* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 2nd * Chapter 238

Dear Gentle Readers, 

This author would like to share that from beginning of the month up until yesterday, this author made US$64.19 and this author will not get his monthly bonus unless he hits one hundred in a month. He is not asking for you to chime more money but he wants your help to leave comments and reviews on this book so that the editor and GN team will promote this story. 

This author will continue to work hard and give you more chapters (and of course, free chapters as token of gratitude for your continuous support) 

Grazie a mille, 

E. C. 

---

When Serena returned to Le Châteauesque Manor, the silence of the house pressed in around her like fog. She sank into the plush velvet couch, her posture languid, gaze unfocused. Her hand rested in her lap, its skin still flushed and tender—a faint red imprint blooming across the pale surface. She had always bruised easily; even the slightest blow lingered in color.

For a long while, she didn’t move, just sat there staring into the distance, her thoughts unraveling.

Over the past two weeks, everything had unraveled in a different way.

Cornelius had shown no mercy—Victoria was now behind bars, her pleas for leniency ignored. Not a soul had dared to intervene. Vivienne had quietly disappeared from New York, vanishing like a shadow at dusk. Meanwhile, Cordelia continued to cling to the fraying threads of her marriage to Frederick, locked in an emotional battle that was as tragic as it was futile. The Whitehall family had tried to intervene on Cordelia’s behalf, but knowing they stood on shaky moral ground, their efforts had done little to mend the growing chasm between the families.

Yet, Cornelius remained unmoved by it all.

“If Alexander doesn’t wake up,” he had said coldly, “nothing else matters.”

Now, Alexander had finally woken—but not as himself.

The trauma had left its mark. His brain injury was serious, and though he was conscious, the long-term effects remained uncertain. There were days when he was lucid, and others when he didn’t seem to recognize even his own name.

Serena leaned back against the couch, her head tilting back, her hand drifting slowly to her chest—right where he had metaphorically struck her. Her fingers pressed lightly over her heart, where the ache was deepest. Her eyes shimmered, glassy with tears she refused to let fall.

Alexander, you bastard, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek.

She didn’t notice when someone stepped into the room until they gently laid a folder on the coffee table in front of her.

“Miss Morales,” the assistant said quietly, “this is the detailed report on Jessica and Ray’s divorce.”

Serena blinked and straightened slightly. The assistant continued, voice even but clipped with urgency.

“Jessica was caught cheating on Ray. He walked in on her and her lover in their home. To deflect attention and avoid a scandal, she turned the tables—accusing Ray of sexual harassment against a rising female star. She also released photos and reports implying he had abused her.”

Serena’s eyes narrowed.

“All staged,” the assistant confirmed. “Everyone involved had been bribed by Jessica. As for the latest developments—Mandy’s parents are blackmailing her. They obtained compromising photos of Jessica and her lover. He was her assistant, and they were careless. They even used the Ackerman Family's villa as a rendezvous spot. Mandy’s parents photographed them... everything.”

Serena let out a slow breath and rested her chin in her hand. Cornelius's people had proven resourceful—quietly and effectively pulling apart every thread Jessica tried to keep hidden.

But for the past two weeks, Serena had been too occupied at the hospital to deal with Jessica's unraveling web of lies. She hadn’t had time. Not while Alexander lay in a hospital bed, caught somewhere between memory and oblivion.

Fortunately for Serena, Jessica was still holding back—for now.

As long as Mandy remained unconscious, Jessica wouldn’t dare act too boldly. But the breach of contract from Serena’s side had made Jessica furious, and she'd been sending message after message—threats, warnings, provocations.

“Do you have the photos?” Serena asked quietly.

“Yes, we have everything. But Jessica’s public image is... carefully curated. She’s seen as a victim of domestic abuse. Her fan base is loyal. If we release the photos now, it might backfire. People will claim it’s doctored—an attempt to smear her.”

Serena nodded slowly. “Understood. I’ll handle it carefully.”

The assistant placed the rest of the documents on the table and left.

As the door shut behind them, Serena leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She rubbed her temples slowly, as if the pressure of the entire world had settled just behind her eyes.

The house was still silent—but the storm was only just beginning.

*

Ten minutes later, Ava’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from Jonathan.

“Mr. Potter,” she answered, her voice calm but alert.

