* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 2nd * Chapter 224

Dear Gentle Readers,

There are a few paragraphs missing from previous chapter when this author copied from his word file to here : 

The suite was elegantly appointed but clearly meant for two. A single, spacious bedroom opened into a sunlit living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a breathtaking view of the open sea. Pale linen curtains danced lightly in the breeze, drawn in from a narrow balcony where a bottle of champagne waited in a silver bucket of ice. Every inch of the room spoke of intimacy—plush throw pillows arranged on the wide sectional couch, two robes hanging side by side in the marble-clad bathroom, a bed far too large for one.

It was the kind of suite usually reserved for lovers, or at the very least, couples whose closeness wouldn’t raise eyebrows within their social circle.

She didn’t need a manual to understand the message behind the room’s design—or the intent behind the booking.

Cornelius had arranged it this way. When he handed Serena the cruise ticket days ago, there had been something quietly pleading in his tired eyes. A last-ditch effort. A final test of fate. Though he said nothing explicitly, the implication hung thick between them:

Please, don’t give up on him yet.

Cornelius Vanderbilt—the seasoned patriarch who'd watched his family fracture under its own ambition—could not bear the thought of Serena walking away from his unworthy grandson. Not entirely. Not without one last chance to mend what had already begun to break. 

***

Chapter 224 

The moment Ava hit the water, the icy current swallowed her whole. It rushed over her body in violent waves, dragging her downward with a strength she couldn't fight. Her limbs flailed instinctively, but the pressure around her tightened like a noose. The roar of the ship’s turbines thundered in her ears, and a terrifying force seemed to tug at her legs, pulling her deeper.

Am I being sucked in? Will I be torn apart by the propellers? she wondered dimly, panic making her chest tighten.

"Ava?!"

From the crowd on the lower deck, Alexei caught a glimpse of the falling figure—her silhouette flashing just long enough to burn itself into his vision. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leapt into the water.

Crew members nearby sprang into action, tossing lifebuoys and lowering emergency boats, but Alexei reached her first. She had already taken in too much water; her chest barely rose, her eyes were shut tightly, her body limp.

“Ava—damn it—breathe!”

He hoisted her into the lifeboat, his own soaked arms trembling. Kneeling beside her, he began chest compressions and pressed down gently on her abdomen, trying to force the water out of her lungs.

“Come on, come on,” he murmured through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare.”

Nearby crew scrambled with radios, and within ten minutes, the unmistakable thump of helicopter blades echoed through the foggy river air. Visibility was low—no one on the decks had clearly seen who fell. Only the commotion, the panic, and the water.

Among the bystanders, Victoria watched with cold eyes as Ava was lifted into the helicopter.

Why didn’t she die? she thought bitterly. That fall should’ve ended it. But no matter. There are always other ways.

Determined, Victoria made her way toward the upper decks. She already knew Alexander’s room number. Her heels clicked sharply against the corridor floor as she approached and then paused. A sly smirk tugged at her lips as she hit ‘record’ on her phone. Then she knocked.

Inside, Alexander, still in a post-shower haze, heard the knocking and assumed it was Ava. For a brief moment, a flicker of hope sparked in his eyes. But the second he opened the door and saw Victoria, the light vanished.

“Alexander,” she began breathlessly, her tone laced with urgency. “Something terrible just happened. Serena—she fell into the water. It's chaos down there.”

His expression darkened, the mention of Serena catching him off guard. He leaned against the doorframe, his jaw tightening.

“She might be seriously hurt,” Victoria pressed.

But before she could say more, the door closed in her face.

Inside, Alexander’s instincts screamed at him—this was a setup. Serena—no, Ava—was here, and Victoria wanted to use the situation to out her in public. He wasn’t falling for it.

Outside, Victoria blinked at the door in stunned silence—then a slow, triumphant smile crept across her lips. She had caught every word on the recording.

"She’d better have drowned," Alexander had said. "Not causing any trouble for everyone."

What would Serena say when she hears that? she thought with a thrill of satisfaction.

Inside the suite, Alexander stood by the window, tense. The scent of Ava’s perfume still lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. It clung to the sheets. It was supposed to be a neutral, impersonal hotel room. But now, it reeked of her—her presence, her absence. 

If he were to open the wardrobe now, he’d undoubtedly discover several dresses neatly hanging—dresses that belonged to Ava.

Delicate silks, soft cottons, subtle florals—each piece carried her quiet elegance, her scent faintly lingering in the fabric like an invisible signature.

Seeing them would stir questions. Why were her clothes here?

This suite was reserved only for married couples. It wasn’t the kind of place that tolerated ambiguity. 

But he was too engrossed with what had happened in the powder room that night. When she had hid him under her dress and he made her come... 

His thoughts spun back to her lips, her defiance, her warmth. 

His throat tightened. 

