* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 2nd * Chapter 226

"Alexander, you and Serena are getting divorced in ten days." Cornelius's voice was firm but calm, lined with fatigue. "Keep the day after free. Since you’ve already signed the certificate, let’s at least have a farewell dinner. Don’t make it too bitter, alright?"

His suggestion wasn’t just a formality—it was his way of offering closure. A quiet meal. A symbolic end. He wanted things to settle, for past grudges to fade gently rather than erupt into finality.

Alexander, however, looked less inclined toward sentiment. Sitting at his office desk, he slowly reached for a crisp tissue and began dabbing an invisible smudge from the sleeve of his charcoal-gray suit. His movements were meticulous, but his irritation simmered just beneath the surface.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he replied, tone flat.

Cornelius’s voice rose, the edge of exasperation breaking through. “You jerk! You can’t even spare a night for dinner? She’s agreed to part peacefully—ten days, no fuss. What more do you want? Is it really so hard to show me a little respect?”

There was a weight behind his words, and for a moment, it hung heavily in the air. Cornelius suddenly understood what Serena had meant when she had quietly asked him not to intervene again. Perhaps she was right—Alexander wasn’t worth the emotional toll anymore.

“I’ve been extremely busy,” Alexander muttered, still focused on the now-clean fabric of his suit. “The Vanderbilt Group is launching several major projects. I’m juggling overseas operations, and the new investments in the entertainment sector need my constant attention. After ten days... I honestly don’t know if I’ll have the time.”

Cornelius inhaled slowly, steadying himself. He wanted to shout—to unleash the frustration that had built up from watching the younger man handle everything like it was business, including the end of a marriage—but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed them, and with a tired sigh, conceded.

“Then we’ll wait until you're free,” he said at last. “If that day ever comes... let’s share one final meal.”

This time, Alexander didn’t argue. He glanced up, eyes dark but unreadable, and gave a short nod.

“Alright,” he said simply. “One day.”

---

Serena left the meeting so furious that her vision blurred. A throbbing pulse echoed behind her temples, but she clenched her jaw and willed herself not to stumble. There was no time for weakness—not now.

When she returned to Le Châteauesque Manor, she was met with the unwelcome sight of Cordelia striding toward her with smug confidence, arms folded tightly over her chest like a queen surveying her defeated rival.

"You really know how to keep your composure, Serena," Cordelia sneered, her tone venom-laced. "I was hoping to see you cry. Honestly, it would’ve made my day."

Serena brushed past her without a glance, determined not to take the bait.

But Cordelia followed, her heels clicking sharply across the marble floor. Her voice rose again, harsher this time. “You should’ve left the Vanderbilt family long ago. Elena—your mother, that wretched woman—failed back then. And let me tell you, her daughter doesn’t deserve anything better.”

At that, Serena stopped. Her spine straightened, and she stood frozen in place. The air around them grew cold.

Seeing her reaction, Cordelia smiled with satisfaction and stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper that carried its own weight. “Oh, and that child you lost… I never asked if it was even Alexander’s. That day you begged me, remember? I almost pitied you.”

The words struck like icy needles. But Serena didn’t flinch.

Cordelia, high off the sound of her own cruelty, continued twisting the knife. Her recent scandal with Frederick had left her bruised and bitter, and Serena’s looming divorce was the perfect excuse to unleash every ounce of spite. “You really are pitiful, Serena.”

She turned to leave—victory assumed.

But then Serena’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Cordelia,” she said calmly, turning around, “what’s pitiful about me?”

Cordelia paused, her body rigid.

Serena’s eyes were like glass—clear, hard, and reflective. “If anyone’s pitiful here, it’s the woman who’s lived decades trapped in a loveless marriage. A life built on lies. That’s far sadder than anything I’ve endured.”

Cordelia’s pupils contracted. The words not loved seemed to lodge themselves beneath her skin.

“I never loved Alexander. So mocking me with him? It's meaningless. But you…” Serena took a step closer. “You’ve loved Frederick your whole life. And yet, he’s never stopped loving my mother. Doesn’t that make you the most pitiful woman of all?”

Cordelia’s hand flew up, rage taking over.

But Serena caught her wrist mid-air—firm, unwavering.