On the other end, Jonathan sounded defeated. “Miss Alvarez... I’ve been fired too.”

Ava’s hand froze.

Jonathan had worked with Alexander for years. He knew his habits, his temperament, his every professional preference. For him to be suddenly dismissed—it didn’t add up.

“What happened?”

“I don’t even know. He just kicked me out, said I was being nosy. Miss Alvarez... maybe you should come over.”

There was a long silence.

Then, without another word, Ava hung up and headed for the hotel. She wasn’t sure what to expect—but she knew Alexander wouldn’t push away everyone without reason.

Jonathan was already waiting in the lobby when she arrived. He gave her a knowing smile, as if reading the invisible tension trailing behind her.

“Miss Alvarez, I think Mr. Vanderbilt still prefers you over anyone else.”

Ava lifted an eyebrow but didn’t bother responding. She wanted to ask which eye of his had seen that, but Alexander’s wound was still healing. Someone needed to be there.

“I’ll go up and check on him. Handle the company matters for now. I’m sure the chaos won’t wait.”

Jonathan nodded and handed her a new keycard. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She stepped into the elevator, the silence pressing in as it ascended toward the top floor. Swiping the card, she entered the suite to find Alexander on the phone, pacing slowly across the living room in his pajamas. He was no longer wrapped in the towel from earlier—clearly, someone had helped him change.

Despite the bandages on his back, his posture remained proud, shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted. His presence still dominated the room.

He ended the call and turned toward her, his brows instantly furrowing. “Why are you here again?”

Ava crossed her arms. “Your wound hasn’t healed. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Alexander’s temples were already throbbing, but he didn't respond. Instead, he strode straight into the bedroom, leaving her standing there in silence.

After a moment’s pause, Ava followed and quietly placed a glass of water on the nightstand. Alexander sat at the edge of the bed, flipping through a file, but the second he saw her enter, his grip on the folder tightened.

“Did I say you could come into my bedroom?”

Ava wanted to remind him that they had shared not just the bedroom, but the bed—but she bit her tongue and merely nodded.

He shot her a sharp look. “Out. You sleep in the living room. Don’t come in without permission.”

Ava turned and walked out, the bedroom door left ajar, casting a sliver of warm light into the darkened suite.

The living room was dim and quiet. The sofa, though firm, was wide enough to stretch out on. She grabbed one of the plush throw pillows and curled up beneath a blanket. It wasn’t cold, thanks to the central heating, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

Still, she managed to fall asleep.

Meanwhile, Alexander lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His head pounded with a deep, nauseating ache, the pain flaring behind his eyes.

“Ava,” he called out hoarsely.

She stirred immediately and appeared at the door. “What is it?”

He rubbed his temples, his voice strained. “Do you have any painkillers?”

She checked the medicine cabinet in the bathroom but found nothing. Her brows furrowed. It was almost 2 a.m.—most pharmacies would be closed.

But Alexander’s pallor was worsening, and the way he winced in pain made her decision for her.

She threw on her coat and wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck before heading into the night.

New York’s winter air was bone-deep and biting. Ava crossed the street to a dim alleyway where she recalled a 24-hour pharmacy might be. Fortune favored her—a faint blue glow marked the open store ahead.

She bought two boxes of painkillers and was making her way toward the exit when a group of drunk men stumbled in, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke.

The moment they saw her—lone, slender, and beautiful—their eyes lit up with predatory interest.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” one slurred, sidling closer. “Buying medicine this late? Birth control, huh?”

Ava stiffened and instinctively stepped aside.

Two blocked her from the front. Two more circled behind.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t be wandering around alone,” one muttered. “Since you’ve got the meds, why not have some fun first?”

“Get lost,” she snapped, shoving one of them aside.

But a hand suddenly yanked her hair. “You bitch—”

She let out a sharp cry and bit down hard on the wrist, wrenching herself free. Clutching the medicine, she tried to run—but one of them caught her arm, spinning her back toward the store.

Just as she was about to scream, she collided into a firm chest.

She looked up.

“Mr. Vanderbilt!” she gasped.

Alexander stood tall, dressed in dark clothes, the city’s chill doing little to tame the smolder in his eyes. He had come after her.

The men paused, amused by the newcomer. “Oh, so this is your boyfriend? Pretty boy looks soft.”