Frustrated, Alexander pulled on his shirt and immediately picked up the phone. He requested a helicopter, muttering that he had no desire to remain for the final two days of the event.

He needed to get out—before her scent drove him insane. 

Alexander didn’t yet realize it—too distracted by what Ava made him feel—but the truth stood in plain sight. The dresses weren’t just a trace of a lover. 

They were the proof of a wife. His wife.

And he had missed it. 

---

Meanwhile, Ava had already been rushed to the hospital.

Alexei paced the sterile hallway outside the emergency room, worry etched deeply into his features. But despite his rising panic, he couldn’t bring himself to call Alexander. The thought alone left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn't want that man swooping in now—offering comfort, only for Ava to mistake it for love.

Inside, a team of doctors worked swiftly and methodically to stabilize her. Though they managed to save her life, their expressions remained tense.

"Given the length of submersion," one of the physicians explained gravely, "we’re monitoring for potential complications—organ failure, or rhabdomyolysis. She'll need to be under observation for at least a few days."

Alexei exhaled, his tense shoulders lowering slightly with relief. Ava had pulled through.

He stepped toward the door to see her—but just then, a nurse emerged, asking for privacy to change Ava out of her soaked clothes and into a hospital gown. Begrudgingly, Alexei stepped back.

Inside the dim hospital room, Ava lay motionless beneath white sheets, her face ghost-pale, her chest rising and falling with effort. Her skin was clammy, her dark hair plastered to her temples, and she looked utterly fragile—an echo of the vibrant woman she usually was.

When Alexei was finally allowed in, he approached quietly, his eyes scanning her for injuries. That’s when he noticed it—just beneath the neckline of her hospital gown, a faint bite mark on her shoulder. Not deep, but unmistakable.

At three in the morning, Ava stirred.

Her eyelids fluttered open, eyes glassy and disoriented. She gasped, her lungs aching as if she were still underwater.

Seeing her struggle, Alexei leaned forward. “Don’t speak. Not yet,” he said gently, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “You nearly drowned. Just rest.”

She blinked at him, confused, but too weak to argue. Her eyes slipped shut again.

Her phone, miraculously undamaged after the incident, had been retrieved. At Alexei's request, hospital staff had carefully dried it out and returned it to her bedside.

By the time morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, Ava had developed a fever. A nurse came in to hang IV fluids beside her, and Ava sat up slowly, her lips dry and her skin flushed with heat. She coughed—a hoarse, painful sound that seemed to echo in her chest.

“How did it happen?” Alexei asked quietly, watching her with concern.

“I was pushed,” Ava murmured. Her voice was faint, yet clear.

She hadn’t seen who did it. All she remembered was the sensation of falling, her body slicing into the water’s surface like a dropped stone. The cold had wrapped around her instantly, dragging her down into suffocating blackness. The fear had been visceral—primordial. She could still feel it coiling in her chest.

“It was either Victoria or Mandy,” she whispered. “I offended both of them last night.”

Alexei didn’t press further. Instead, he sat beside her, brows knitted as she reached for her phone.

She tapped on a message—one from Victoria. A recording played aloud. It was a conversation between Alexander and Victoria from the previous night. She didn’t lower the volume, and the words poured out into the hospital room, every syllable slicing through the air.

Alexei’s eyes widened as he listened, his face flushing with rage. “That bastard! He’s un-f*cking-believable.”

He turned to Ava. “You need to divorce him, Ava. You shouldn’t have to take this. Not from him.”

Ava said nothing. Her lips were parted slightly, her gaze distant, but the pain was unmistakable in her eyes. A different kind of pain—not physical, but something deeper, sharper.

Alexei snatched the phone from her hands. “Enough. Stop listening to their garbage. Let the two of them rot in their own mess.”

Ava lowered her gaze. Her hands rested limply atop the blanket, her voice soft. “I’ve just… always wondered why he hated me so much.”

She had never chased Alexander. She had stepped into the marriage by necessity, and even then, she’d kept her distance—offering a timeline, a clean break. Only three months. Now, with barely two left, it seemed he wanted her gone even faster. If she’d drowned last night, he might not have cared. He might have even welcomed the convenience.

Alexei’s anger softened into quiet bitterness. “Men like him,” he said, “don’t appreciate what they have until it’s gone. That’s just the truth. They ruin what’s good, and cry over the ashes later. I’ve seen it time and time again.”

Ava didn’t reply. She turned her face toward the window, her eyes clouded with something unreadable.

Alexei lingered for a while longer, his tone increasingly sharp, peppering in biting comments about Alexander. But when Ava’s expression hardened—her eyes growing colder with every word—he finally stood and excused himself.

Later, the doctor returned to check on her vitals and gently insisted she remain for several more days. Despite her protest, Ava was too weak to leave.

So she stayed.