“And when Frederick made you pregnant, Cordelia… do you ever wonder if he was thinking of you—or my mom?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Cordelia’s expression cracked for a moment, her face pale with fury and something far more dangerous—humiliation.

Serena slowly released her grip. Her voice dropped, sharp and clean as glass. “It seems even Alexander doesn’t listen to you. Your husband doesn’t love you. If I were you, I’d hide inside Vanderbilt Manor and pray the world forgot I existed. Because aside from your last name, what else do you have to be proud of, Mrs. Vanderbilt?”

Cordelia staggered back a step.

Serena didn’t stop. “In ten days, I’ll be free of the Vanderbilt name, and I promise you this—if you dare harass me again, I will personally make sure Frederick’s little affair with Elena is front-page news across New York.”

Cordelia’s face twisted, lips parting—but no sound came out.

“You’d be the punchline of every cocktail party and charity gala from Manhattan to the Hamptons,” Serena added softly. “Is that what you want?”

Cordelia was trembling, unable to speak. Because Serena had struck her most vulnerable nerve—Frederick.

Without another word, Serena turned and walked away, leaving Cordelia alone, shaking in the hallway.

--- 

Serena turned without a word and stepped into Le Châteauesque Manor, the ornate doors closing softly behind her.

Outside, Cordelia was trembling, her legs buckling beneath the weight of her rage and disbelief. If not for a nearby servant’s quick reflexes, she might have collapsed onto the pavement. With assistance, she was guided into the car, breathless and disoriented.

Inside the vehicle, Cordelia fumbled for her phone with shaking hands and dialed Alexander’s number, desperation thick in her voice. But he didn’t answer. He was at a hotel, the sound of water cascading in the shower masking the ringtone.

Cordelia snapped. She screamed and cursed inside the car, lashing out at Elena’s memory on one side, and Serena on the other. Her shrill voice echoed in the enclosed space, venomous and unhinged.

Back in the peaceful confines of the manor, Serena sat quietly at the dining table. A faint aroma of roasted coffee beans lingered in the air. Aunt Torres, the long-serving housekeeper with kind eyes and gentle hands, walked in and placed a steaming cup in front of her.

“Miss Morales,” she said softly, “don’t be too sad. Even if you divorce Mr. Vanderbilt, I’ll still be here to take care of you.”

Serena’s lashes trembled as she lowered her eyes, fingers curling around the porcelain cup. The warmth seeped into her skin, grounding her. She took a slow sip, saying nothing.

Aunt Torres let out a wistful sigh and sat beside her. “Cordelia has never liked you. Even if Mr. Vanderbilt is a fine man, marrying into this family won’t bring you peace. If you were my granddaughter, I’d never let you fall into a place like this. Divorce might not be the worst thing. And this house—” she gestured gently, “was a wedding gift from Mr. Cornelius. It’s yours. No one can take it from you.”

Serena nodded, her voice soft. “Thank you, Aunt Torres.”

Her heart swelled with quiet gratitude. Of all the chaos in the Vanderbilt household, Cornelius had been her one unwavering supporter.

Aunt Torres, thoughtful, continued reminiscing as she noticed Serena’s eyes flickering toward a small wooden box nearby.

Some memories, especially childhood ones, lived forever in hidden corners of the heart. Serena opened the box gently, revealing a tiny bamboo dragonfly and a few faded school papers. A smile touched her lips—melancholy, fragile.

She remembered being young and afraid. The school had organized a donation for earthquake relief. Kids who didn't contribute were publicly shamed. But her family had nothing to spare, and she’d been too frightened to tell Elena. She was about to skip school that day when Elena stopped her at the door.

“Little Serena,” her mother had said, pressing a dollar into her hand, “Mom heard about the earthquake fund. We don’t have much, but it’s from the heart. Donate it for us.”

That day, Serena had walked to school on light feet, as if her shoes had wings. She still remembered the proud way her teacher praised her.

“Little Serena,” Elena had whispered that morning, “when you grow up and earn money, don’t forget to help others. You’re a kind girl.”

Serena closed the box. Her throat tightened. She didn’t want to think too much. Soon, this house would be even lonelier—just her and the echoes.