Alexander didn’t say a word.

Ava reached for his arm, her voice tense. “Don’t fight them. Your wound—”

But it was too late.

With one swift kick, Alexander knocked the nearest man flat.

Two more lunged—he countered with a spinning elbow, sending one sprawling into a display of cough syrup.

It took less than a minute.

All four lay groaning on the floor, one spitting out teeth, another clutching his ribs. The flickering overhead light buzzed as silence returned.

Ava stood frozen, the pharmacy bag dangling from her hand.

Alexander turned toward her, his chest rising and falling. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head slowly, eyes wide with awe—and something else she couldn’t name.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice hoarse.

And this time, she followed without a word. 

Alexander stood like a man who had just completed a light workout, casually surveying the heap of groaning men at his feet as if they were little more than a minor inconvenience. Ava rushed to his side, immediately checking the back of his head. Her hands trembled slightly as she combed through his hair, searching for the wound.

Thankfully, it was superficial. She let out a breath. "Mr. Vanderbilt, we should go back."

He tilted his head and looked at her with mild amusement. “Why are you so scared?”

Ava pressed her lips together, biting back her irritation. Even with amnesia, he still had the gall to be this aggravating.

“I’m worried they might have backup,” she muttered.

As if summoned by her words, the distant sound of rapid footsteps echoed off the alley walls. A dozen more men emerged from the shadows, all wielding steel pipes and moving in a loose, menacing formation.

Without thinking, Ava fumbled for her phone to call the police. But before she could dial, Alexander stepped in front of her and pushed her back gently but firmly.

“Stay behind me.”

Panic spiked through her. She knew she’d be nothing but a burden in a fight like this. She could handle a gun, sure—but hand-to-hand combat against armed men? Not a chance.

Heart racing, she turned and ran. Her legs moved too fast for the uneven ground beneath her, and she stumbled hard, scraping both palms against the pavement. Pain burned through her skin, but she scrambled to her feet and sprinted toward the hotel.

Moments later, she returned breathless with a small team of hotel security guards in tow.

But it was already over.

The alley was strewn with groaning bodies. Some were slumped against walls, others sprawled across the pavement, all moaning in pain. In the center of the chaos stood Alexander, holding a dented steel pipe in one hand and a cigarette lazily between two fingers in the other.

The men knelt before him, bruised and terrified.

“We won’t do it again. Please, let us go…”

Ava froze, stunned. She had almost forgotten—Alexander had grown up in the military. This wasn’t his first street fight. These men had never stood a chance.

The attackers dragged themselves away, some limping, others helping each other, as though fleeing a beast rather than a man.

Alexander tossed the pipe into a trash bin with a metallic clatter and turned to Ava. There was a wolfish glint in his eye—but the moment he saw her torn clothes and bloodied palms, something in his expression softened.

“Why do you look so disheveled?”

Ava glanced down at herself. Her blouse was stained with dirt, one knee torn open at the fabric, blood drying on her hands. But she didn’t care. Instead, she circled him, checking him over again for injuries, brushing his shoulders and arms.

“Let’s not be so reckless next time,” she murmured.

Alexander flicked his cigarette into a nearby bin and gave her a long, unreadable look. “Are you trying to boss me around?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she said with a quick shake of her head.

He scoffed, unimpressed. “No one in the Vanderbilt family has ever dared to control me. You shouldn't be the first.”

His tone cooled. “Know your place. If you mess up again, don’t bother coming back.”

The words landed like a stone in her chest. She said nothing, her silence as heavy as the look in her eyes.

He turned and walked off toward the hotel. Ava followed, a few paces behind. When he suddenly stopped, she accidentally bumped into his back and quickly stepped away, fearing his reaction. But he didn’t say anything.

Back in the suite, Ava handed him a small bottle of painkillers. “Mr. Vanderbilt, for the pain.”

He took one look at her bandaged, still-bloodied hands and didn’t reach for them. Instead, his gaze narrowed. “Take care of your wound first.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the bedroom.

Ava quietly made her way to the living room, her arms hanging heavy at her sides. She sat down on the sofa, opened the first-aid kit, and awkwardly began cleaning and bandaging her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, aching with every touch.

She left the painkillers on the table, untouched.

After wrapping her wounds, she leaned back into the sofa and closed her eyes, exhaustion seeping into every limb. Sleep pulled her under quickly.