The room was quiet, save for the faint beeping of machines and the whisper of rain outside. And as the cruise banquet came to a close somewhere across the city, Ava lay in that hospital bed—alone, silent, and uncertain of what would come next.

--- 

Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt called Serena, his voice weathered by age and softened by worry.

"How are you feeling?" he asked gently.

Serena pressed the phone closer to her ear, her expression tight. A faint bitterness curled at the corners of her lips. Her chest felt heavy, as though even a simple breath required effort.

"Grandpa," she said, her voice low but steady, "please don’t try to push Alexander and me together anymore."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then came a deep sigh.

"...Alright. I understand. I won’t push it again."

The call ended, and Serena sat there, phone still pressed to her ear, eyes staring blankly into space. The silence in the room closed around her like a blanket, heavy and suffocating. All she wanted was peace—but even peace, it seemed, came with a cost.

For the next two weeks, she kept to herself, recovering at home. The drowning incident had taken more out of her than she admitted, leaving her body weak and her mind frayed like the end of a rope. She slept long hours and avoided the news, until the day she heard that the Laurent family had sold off that cursed plot of land—at a loss—for just $110 million. The sale had pushed them into financial disarray, forcing them to seek emergency financing.

The Laurent name was slipping, and with it, Victoria's influence.

Thanks to Alexander’s behavior on the cruise, Victoria’s standing as his so-called “ex-girlfriend” had lost its edge. That status now meant little—unless she could somehow prove he still cared about her.

Serena sighed and reached for a file on her desk, but before she could open it, her phone buzzed.

It was her work phone—the one linked to the name Ava Alvarez. A familiar number flashed on the screen. Another message from Alexander.

He always sent the messages there.

Every couple of days, like clockwork, he would check in:

What are you doing?

Are you busy today?

Can we talk?

She never replied.

Now, ten unread messages were stacked beneath his name like unopened letters collecting dust.

Serena stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then, without a second thought, she took a screenshot of the latest message. Her thumb hovered over the I*******m app, and within seconds, she posted the screenshot on her professional account—the one her clients, peers, and industry contacts followed.

Caption: [I’m married. Please stop contacting me.]

She didn’t blur out his name. Alexander Vanderbilt was visible in bold at the top of the message, unmistakable to anyone even slightly familiar with New York’s elite.

Within minutes, the comments began to flood in.

The first to respond was Raphael, his comment riddled with disbelief:

Raphael: [Ava, that can't be my cousin… right? This has to be someone else with the same profile picture… right?!]

Rita chimed in next, more direct and far less confused:

Rita: [Nope. That’s definitely Alexander. What is he thinking?!]

And then the storm truly began. Since Serena had posted from her verified work account—the one associated with her real professional standing—many prominent figures she had collaborated with in business and media saw it immediately.

Conversations started to swirl in private group chats and high-profile message threads across the city.

“Wait—isn’t that Alexander Vanderbilt?”

“Wasn’t he seen leaving with someone at Victor’s party?”

“Hold on, didn’t he defend that same woman on the cruise?”

“Hugo keeps saying Alexander doesn’t even respond to his texts. What’s going on?”

What had started as a single post was snowballing into a scandal. In a city where silence was power and image was everything, Alexander’s quiet pursuit of a woman the world believed was a stranger—now exposed—was making waves.

And Serena?

She closed her phone and exhaled, pressing her fingertips to her temples. For once, she wasn’t angry.

She was just tired.

---

At the towering glass edifice of Vanderbilt Group headquarters, Alexander sat behind his polished desk, unaware that Ava had already taken screenshots of their private message exchanges. Lately, she hadn't responded to any of his texts. He assumed she was still sulking over the argument they'd had that night.

Half an hour later, Jonathan stepped in, documents in hand, a hesitant crease on his brow.

Alexander glanced up sharply. "Is there an issue with the meeting later?"

Jonathan shook his head. "No, sir."

"Problems with the project timeline?"

Again, a shake of the head.

Alexander's eyes narrowed, his tone dipping cold. "Then what is it?"

Jonathan lingered awkwardly, clearly struggling to find the right words. After a pause, he finally muttered, “President... have you checked your News Feed lately?”

Alexander scoffed, setting down his pen. “I don’t read gossip.”

Jonathan winced. “Miss Ava posted something. She publicly asked you to stop contacting her… and said she’s already married.”

A beat of silence followed. Alexander remained still, his fingers still curled around the pen.

“She also posted screenshots of your chat history,” Jonathan continued, his voice tight with caution. “And now, sir… well, everyone knows.”

Alexander’s jaw clenched as he picked up his phone, but before he could open any apps, it buzzed.

Raphael was calling.

"Alexander, what’s going on?" Raphael’s voice was cautious. He clearly wanted to say more but danced around the point. "Ava seems really committed to her marriage. She said she won’t divorce."

Alexander ended the call without a word.

A second call came through—Hugo.

