried to grab the phone, and he… he put his hands around her throat. She wouldn’t stop fighting. She scratched him, clawed at his face. That’s when my brother jumped in. Then me. We—" he gagged, "—we helped him. Held her arms. She wouldn’t stop moving, not until she just… didn’t anymore.”

The room was silent.

Serena felt a coldness crawl up her spine, her hands turning into fists at her sides.

Three men. One woman.

Tatiana had been outnumbered, overpowered, and betrayed in the place she once called home. A home she’d kept running with quiet labor—scrubbing floors, cooking meals, folding laundry with worn hands. A life spent sacrificing for ungrateful sons and a husband who saw her as disposable.

And in her final moments, no one—not one—had reached out to stop it.

The mistress had stood by. The grandparents, too.

No one had lifted a hand to save her.

Tatiana had died alone, surrounded by the very people she had fed and raised.

And now, Serena understood: this wasn’t about overwork. It was murder. Premeditated, brutal, and cowardly.

Her expression didn’t change, but her voice, when she finally spoke, was like ice cracking over a frozen lake. “Take him away. And make sure the world hears every word of this.”

Because Tatiana would not be forgotten. Not like this.

Not by them.