But her dreams were not peaceful.

She saw Alexander, fists flying in brutal arcs, fighting with that cold, ruthless efficiency he always carried. His voice echoed—low, bitter.

“No one’s ever cared about me since I was a kid. Who do you think you are?”

She woke with a jolt, sweat beading on her forehead, her breath ragged.

She stared at the ceiling, heart thudding against her ribs. Sleep evaded her after that.

That night he had confessed—confessed after disappearing for two days—she had thought it was absurd, childish even. Who just vanishes and then suddenly declares affection?

But now… she wasn’t so sure.

Alexander Vanderbilt had never been taught how to love. He’d grown up among harsh discipline, in a world where kindness was weakness. To him, affection was rough, direct—almost crude. If he liked a woman, he simply took her. That’s what he’d learned.

Yet tonight, beneath the blood and bravado, he hadn’t felt like the cold businessman or the impulsive soldier.

He’d felt like a man. Tired. Raw. Human.

A man who had been raised like a wild wolf, forced to wear a mask of composure and power.

Ava turned over on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around her. Her chest ached with something unspoken, something unfamiliar. Maybe it was pity. Maybe something more.

Maybe women were just too easily moved by things they shouldn’t be.

She closed her eyes, telling herself to sleep.

But her thoughts lingered on Alexander’s quiet words… and the loneliness behind them.

--- 

At precisely five in the morning, Ava woke up to the soft hum of city silence. The sky outside was still cloaked in darkness, the faintest sliver of dawn just beginning to peek through the curtains. She moved quietly through the penthouse, washed up, and gathered the documents Alexander needed for the morning’s meetings.

By six, she padded barefoot to his bedroom door. Inside, the room was still and dim, the only light coming from the faint flicker of a bedside lamp.

He lay in bed, his dark lashes resting heavily against his pale cheeks. Though it had been nearly two weeks since the attack, Alexander had yet to regain his full strength. Blood loss had left him looking fragile—ashen even. The hollows beneath his eyes had deepened, a subtle reminder of how close he'd come to danger.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, it’s time to get up,” Ava said softly.

Alexander didn’t move at first. His eyes remained closed, his chest rising and falling in even breaths.

She reached for the alarm clock, intending to increase the volume—but before her fingers could graze the switch, his lashes fluttered, and he cracked one eye open. His voice came low and sharp, rasping with irritation.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come into my bedroom?”

Ava didn’t flinch. “It’s six. Get up.”

He groaned and sat up slowly, his brows knitting. Still shirtless, he gave her a long look as if waiting for her to leave—but she didn’t.

Instead, her gaze drifted, unbidden, to a very noticeable part of him reacting to the early hour. Morning arousal. Completely natural—but unfortunately timed.

Alexander followed her gaze, then sighed and rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

Without warning, he got up, grabbed her by the back of the neck like she was a stray cat, and turned her around, firmly guiding her toward the door. “Out.”

The bedroom door slammed shut behind her.

Ava blinked at the wood for a few seconds, her cheeks flushing red. Why did I look? she scolded herself, covering her face with both hands.

Moments later, the door opened again. Alexander emerged fully dressed, his expression cold and businesslike as he brushed past her toward the bathroom. Wordless. Composed.

She shook off the awkwardness, grabbed the documents, and followed.

—

By the time they arrived at the Vanderbilt Group headquarters, the lobby was already bustling. Awaiting them were Frederick, Diana, and Raphael, all lined up in coordinated shades of navy and gray, offering warm, practiced smiles.

Alexander's gaze swept over them like glass. Cold. Indifferent. Like they were strangers in a room he had no interest in sharing.

Once Frederick and Diana left, Raphael stayed behind, practically lunging at Alexander’s arm. “Alexander! How could you forget me?” he cried. “We wore the same pants when we were kids!”

Alexander gave him a withering look. “That sounds unhygienic.”

Undeterred, Raphael turned dramatically toward Ava. “What about you? Did he forget you too?”

Ava, unsure whether to laugh or cry, nodded cautiously.

“Oh, come on!” Raphael wailed. “He even kissed you! In the office! Don’t you remember, Alexander? I walked in and caught you kissing her—on the chest, no less!”

Alexander, who had been calmly sipping from a bottle of water, promptly choked.