"Finally," Hugo's mocking tone rang out. "I sent you dozens of messages, and you ignored all of them. So this is what you’ve been doing? Chasing after a designer?"

Click.

Alexander ended that one too.

One after another, calls rolled in. He didn’t answer any of them.

His face grew darker by the second, a storm cloud brewing behind his sharp gaze. Jonathan stood awkwardly nearby, unsure whether to stay or slip out. After what felt like an eternity, Alexander finally picked up his phone and called Ava.

But her number had already blocked him.

—

Meanwhile, Ava sat in the E.A. Group office, calmly reviewing a stack of documents while the PR department handled a recent infringement case against a clothing company. The company had used her designs without permission, but the evidence was overwhelming. Within hours, they folded, offering a two-million-dollar settlement and requesting the issue be resolved quietly.

Ava agreed—on one condition: they were never to hire Mandy again as a spokesperson.

By evening, the company issued a public statement announcing the end of their collaboration with Mandy. Though vague, it made Mandy appear responsible for the fallout. With that, her career took a hit—losing over a million followers in just a few hours.

With Michael having recently dumped her as well, Mandy could only grit her teeth and swallow the embarrassment.

At six, Ava received a call from Wes.

“Ava, filming wraps in about two weeks. If you want to visit the set, this might be your last chance,” he said.

Visiting the set was a golden opportunity—not just to understand the filming process better, but also to scout for fresh talent among the extras. Ava had her team prepare over three hundred cups of coffee and planned to present them as gifts from Wes's fan club to the crew and fans on-site.

When she arrived, the sky was gray and misting with rain. Hundreds of fans stood gathered outside the set’s perimeter, many huddled under umbrellas, waiting in the drizzle for a glimpse of Wes.

Ava stepped out of her car with a black umbrella in hand, her heels tapping lightly against the damp pavement. Her staff distributed the coffee to fans on her cue, making it look like a gesture from Wes’s team.

Inside, Wes noticed her immediately. His eyes lit up.

“Ava!” he called, striding toward her with a warmth that made some of the staff nearby glance over.

She offered him a polite nod before turning her gaze toward the elaborate set.

With no scene to shoot at the moment, Wes led her around personally, offering a behind-the-scenes glimpse. “Ava, when my contract ends, I won’t be signing with any agency. Would E.A. consider taking me in?”

She paused, surprised. Wes was an A-list actor. Having him sign with E.A., still in its infancy, would be like planting a superstar in a startup—it would change everything.

“Wes… you’re being kind, but I don’t have the resources to support you the way your current agency can.”

“It’s not about resources,” Wes replied quickly. “I trust you. You’re not the type to sell your artists out, and I can fight for my own opportunities. Plus, my acting’s not bad.”

Just as the two were deep in conversation, someone else arrived at the set—Hugo.

He spotted them immediately. Ava and Wes, close and clearly comfortable with each other.

Hugo didn’t waste a second. He snapped a discreet photo, framed just right, and sent it directly to Alexander.

Attached was a single caption:

[The woman you’re chasing just showed up… for Wes.] 

*

Ava had been on set for nearly two hours now. After a brief conversation with Wes, she had verbally agreed to join E.A., though part of her mind still lingered in contemplation. Her eyes roamed across the extras bustling around the studio—each face carefully cast for the day's shoot—but none stood out to her. That is, until she noticed Hugo.

He was engrossed in a discussion with the director, gesturing animatedly as they reviewed the next scene. When the conversation wrapped up, Hugo noticed her standing nearby and walked over with a casual smile.

“Ava, heading out?” he asked.

She nodded. The two of them made their way off set together, the clamor of the crew fading behind them. They stopped near Hugo’s sleek black car, the city sun glinting off its polished surface.

Hugo leaned against the hood and turned toward her. “Alexander hasn’t come to see you recently,” he remarked. “You’ve been with him for so long—are you really saying you haven’t felt anything?”

Feelings? Ava paused, the word reverberating in her mind like a distant echo. She had asked herself that very question once. Maybe there had been a moment when something flickered. But it wasn’t love. No—what she had felt was fleeting, physical, and ultimately shallow. It was about desire, not depth.

“I’ve never had feelings for him,” she said coolly. “I’ve always understood exactly what kind of relationship I had with Mr. Vanderbilt.”

Hugo raised a brow. “You really don’t like him at all?”

Ava’s lips curved into a soft, sardonic smile. “Mr. Reed, I don’t make a habit of torturing myself.”

The answer was so smooth, so effortless, that it shut down any further probing. She pulled out her phone, glanced at the time, and offered a polite nod. “I’ve got something to handle later, so I’ll take my leave. Goodbye.”

Hugo gave her a small wave as she walked away. Only after she disappeared from view did the front passenger window of a nearby car roll down with a quiet click. Inside sat Alexander Vanderbilt.

The window had been cracked just enough for him to hear every word.