Later, the car took her to the cemetery. The burial had to be completed before sunset. The air was gray and cold, the sun straining behind a curtain of clouds. Serena, dressed in a modest black ensemble, cradled the urn as if it held the last piece of her soul.

At the burial site, the cemetery staff greeted her with silent nods. They assisted her in placing each item with care. She followed their guidance, performing each step with solemn dignity.

She placed the urn in the center of the tomb, pausing to ensure it stood straight. A silvery cloth was then draped gently over it, a traditional symbol meant to bless the departed’s journey to heaven. She watched in silence, her tear ducts dry but her heart heavy.

“Shall we close it now?” one of the gravediggers asked quietly.

Serena managed a nod and whispered, “Go ahead.”

When the final piece of earth was shoveled back into place, Serena knelt and laid fresh flowers before the stone. She stayed there for nearly half an hour, her knees aching, her body shivering slightly in the wind.

In the end, she was alone—just as she always had been.

She tried to speak to Alfonso’s spirit, but the words caught in her throat. All she could remember was his last wish: if they ever found Elena’s daughter, to come here and let him know.

Her legs felt numb as she rose. She hadn't eaten all day. Her lips were cracked and dry.

She reached the roadside at the edge of the cemetery—and there was Rachel, waiting beside her car.

Rachel, always vibrant and bold, was uncharacteristically dressed in black. As soon as Serena saw her, the composure she had fought so hard to keep broke down.

“Rachel…” she choked out.

Rachel stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.

“Come on, let’s get you out of the cold,” Rachel murmured. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Inside the car, just as Rachel started the engine, Serena’s phone buzzed. It was Marilyn.

“Miss Morales, Wes Reed’s information is ready,” she reported. “Wes wants to know if we should announce the contract termination on F******k?”

“No,” Serena replied, her voice hoarse. “Don’t announce anything yet. Let me handle the Laurent family first.”

After the call ended, Rachel glanced sideways at her. “Nine days left until your divorce from Alexander. What’s next for you?”

Serena stared ahead, voice steady. “I’m starting my own company.”

Rachel nodded, impressed. “And your art?”

Serena hesitated. “Before Alfonso passed, he asked me to find his biological daughter. To do that, I’ll need more money, more resources. I already tried once in Charleston—most of the hospital staff from that time have disappeared. Too clean. Too fast. It doesn’t sit right with me.”

Her tone turned sharp, her expression colder.

“My place has been broken into multiple times. Not by petty thieves—by people who knew what they were looking for. I can’t afford to be weak. I need financial leverage to protect myself and keep looking. This new company—it’s just the beginning.”

“And Victoria?” Rachel asked.

Serena’s eyes glinted. “Even if I don’t take her down this time, I’ll be waiting. There’s always a next time.”

--- 

After Alexander’s brief visit with her the day before, he had made no move. His silence lingered like a heavy fog, neither offering resolution nor igniting hope.

Outside the Richter Group building, the protest still raged. Dozens of angry homeowners remained camped at the gates, demanding justice, while the Laurent family—once so confident—sat anxiously in a crumbling tower of expectations. Their funding had been abruptly cut, and it was clear they were now waiting... waiting for Alexander Vanderbilt to make a move.

Inside, tension simmered. Rachel paced across the floor in frustration, her fists clenched. “Alexander is such a bastard,” she hissed. “After everything you’ve done—if he messes up your plans now, you better not show him any mercy.”

Serena stood by the window, her fingertips curling tightly around the edge of the curtain. Her voice was low, measured, but edged with ice. “Alexander and I… we have irreconcilable enmity. Because of Alfonso.”

Across the city, inside the Laurent family estate, panic had begun to seep through the cracks.

The mood in the grand salon was grim. Around twenty members of the Laurent family were slouched on couches, murmuring restlessly. Faces once smug with power now wore scowls of desperation.

“Victoria,” one of the elders asked sharply, “didn’t you say Alexander would help us?”

Another echoed the sentiment. “It’s been a day. Why hasn’t he stepped in yet?”

A third voice chimed in. “With his resources, this should’ve been solved yesterday.”

“Shut up!” Victoria snapped, her voice slicing through the air like a whip. Her face was pale, lips pressed into a tight line. The elders, despite their age and status, fell silent under her glare. Right now, she was their only chance.