Coughing violently, he turned to Raphael, eyes wide with disbelief and horror. “What did you just say?!”

“You really forgot everything,” Raphael sighed dramatically. “Just last time—desk, chest, kissing—it was very romantic.”

“Get out!!” Alexander barked, hurling the nearest paperweight.

Raphael dodged, barely, and bolted for the door with the reflexes of a man who had narrowly escaped death before.

Ava stood frozen, a mixture of embarrassment and panic flushing through her. Her instinct told her to follow Raphael and flee.

“Get back here!” Alexander snapped, his voice slicing through the room like a whip.

She turned slowly, plastering on a brittle smile. “Mr. Vanderbilt?”

His dark eyes scanned her—too calm. Too calculating. “You're attractive,” he said bluntly, “but I'm not the type to fool around at work. So whatever that idiot remembered must’ve been a dream.”

He picked up the phone, dialed HR, and said flatly, “You’re fired. Have her go to HR and settle her pay.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Mr. Vanderbilt… do you mean Ava Alvarez?”

“Yes,” he said without emotion. “I want a new secretary.”

There was another pause. The HR representative hesitated. “Should we bring back Mr. Potter?”

Alexander frowned. Potter had been assigned to him not long ago—but the man lacked Ava’s competence. At the time, Alexander had dismissed him in favor of Ava. But now?

“Fine. Bring him back,” he said, irritated.

After hanging up, he looked up to find Ava still standing there.

“Why are you still here?”

Snapping out of her daze, she turned and walked away without a word. Her steps were slow, almost hopeful—half-expecting him to call her back.

But he didn’t.

Outside the building, she nearly collided with Jonathan, who stood waiting by the curb with a coffee in hand and a knowing smirk.

“Miss Alvarez,” he said, amused. “I’ve been called back.”

Ava forced a smile, her tone professional. “Good. His head injury still needs monitoring. Keep an eye on it.”

She turned to go, her heart heavier than expected. The secretary job had always been a placeholder—a transactional role. But for reasons she couldn’t explain, walking away felt harder than it should.

It’s over, she told herself. So let it be over.

But something in her still hesitated—like her heart hadn’t quite caught up with the script.

--- 

Serena returned to her office with a sense of urgency clinging to her like a second skin. The moment she sat down, she had someone locate Ray Rossi’s address. Within the hour, she and Marilyn were on the road, driving through the underbelly of New York City.

The neighborhood where Ray lived looked like a relic of a forgotten time. Crumbling brick buildings hunched under the weight of ivy-covered streetlamps, their dim glow barely cutting through the early dusk. The streets were littered with cigarette butts and broken bottles, the sidewalks cracked and buckled.

As they turned into a narrow alley, the cold bit at Serena’s cheeks, but it didn’t seem to faze the women loitering outside, scantily clad and eyeing every passing car with suspicion—or opportunity.

“Miss Morales,” Marilyn murmured as they stopped in front of a peeling door, “we’re here.”

Serena looked up at the decrepit house. It was barely standing, its paint long since flaked off. The rent here, she’d heard, was only two hundred a month—a number as shocking as the conditions.

She raised her hand to knock, and as her knuckles met the splintered wood, dust drifted down like ash.

“Who is it?” came a hoarse voice from inside.

The door creaked open just a sliver. A man stood there in a gray down jacket, unshaven, unkempt, and reeking of stale alcohol. His bloodshot eyes barely registered her before he slammed the door shut.

“I don’t need no door-to-door sales pitch!”

Serena knocked again, firmer this time. “Mr. Rossi, I’m here to talk business. I want to collaborate.”

There was silence. Then a bitter chuckle.

Inside, Ray poured himself a drink, the glug-glug of cheap whiskey echoing in the narrow hall. Her use of the word "collaborate" seemed to amuse him.

“Mr. Rossi,” Serena said louder, her voice calm but cutting through the door, “I know about Jessica. I know what she did to you. I’m here to offer help. If you want to disappear forever, I’ll leave now.”

A bottle shattered against the floor.

The door flung open.

Ray stood there, squinting at her, the scrutiny in his gaze slowly giving way to a flicker of curiosity.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

Serena handed him a sleek business card.

“Serena Morales. President of E.A. Corporation. We're a new company, but I’m offering you a way back.”