Each sentence Ava had spoken sliced through him like a blade—quiet, clean, and merciless. He stared ahead, expression unreadable, while inside, something churned violently. His pride screamed for him to get out of the car and confront her. If she felt nothing... why did she always cry out for him like that? Why did her body tremble against his, her eyes glassy with need, like she wanted him to stay forever?

But he said nothing.

Instead, he lowered his gaze, flipping through the documents on his lap with a blank face, pretending to be unaffected.

Hugo approached the car and leaned in through the open window, his tone light but deliberate. “She’s calmer than most women I’ve seen in your life.”

“I know,” Alexander replied, voice low and hoarse.

Hugo studied his face for a moment. “You’re not mad?”

“There’s no reason to be.”

Hugo chuckled and got into the passenger seat. Jonathan started the engine and pulled the car into motion.

“You know,” Hugo said with a quiet edge, “if you do like her—and I think you do—you should stop this cold war nonsense. Treat her properly. Have a real relationship. And when it ends, don’t walk away like it meant nothing. Especially since your divorce is, what... a month and a half away?”

Alexander didn’t reply immediately. He continued scribbling notes across the page in front of him, the pen’s tip biting sharply into the paper.

Then came his cold response: “Do you think I can’t live without her? I already told her—it’s just a game between adults. If she takes it seriously, she’s the one who’ll make things messy.”

His voice was sharp, his words meant to sting. But Hugo wasn’t fooled. He leaned his head back against the seat and sighed, saying nothing more.

The silence in the car was deafening.

After leaving the set, Ava headed straight to the Morales family estate, unaware that her every word had already left an indelible mark on Alexander Vanderbilt's heart.

--- 

As Serena ascended the staircase to the second floor, she was met with the sight of a servant carrying a porcelain basin filled with dark, diluted blood from Alfonso’s room. The sight was so jarring that her feet involuntarily stopped.

The servant froze upon seeing her, lowering her gaze nervously. “Miss Morales.”

Though Serena had long been prepared for the inevitable, the reality struck her harder than she anticipated. She hadn’t expected to witness something so visceral, so intimate in its horror.

Her fingertips rested lightly on the door handle. She hesitated, as if the weight of her next breath depended on what waited behind that door. And then—she pushed it open.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of medicine and disinfectant. Alfonso sat hunched at the edge of the bed, coughing hoarsely, each wheeze wracking his frail body. His frame had withered to the point of being almost unrecognizable. Skin like parchment, sunken cheeks, and dim eyes that once held command now struggled to stay open.

Serena’s heart clenched. The man before her bore no resemblance to the once-vibrant patriarch of the Morales family.

“Serena,” Alfonso rasped, his eyes meeting hers with a faint glint of awareness.

She took a cautious step forward, swallowing back the lump in her throat. “Dad.”

The trash bin beside the bed overflowed with crumpled tissues, stained with crimson.

“How are you feeling?” she asked softly, her voice trembling despite her efforts.

Alfonso barely had the strength to respond. His voice cracked as he whispered, “I may not make it through another half-month.”

Serena blinked rapidly, trying to keep her composure.

“I was wrong… about everything before,” he continued with great effort. “I’m sorry… Serena. I failed you… and I failed Elena.”

His breathing was shallow. “We still haven’t found the child. I don’t think I have the time to wait anymore. I’m… sorry.”

He looked away toward the window, as if trying to catch one final glimpse of light. “If… if there’s ever news… just bring it to my tomb. That’s enough for me.”

Serena stepped closer, her fists clenched at her sides. “Dad…”

“After today… don’t come back. I can’t stand being seen like this.” His eyes glistened. “Go… pick a burial plot for me. Everyone has to leave… at some point.”

There was a long pause—one filled with silent grief. Serena finally broke the stillness. “In a month and a half… Alexander and I will be divorced.”

Alfonso gave a slight nod, as though that news finally allowed him to breathe. “Good. That’s good. You don’t love him.”

His voice faltered, and then—unexpectedly—he began to reminisce.

“When I used to set up my street stall… you had a little ten-square-foot bed under the counter. I’d haggle with customers while Elena knelt beside you, keeping you warm. The streetlamps barely worked back then… when you cried, people left. No sales. But we couldn’t stop… we had to comfort you.”

Serena’s vision blurred.

“Dad… rest now.”

Alfonso’s energy depleted, his lips pale. “Bury me in New York. I… I can’t face Elena in Charleston.”

Serena nodded, wiping her eyes. “Alright. I’ll choose one this afternoon.”

He exhaled and slowly closed his eyes.

With trembling fingers, Serena leaned forward to feel beneath his nose—still a faint breath, thin and fragile, like a thread that could snap with the wind.

She left the room quietly, shoulders squared but spirit breaking. In the corridor, a longtime servant approached her.