But deep down, Victoria was terrified. The notebook she’d casually mentioned as leverage suddenly felt woefully insufficient. Worse, she feared Alexander might have discovered Serena’s true identity. If that happened, he might abandon the Laurent family altogether.

Just as panic threatened to consume her, her phone rang.

Alexander.

His voice was cool, distant. “The Vanderbilt Group will invest thirty billion into the Richter Group. The deal will be signed in half a month. But the protestors at your gates need to be removed—by your people. Handle it quietly.”

Victoria’s heart raced. Though his tone was measured, the implication was everything—Richter Group would not go bankrupt.

“Understood,” she said quickly.

“One more thing,” Alexander added. “That notebook. Have someone deliver it to the Vanderbilt Group. Immediately.”

Her fingers stiffened around the phone. “Of course,” she replied, her voice clipped.

The moment the call ended, Victoria exhaled and straightened her spine. She turned to the room full of anxious family members. “Alexander is committing to a thirty billion dollar investment. We’ll survive. But we need to disperse the protestors outside immediately. That’s our task now. In two weeks, the contract will be signed.”

Relief swept through the room like a warm breeze. They scrambled to act.

Victoria, however, wasn’t done. She pulled out her phone and sent a message to Serena:

Victoria: [Alexander has agreed to invest $30 billion in Richter Group. It’s not going bankrupt. Too bad. After all you’ve done, your own husband could crush your efforts with one sentence.]

Serena received the message just as she stepped into Le Châteauesque Manor. At the same moment, a call came in from Bruce Reynolds, the spokesperson for the group of homeowners.

“Serena,” his voice crackled through the line, tinged with uncertainty, “Richter Group is offering each of us $1.5 million in compensation. What do you think? Should we keep pressing, or take the money?”

Serena hesitated.

She knew this moment would come. The Richter Group’s reputation had already taken a beating. A payout was their most logical play. And for the homeowners—ordinary people who had scraped together their life savings for homes that never materialized—this compensation was real, tangible justice. Many of them had suffered for a decade, unheard and unseen.

Serena wanted them to stay, to continue applying pressure. But her mother’s words echoed in her mind: At the very least, be kind. When people have suffered enough, let them go home with dignity.

“Take the deal,” Serena said gently. “But make sure the money hits your accounts before anyone moves. No delays. Once everything is confirmed, I’ll come escort you out.”

Bruce’s voice wavered with emotion. “Thank you, Ava. You… you saved us.”

She swallowed hard. A wave of guilt washed over her. She hadn’t done this for them—not entirely. She had her own reasons. But their gratitude felt real. And so did their relief.

Within two hours, Richter Group processed the payments. Each of the eighty-two homeowners received the promised $1.5 million.

They booked a flight for 6:00 p.m. Serena drove to the airport to see them off.

She didn’t expect the sight that greeted her.

They were all waiting—for her.

As she stepped out of the car, someone saw her and broke into tears. Then, one after another, they stepped forward to thank her.

“Ava, we owe you everything.”

“You’re our miracle.”

Unbeknownst to her, the families had pooled money together—each contributing four thousand dollars—to buy her a gemstone necklace. It was delicate, finely crafted, and sparkled in the setting sun.

Bruce handed it to her, his hands trembling. “This is from all of us. Just something small to remember us by.”

Serena accepted it, humbled. If she refused, she knew they wouldn’t leave.

As the last person boarded the plane, she stood on the tarmac, clutching the necklace to her chest, overcome by a strange, unfamiliar feeling—fulfillment.

Back in the car, she stared at the necklace in her lap. It shimmered with quiet elegance.

Then, with renewed resolve, she picked up her phone and called her lawyer.

“Yes, the compensation’s been paid,” she said. “But the Richter Group’s crimes haven’t been absolved. We still have all the evidence. Someone will answer for this. I don’t care who the scapegoat is—but someone from that family needs to fall.”

She knew Victoria.

Victoria would never take the fall herself. She would choose someone else to sacrifice—some distant cousin, maybe a peripheral executive.

But the resentment wouldn’t die.

It would fester. It would spread.

And in time, it would consume the Laurent family from within.

Just as Serena had planned.

---

Just as Serena had predicted, Victoria didn’t even hesitate when it came time to protect herself. With the cold efficiency of someone who had long rehearsed the betrayal, she offered up Margareth Laurent’s son—Jeremy—as the scapegoat.