Ray stared at the card, then stepped aside, silently inviting them in.

The room reeked of whiskey, mold, and despair. It couldn’t have been more than 100 square feet. A rickety bed, an old double sofa, a single table buried under empty bottles, and a bucket overflowing with dirty laundry took up every inch of the cramped space. Movie posters lined the walls—faded, torn, but meticulously placed. Despite everything, he hadn’t let go of the dream.

Ray dropped heavily onto the bed. Serena and Marilyn sat on the edge of the couch, brushing aside an empty bottle.

“How exactly do you plan to help me?” Ray asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

“My help comes with conditions,” Serena replied evenly.

He eyed her, scanning for a lie, a trap. She met his gaze unflinching.

“I have nothing,” he said after a moment, taking a sip from a dented metal cup. “I’ve lost everything.”

“I’m not interested in what you’ve lost. I’m interested in what you can still create. You sign with E.A. Corporation, work only with our scripts, and I’ll make sure your name matters again. In return, I’ll deal with Jessica.”

His jaw tensed at the mention of his ex-wife. On the surface, he looked wrecked—but inside, his mind was still wired to direct, to create. Those movie posters weren’t just nostalgia. They were anchors.

Ray had always been difficult. Brilliant, yes, but uncompromising. He’d shouted at stars on set, refused to cater to egos. So, when scandal hit—Jessica accusing him of domestic violence and infidelity—no one stood by him. She had built an image as a victimized powerhouse of a woman who rose above abuse. Her shows, centered around women overcoming betrayal and abuse, made her a darling of feminist media.

And every time her shows aired, Ray was vilified again. His face became a symbol of male toxicity—on social media, in op-eds, and in the public eye.

“I agree,” he said suddenly, eyes narrowing.

Serena leaned forward slightly. “Once I get your name cleared, I need you focused—no distractions, no booze, no pity parties. Just work.”

Ray’s expression darkened, but he nodded.

“I put my heart into every frame,” he said, voice low.

Serena pulled a contract from her folder and laid it on the table. “Then sign.”

He didn’t even read it. He flipped to the last page and scribbled his name with the shaky confidence of a man who had nothing else to lose.

Serena raised an eyebrow. “I expected at least one question.”

“I’ve got nothing left to protect,” he muttered.

She stood, tucking the contract away. “Jessica has a new series about to premiere. It's marketed as based on her life. You’ll be vilified again. This won’t be easy.”

Ray’s hand clenched into a fist. His eyes burned red.

“That bitch.”

After the divorce, Jessica had cut all ties. She took everything: the house, the projects, the industry connections. Ray had been tossed out by his landlord, rejected by every restaurant and film studio. Now he worked as a makeshift bodyguard for the women in this alley—fending off drunks and gangsters for a few hundred a month.

Once a man who managed million-dollar budgets, Ray was now scrapping for coins.

Serena met his rage without flinching. “Remember this. Don’t forget what she did.”

“How could I?” His voice cracked into a violent coughing fit.

She glanced around, disgusted by the filth. “If you want to make a comeback, start with hygiene. Stop drinking. It’s killing whatever pride you have left.”

Ray's face flushed crimson. He used to sip aged scotch in sky-rise suites. Now he was hiding in a dump, too ashamed to walk on the main street.

“I get it,” he muttered, staring at the empty bottle beside his foot.

Serena scribbled her number on a scrap of paper. “I’ll be in touch. Next steps are coming soon.”

With that, she turned and left, Marilyn close behind, leaving Ray in the dim, smoke-filled room—clutching a contract that just might be his salvation. 

*

As Serena stepped out of the narrow alley, the air hit differently—crisper, cleaner, a stark contrast to the suffocating mix of cheap perfume, stale beer, rotting garbage, and the sour tang of vomit that clung to the tenement corridor. The foul stench still clung faintly to her coat, like a lingering bad memory, but she welcomed the bite of the evening breeze against her skin.

If she hadn’t witnessed it with her own eyes, she would never have believed a place like that still existed in New York City. It felt like an underworld tucked into the folds of a glittering metropolis, unseen by those who lived in penthouses and high-rises.

She slid into the passenger seat of the car and let out a slow breath, her fingers briefly pressing against her temple. Marilyn sat behind the wheel, silent but observant.

Midway through the drive back, Serena’s phone rang. The hospital.