“Miss Morales,” the woman said gently, “the doctor visited yesterday. Best case… another month. Mr. Alfonso’s been speaking about you nonstop. He’s let go of nearly everything now. He doesn’t want you to see him like this again. Maybe… maybe it’s best not to come next time.”

Serena remained quiet, absorbing the quiet mercy behind the advice.

The servant escorted her toward the door and added, “He asked us to find a resting place for him, but later insisted you choose it. He said he trusted your eye… so you might want to do that soon, just in case.”

Serena nodded faintly, unable to find her voice.

As she stepped outside, her world felt heavier, her steps floating on legs that no longer felt like her own. Then fate added its small cruelty: her car had a flat tire. A nail, probably run over on the way in, was embedded fully in the rubber.

“Miss Morales,” the driver offered, “why not take one of the Morales family’s cars?”

She didn’t argue. The Morales fleet still had a few high-end vehicles. She selected a sleek black Lamborghini once used by Valentina, leaving her own modest car behind.

Later that afternoon, she made the necessary calls to the cemetery.

She selected a burial plot near a quiet hilltop in New York City—one with tall trees, morning light, and silence. A place Alfonso would not be ashamed of. A place that could feel like peace.

--- 

After the cruise banquet, Mandy's world unraveled.

The once-rising star found herself plummeting into obscurity. Michael dumped her, her contract was abruptly terminated, and the clothing company she had once promoted—eager to ride her popularity—wasted no time in cutting ties. With her relationship to Michael severed, they pinned all remaining liabilities on her. She became a convenient scapegoat.

Her social media reflected the fallout. Within days, Mandy lost a million followers. The numbers continued to nosedive.

She sat opposite Victoria in a quiet café, her expression pale, eyes ringed with sleeplessness. Victoria, ever composed, stirred her tea with a slow, deliberate motion, a thin smile playing on her lips.

“Mandy,” she said coolly, “you need to be careful. That woman’s not done with you. She’ll keep coming.”

Mandy’s nerves were frayed, paranoia sharpening her every thought. “She dares to come at me again? I swear—I’ll make her pay.”

Victoria leaned in, her voice low and filled with false sympathy. “And how exactly would you do that? You’ve seen what she has. Alexander Vanderbilt is backing her. No one can touch her... not even me.”

The fire in Mandy’s eyes dimmed slightly, her bravado faltering beneath the weight of Victoria’s words. And Victoria, sensing it, smiled inwardly. She just needed to push a little more.

Over the next month, things went from bad to worse. Mandy’s follower count dropped by over three million. Then, an old video surfaced—one from her school days, where she was seen bullying a classmate. The footage was grainy but damning. Mandy, who had carefully cultivated a sweet, innocent public image, now faced the full wrath of public opinion.

She was spiraling, her desperation palpable.

One night, in tears, she called Victoria. “Please… for the sake of our friendship, help me. I’m being destroyed.”

Victoria, seated in her opulent dressing room, let out a carefully timed sigh. “Mandy, I want to help you, I do… but it’s clear that Ava is targeting you. My hands are tied.”

Victoria knew the truth—she was the one who had leaked the school bullying video in the first place. All part of the plan. A cornered person would strike without restraint. That’s what she needed.

“I’ve lost everything because of her,” Mandy choked out. “She ruined me. That despicable woman!”

Victoria’s eyes gleamed coldly behind the phone. “Even the Laurent family is struggling right now. Ava’s not someone I can fight either. She’s too well-protected.”

“I wish she’d drop dead!”

That was the cue Victoria had been waiting for. Calmly, she provided Ava’s license plate number. “Maybe… you should pay her a visit. Talk things out. End this properly.”

Mandy hung up without another word.

—

Meanwhile, Ava was buried in work. The Fair Group’s leap into the entertainment industry was progressing faster than expected. She had carefully selected executives and allocated five million dollars to each of them for investment. They’d not only returned the funds—they’d made profits.

Then came the call from Wes. A top-tier actor. A soon-to-be contract in hand. His arrival brought a wave of fresh momentum, raising morale across the company. Even the most skeptical executives were beginning to believe in Ava’s vision.

It was six in the evening when Ava’s phone rang.

“Where are you?” came Alfonso’s familiar voice.

“Still at the office. Are you feeling better, Dad?”

“I’m feeling much better,” Alfonso replied gently.

Ava smiled faintly, but her heart tightened.

She could hear it now—the subtle shift in his voice. The quiet clarity some people find near the end. A final moment of peace before the light fades. Her chest constricted. This was Alfonso’s last flicker of strength.

—

At the Morales estate, dinner was ready. Alfonso, leaning on his cane, insisted on coming downstairs himself. The maid rushed forward, trying to stop him.

“Mr. Morales, we’ll bring it to you. Please, don’t exert yourself.”

But Alfonso shook his head firmly. “If I’m going, I want to go with no regrets. Let me do this one last thing.”