Margareth had long been a blemish on the Laurent family's reputation. The incident she caused at Harvard University had left an indelible stain. Even Cordelia, when attacking Alexander, had used Margareth’s name as ammunition. Since then, Margareth had become a liability, a symbol of disgrace the family preferred to forget. And now, she was disposable.

So they turned to Jeremy, her only son.

Margareth had spent years simmering in resentment, blaming Serena for the collapse of everything she had painstakingly built. Her prestigious career. Her reputation. Her future. She had been quietly planning her return, waiting for the perfect moment to reclaim everything she’d lost.

But before she could even take her first step back, the Laurent family severed her last lifeline.

"Victoria... please. Please, don't let them take Jeremy," Margareth pleaded, her voice cracking as she dropped to her knees. Her manicured fingers clutched at Victoria’s pristine sleeve like a lifeline. "He’s just a boy. You know this isn’t his fault."

Victoria looked down at her with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Cold, calculated, and unmoved.

"This isn’t about blame, Margareth," she said, her voice gentle, almost motherly—yet devoid of compassion. "Alexander told us to handle this ourselves. If we want to preserve the Laurent Group and avoid total collapse, someone has to be sacrificed. Jeremy got the most votes. This was a family decision."

"A family decision?" Margareth repeated, her lips trembling.

"Yes," Victoria said with cool finality. "And you should be grateful. If Jeremy takes the fall, he’ll only serve a few years. He’ll be provided for after he’s out. And you, on the outside, will live comfortably. That’s more than most people get in these situations."

Around them, a few other family members chimed in with empty platitudes, trying to sound sympathetic. It’s for the greater good. Margareth, don’t be emotional. We’ll look after you...

Margareth didn’t hear them. Her ears rang with disbelief.

These were the same people who once groveled at her feet when she held power at Harvard—showering her with praise, begging for connections and favors. Now they recoiled from her like she was filth. Her prestige had turned to poison in their eyes.

And now, they were feeding her only son to the wolves.

Her gaze snapped back to Victoria. The tears had dried, replaced by a fire that burned deep in her sockets. “Jeremy is in his twenties, Victoria. Ten years ago, he was still in school. How could he possibly be involved in the coastal housing project you're using to pin this on him?”

Victoria’s voice sharpened. “That’s not up for debate. We need someone with the Laurent name to take responsibility. Otherwise, it’ll be obvious we’re just trying to find a fall guy. We have to keep the illusion intact.”

She tugged her sleeve from Margareth’s grasp and stepped back, wiping her hands as if brushing off dirt.

The finality in her tone crushed any remaining hope. At that moment, Margareth no longer harbored any resentment toward Serena. That hatred shifted, rooted itself in something far closer, far colder.

She hated Victoria.

Every single Laurent family member who stood by and nodded. Every one of them who said nothing. Who voted. Who watched her son be sentenced to prison like it was a business transaction.

But they were too swept up in the celebration to notice her loathing. Alexander had agreed to invest thirty billion dollars into their operations. They were drunk on the promise of survival, and none of them cared who bled to buy it.

Meanwhile, Victoria herself couldn’t shake the feeling of unease growing in her chest.

She had drafted a blank contract, meant to be sent to the Vanderbilt Group. Thirty billion was a huge investment, and yet... the agreement wouldn’t be signed for another half a month. Everything still teetered on a knife’s edge.

She had offered up Margareth’s son to protect herself and secure the Laurent legacy.

But as she stood there, surrounded by smiles and back-pats, Victoria knew with sickening certainty—there was no turning back now.

She had crossed a line she would never be able to uncross.

*

When Alexander received the notebook, he flipped it open and found the pages completely blank. The cover was a plain, academic shade of navy—serious and subdued, the kind of thing Marken, with his fastidious nature, would’ve chosen for recording research or classified observations.

But something didn’t sit right.

Alexander’s brows furrowed. A flicker of suspicion darted across his eyes as he pulled out his phone and called Colton.

“The missing notebook… Was it more feminine-looking? Something like a softer color?” Alexander asked, tapping the edge of the notebook against his palm.

“Yeah. Light blue with floral trim, if I remember right. Why? Did you find it?” Colton responded.