As death draws close, the soul becomes stubborn. There are things people refuse to leave unfinished. Alfonso had one of those things—something, or someone, that his heart couldn’t let go.

He was escorted into a car—Ava’s car, the one she used often. The driver suggested switching to a safer vehicle, but Alfonso waved him off.

“This one is fine,” he said, his voice soft.

As the car began to move through the city’s glowing streets, Alfonso leaned back and opened the compartment beside him. Inside were Ava’s belongings—books on painting, finance, art history. He touched each one gently, smiling faintly, though his coughs punctuated every breath.

The maid sat beside him, watching silently.

Then—suddenly—a shriek of tires and the thunderous crack of metal splitting metal.

A red sports car shot through the intersection and collided violently with Alfonso’s car, flipping it over and sending it hurtling more than 600 feet. The screech of brakes, the scream of twisted metal, the chaos—it all happened in seconds.

Gasps rang out from nearby cars. Traffic lights cycled through their colors, but no one moved. People froze, shocked, horrified.

Alfonso’s car landed upside down. Smoke curled from under the hood. Flames began to rise.

Someone shouted. Phones were pulled out. Emergency services were called.

—

Mandy’s body was slumped near the wreckage, ejected by the force of the airbag. Glass shards pierced her chest. Blood soaked her blouse. Her lips trembled.

She could see the car burning.

She smiled.

That twisted, broken smile of someone whose hatred had consumed them.

“You bastard,” she whispered, coughing blood. “Go to hell.”

Then the flames swallowed the rest.

---

Ava sat in her office, unable to shake the unsettling feeling that had shadowed her all day. Her temples throbbed with a dull ache, the product of too many back-to-back meetings, stacks of dense documents, and a lingering fatigue that no amount of caffeine could shake. Her focus slipped repeatedly, the words on the screen blurring into a haze.

Then, at nine o’clock in the evening, her phone rang.

It was the hospital.

“Miss Morales, we need you to come in and identify a body.”

Her mind stumbled. There had to be some mistake.

But then the nurse on the line began reciting information—names, identifiers, details she couldn’t ignore.

“Your father, Alfonso Morales, was in a car accident at around 7 p.m. All three passengers in the vehicle... didn’t survive.”

Ava’s blood ran cold.

Alfonso? That couldn’t be right. Her father had been bedridden for weeks. His health had deteriorated so much that leaving the house had become a near impossibility.

Frantically, she called the Morales estate.

Through trembling fingers, she received confirmation: Alfonso had insisted on delivering a meal to her. Himself.

The words echoed in her skull. The world tilted.

Within minutes, she was racing to the hospital, heart in her throat, tears blurring the road. When she arrived, the sterile smell of disinfectant couldn’t mask the acrid, metallic scent of something much worse.

Inside the morgue, three bodies lay beneath white sheets—charred and blackened.

The doctor’s tone was gentle, but his words pierced like a blade.

“We’ve confirmed the identities. One of them is your father, Alfonso. The other two are the driver and a maid. The cause of the accident appears to be the fault of the other party.”

He paused, then added with a touch of clinical detachment, “The other driver is a woman named Mandy. She survived and is currently undergoing emergency surgery. She’s apparently a celebrity.”

Ava stared blankly at the white sheet that only partially covered a hand—blackened, twisted, burned beyond recognition. Her stomach lurched violently, and she staggered back, covering her mouth. No words would come. Her body trembled as if chilled from the inside out.

She couldn’t look. She wouldn’t.

Someone helped her into a chair. She doubled over, vomiting uncontrollably. The scent of scorched flesh lingered, and she clutched her arms tightly, her nails digging into her own skin, as if pain could anchor her in place.

Her teeth chattered. Her tears ran soundlessly.

She signed the identification paperwork with a shaky hand, the ink smudged by drops of grief. The attending doctor handed her a tissue, his voice low and filled with sympathy.

“Do you have any other family members we can contact, Miss Morales? Someone to pick you up?”

Ava shook her head.

She didn’t even have the strength to speak.

A few minutes later, a hospital staff member added, “Most of the belongings inside the vehicle were destroyed. The police are investigating the circumstances around Mandy’s involvement. You’ll be updated as we learn more.”

Ava leaned against the cold wall. Her voice, when it finally came, was hoarse and raw. “Has Mandy been in contact with anyone recently?”

“We’re not sure,” came the reply. “That information is with the police.”

Determined, she called the police herself.

A few questions, and then... a phone number.

One that chilled her to the bone.

It was registered to Victoria.

Rage surged like wildfire through her veins.

Ava’s muscles tensed. Her skin prickled. Her father was dead—burned to death—and Victoria was, somehow, involved.

She didn’t go home that night. She couldn’t.

Instead, she curled up in the sterile corridor of the hospital, her coat wrapped tightly around her, sobbing in silence until sleep overtook her.

By morning, she looked in the bathroom mirror and hardly recognized herself. Puffy, red-rimmed eyes stared back. Her cheeks were gaunt. Her lips pale.

She splashed her face with cold water and steeled herself.

She had a funeral to plan.

Ava dabbed her damp cheeks and stared at her reflection, thoughts spiraling. Victoria. Of course it was her.

She knew now with near certainty: it had been Victoria who pushed her into the water that night. The pattern was clear. Only now, Victoria had grown more cunning. She no longer dirtied her own hands—she hid behind others, manipulating events from the shadows.

Legally, Victoria was untouchable. All she had done was give someone a license plate. There would be no evidence. No direct link.

Her stomach twisted with nausea again. The pain was sharp, sudden. She stumbled into a stall and vomited, cold sweat clinging to her skin.

She braced herself against the wall, breath ragged.

It had only been fifteen days since she and Alexander finalized the divorce.

And already, she was losing everything.

Her father.

Her peace.

Her health.

Her silence.

But not her resolve.

She wasn’t going to mourn quietly anymore.

It was time to fight back. 

Ava’s fingers flew across her keyboard as she scoured every corner of the internet for information on the Richter Group’s real estate holdings. After days of sleepless research, she finally stumbled upon a lead: the Richter Group was on the verge of securing a massive $5 billion investment from a capital firm. The deal was set to be signed in five days. If finalized, it would rescue the company from its current financial quagmire.

Victoria had already gotten wind of the deal and was giddy with satisfaction.

She also knew something else—something far more devastating.

The person Mandy had killed all those years ago wasn’t Ava. It was Ava’s father.

That was the dagger. That was the wound Victoria had been waiting to watch fester.

With this looming investment and Ava’s most sacred wound exposed, Victoria felt untouchable. The Laurent family was clawing its way back to power, and she remained its unchallenged heiress. Ava, on the other hand, was just an orphan—no home, no parents, no legacy to cling to.

Victoria lounged on the plush couch in the Laurent estate’s sunlit living room, her lips curled in a satisfied smile. A soft breeze drifted through the French windows, rustling the hem of her silk robe as if even the air celebrated her victory.

Winona, sitting beside her, gently clasped her hand. “I told you, sweetheart. Your time would come. The Laurent family always finds a way.”

“I was too impatient before,” Victoria replied with a glint in her eye. “But you were right, Mom. The tables are turning.”

Their laughter mingled in the air, two women reveling in the calm before what they believed would be their reign.

But far from the polished corridors of the Laurent estate, Ava had been working tirelessly. For three days straight, she immersed herself in digging up dirt on the Richter Group, barely sleeping, barely speaking. She reached out to everyone she trusted—Alexei, Victor, even the Rowell family. But notably, she did not reach out to Alexander—her husband in name only.

Eventually, her efforts uncovered a long-buried scandal: ten years ago, the Richter Group had overseen a coastal development project plagued by severe quality issues. Structural beams had cracked—some even snapped. Over a hundred homeowners were left stranded, their investment turned into a nightmare. But the internet at the time lacked the reach it has today, and the news was swiftly suppressed.

No one remembered anymore.

The broken buildings remained. The lives ruined had been swept under the rug. Ava’s eyes darkened as she read witness accounts.

One couple had bought their apartment with money pooled from both families, hoping to start their married life in that new home. But when the building was deemed unsafe and they lost everything, the strain on the relationship proved too great. The wife jumped from the top floor of the unfinished building, her death unfolding in front of her horrified husband.

Some elderly residents had died from stress and illness after losing their life savings. Others simply moved away, broken and silent.

But a core group—now down to about eighty individuals—had never stopped fighting. They were still entangled in court battles, their voices silenced by the Richter Group’s reach and influence. Every legal path they took was a dead end.

Determined, Ava flew to the coastal city.

She visited the derelict housing community and met with residents in the decaying courtyard of one of the half-finished buildings. Concrete crumbled at the edges, vines slithered up the walls. The ghosts of forgotten dreams haunted every inch.

Face to face with the survivors, she explained her intentions—clear, calm, and resolute.

“I want to help you. I’ll pay for your flights to New York. I’ll cover lodging and expenses. I’ll make sure the world hears you.”

A wave of cautious hope stirred among the gathered crowd.

But then a man stepped forward—gray-stubbled, with weary eyes that had seen too many false dawns.

“Ms. Ava,” he said gravely, “We want justice. We do. But we’ve tried everything. The Richter Group blacklisted us. They paid off the right people. We’ve been labeled ‘low-credit citizens.’ You understand what that means? We can’t book trains, flights—can’t even drive past certain checkpoints. We’re blocked at every turn.”

Ava’s brows furrowed. Rage burned behind her eyes.

She exhaled slowly, and without a word, she reached for her phone.

With one hand clenched around the device, she dialed a number she had long kept in reserve.

Cornelius Vanderbilt.