“No,” Alexander replied curtly and ended the call without another word.

His next call was to Victoria. His tone, though outwardly calm, carried an unmistakable edge. “The bracelet was nothing. The notebook is blank. I’ve helped you twice now—this time investing thirty billion dollars. Victoria, you don’t actually have the nerve to lie to me, do you?”

On the other end of the line, Victoria’s pulse spiked. Though his voice betrayed little, her instincts screamed that Alexander was angry. “This is what Marken gave me,” she replied quickly. “I didn’t understand why at the time, either.”

Alexander slowly flipped through the empty pages as he spoke, coolly detached. “I trusted you last time. I didn’t have anyone check the bracelet for fingerprints. This time, I won’t be so generous. I’ve already sent the notebook to Colton. The lab’s laser scanners can detect fingerprints even if they’re years old. If Marken’s aren’t on it—then you’ll explain that to me. In person.”

The line went dead.

Victoria’s blood ran cold. A chill swept across her back, sweat beading along her spine. Marken had never given her the notebook. She had fabricated the entire story. There was no way his fingerprints would be on that book.

Unless…

Her hands trembled. Her lips parted as if to say something—to no one—but no words came.

Meanwhile, across the city, Alexander handed the notebook over to Colton without ceremony. The Valcrosse family had long specialized in advanced weapons and military-grade equipment; fingerprint analysis was rudimentary in their lab. They would get answers.

By the next morning, the results were in.

That night, Victoria hadn't slept a wink. She sat bolt upright in bed, pacing her apartment with a fevered mind and a racing heart, dreading the inevitable call.

Colton rang Alexander just after sunrise.

“There are fingerprints on the notebook,” he said.

Alexander’s breath caught. “And?”

“They’re Marken’s.”

Alexander stilled, the edges of his composed expression fracturing. He had prepared himself to confirm Victoria's lie—but this?

He sank back in his chair, pulse climbing.

“Is there anything else on the notebook?” he asked after a beat.

“No,” Colton replied. “It’s just a regular notebook. Nothing encoded or encrypted.”

Alexander’s gaze dropped to the floor as a mix of confusion and frustration tightened in his chest. The weight of years of uncertainty pressed down on him.

Then Colton continued, his voice now lower—more urgent.

“But Alexander… Our newer scanning systems can estimate the timing of a fingerprint left on a surface.”

“What are you saying?”

“The print didn’t date back to before Marken died. It was left in the last three days.”

A long silence fell.

“That’s impossible,” Alexander finally said, his voice hoarse. “When Marken went on that mission, there was nothing left. No body, no bones. Just an explosion and a burnt field. My grandfather said the scene was a nightmare.”

“Alexander,” Colton said, his tone firm now. “Fingerprints don’t lie. There's only one conclusion—Marken touched this notebook recently. He’s alive. He’s somewhere in New York.”

Even Colton, always composed and clinical, couldn’t keep the emotion out of his voice. The last words trembled with disbelief. Hope.

Alexander rose from his chair abruptly, loosening his tie, as if he couldn’t breathe.

Alive.

After all this time… alive?

He didn’t speak again until Colton arrived at his office, a manila folder in hand. “We need to trace where this notebook has been over the past seventy-two hours,” Colton said as he laid the report down.

Alexander, now seated once more, massaged his temples and exhaled deeply. His voice was tight, unreadable. “Don’t say anything to anyone yet. If this is all a mistake…”

“I understand,” Colton replied. “But if he really is alive, we need to find him.”

Alexander nodded slowly. “Schedule a meeting with Victoria.”

The storm was coming.

And this time, it carried both truth and reckoning.

---

Victoria hadn’t slept a wink. Her eyes were rimmed red, skin pale, and every movement sluggish with exhaustion. When Alexander’s call came through, it felt like a summons to the gallows. She dressed quickly and rushed out, her mind spiraling with fear.

But when she arrived at the meeting place and spotted Colton seated beside Alexander, a fresh wave of dread washed over her. Her entire body trembled as she sat down, her complexion ashen.

Alexander's expression was unreadable, his voice low and steady. “Has this notebook always been in your possession?”

Victoria nodded stiffly, hands clenched into fists beneath the table—so tight it was as if she were trying to dig her nails into her own skin, hoping pain might ground her.

Alexander’s tone didn’t change. “Is it still at the Laurent residence?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I asked a bodyguard to deliver it to you yesterday.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Which bodyguard?”

Swallowing her nerves, Victoria immediately called the man in.

Alexander turned to him. “Did you run into anyone on the way here yesterday?”

The bodyguard shook his head. “No, sir.”

Alexander sighed, rubbing his temple with slow fingers. “Alright. You can go.”

Victoria blinked in surprise. She had braced for a storm, but Alexander didn’t press her or interrogate further. His calm unsettled her even more. Not daring to ask questions, she murmured a goodbye and hurried out, fearing that even one more word might unravel her carefully woven lie.

As soon as she left, Colton leaned back in his chair, the silence thick between them.

They hadn’t shared the full truth with Victoria—not yet. Marken’s possible reappearance, and the mystery of his connection to the notebook, were too sensitive to expose prematurely.

Alexander broke the silence. “Colton, have you heard what’s been happening in the Laurent family lately? If the fingerprints on that notebook really are only three days old, then maybe… maybe Marken came back to retrieve it himself.”

Colton’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with thought.

“She seemed stunned,” Alexander continued. “Almost like she realized the fingerprints couldn’t have been my brother’s. Which means the notebook wasn’t handled recently—at least not by her. Marken must have entered the Laurent house himself.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Colton muttered. “If the notebook really had nothing in it, why go through the trouble of stealing it? And if Marken sent it back… why? He would know better than anyone whether it was useful.”

Alexander’s gaze hardened, focused on the stormy sky beyond the window. “There are too many unanswered questions.”

Colton rose, his coat settling over his shoulders. “I’ll dig around. Quietly. If Marken’s alive and still in New York… we’ll find him.”

“I’ll start my own search too,” Alexander replied, his voice flat.

Later that night, back at the hotel, Alexander tried to immerse himself in work, but his thoughts kept drifting. Eventually, he reached for his phone and opened his chat with Ava.

A red exclamation mark glared back at him. She had unfriended him. Blocked him. His number too.

She hadn't messaged once about the investment in the Richter Group. No questions. No anger. Nothing.

Alexander pressed his fingers against his lips, where faint pain still lingered. Since the day she bit him, he hadn’t been able to eat properly—only managing a few spoonfuls of broth. And yet, that mingling of blood and warmth haunted him. Her taste had seared itself into his memory like an iron thread pulled taut around his chest—painful, yet intoxicating.

In a rare moment of indulgence, he opened his F******k account. His feed loaded slowly, but the first post that appeared made his breath catch.

A photo.

Raphael and Ava.

The caption read:

“Unexpected encounter with a friend.”

Alexander’s jaw clenched. Raphael’s feed was full of luxury—flashy cars, beautiful women, cocktails under neon lights. But this? This wasn't random. Raphael had pulled her into a photo while she looked slightly confused, as though she hadn’t even realized it was being taken. Dressed for business. A quick smile forced for the camera.

Alexander could guess where she’d been.

E.A. was still small, barely afloat. No directors wanted to collaborate with Ava yet. She had no time to mourn her father—she was already racing to build something for herself.

Alexander knew her.

She wouldn't let herself drown.

Tonight, Ava was meeting a television director at a downtown bar—a man with a reputation for dramatic, audience-hungry scripts. The kind of shows mainstream critics mocked but quietly raked in millions. Nighttime dramas that appealed to smaller cities and working-class viewers. A different market, but a profitable one.

Ava knew that much.

She had scraped together one billion in liquid assets—just enough to back two productions. A single misstep, and it would all be gone. No safety net. No guarantees.

She didn’t even have time to think about the divorce. The three-month countdown was nearly over, and yet her mind was wholly elsewhere.

Back in his hospital bed, Alexander tapped out a single message to Raphael:

[Address?]

Raphael, still surrounded by friends and nursing a drink, stared at the notification with disbelief. Alexander? Messaging him?

He rubbed his eyes and checked again.

Yup. Still there.

Suddenly remembering the F******k post, Raphael’s stomach dropped.

Did he see the photo?

Without a second thought, he typed out the bar’s address and hit send.

This time, he didn’t dare stall.