Mandy had finally regained consciousness—and given her full statement to the police.

"How would you like to proceed?" the hospital representative asked.

Serena’s voice was flat, her tone decisive. "No private settlement. Handle it by the book."

She ended the call.

Almost immediately after, her screen lit up again. Jessica Ruiz.

Serena answered, her voice neutral.

“Miss Morales,” Jessica began, her voice thick with venom, “don’t you care about Alfonso’s ashes? Aren’t you afraid I’ll dump them in the gutter?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Serena let out a soft laugh, a sound that was both icy and dismissive.

“Ms. Ruiz,” she replied coolly, “you were the one who said I wasn’t Alfonso’s biological daughter. So tell me—why would I care what you do with his ashes? By now, you should know what kind of person I am.”

Jessica hadn’t expected that. Her smirk faltered on the other end of the line. Alfonso’s ashes had been her last card. If Serena didn’t flinch, didn’t beg or rage or threaten, then Jessica had nothing left to hold over her.

From across the room, Mandy’s parents glared at her, their expressions tight with anxiety and disdain. The tension was palpable.

“If Mandy is sentenced,” Mandy’s mother hissed, “photos of you and that assistant of yours will be leaked to the press. You need to fix this.”

Jessica’s jaw clenched. Her affair—with her lover, at the Ackerman family’s villa, of all places—had been caught on a security camera. A scandal waiting to explode.

Taking a breath to steady herself, she returned to the call. “Miss Morales… why don’t we meet and talk, face to face?”

But Serena didn’t hesitate. “Not interested.”

Her tone was like a slammed door.

Jessica stared at her phone screen after the call ended, her pulse racing, the rage simmering beneath her skin.

“That bitch!” she snapped, slamming her palm against the table. The sound cracked through the room.

She’d expected desperation, fear—anything but cold indifference.

And now, the noose was tightening. 

---

Half an hour later, Serena arrived at Le Châteauesque Manor, leading Ray into the study. She held out a minuscule device, no bigger than a fingernail, its matte black surface barely catching the light.

Ray had cleaned himself up since their last meeting. His hair was combed, his beard freshly shaved—though a long, angry cut ran down his chin, a casualty of a rushed shave. He looked more like a man trying to reclaim his dignity, even if it trembled at the edges.

“Mr. Rossi,” Serena said, her voice steady, “this is a listening device. It’s state-of-the-art and can be implanted just under your skin. We need to get you into surgery—immediately.”

Ray examined the chip, the weight of what she was asking sinking in. Serena continued, her tone dropping into something more urgent.

“Jessica is too cautious. She never leaves proof, never admits to anything. I can’t confront her directly without risking exposure. But if you—if the victim—corner her, we might get what we need.”

She paused, watching him closely.

“I’ll provoke her soon. She’ll lose her temper. That’s when you step in—pretend you’re still hoping she’ll let you go, make her believe you're weak. She’ll come to you. But be ready. She’ll hit you. Maybe worse. You just need to keep her talking—long enough for her to slip up. Once we get her confession on tape, it’ll destroy her.”

Ray’s hand trembled slightly as he turned the chip over in his palm. Then, without a word, he grabbed a knife from the nearby drawer. Serena moved to stop him, but it was too late.

He carved a sharp, shallow line across the inside of his forearm, blood spilling instantly. Gritting his teeth, he slid the chip into the incision. His face turned pale.

“Stitch it,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “Let’s get it over with.”

Serena hadn’t expected him to go through with it so quickly—let alone do it himself. She immediately called a private medical contact and had him rushed to the hospital.

As soon as Ray was out the door, Serena received a call from the Morales family villa: someone was there asking for her.

She didn’t need to be told who.

By the time she pulled into the driveway, Jessica's black sports car rammed straight into the side of Serena’s luxury sedan with a loud thud. The impact wasn’t strong enough to injure, but the message was clear.

A warning.

Jessica stepped out, impeccably styled in a designer trench coat and heels, swinging a limited-edition Hermès bag from her wrist. Her nose wrinkled as she surveyed Serena’s gleaming multimillion-dollar car.

“So this is how the Morales family spends money while going bankrupt? Classy,” she sneered.

Serena stepped out calmly, unfazed.

Jessica stood like a queen surveying a servant—her gaze dripping with contempt. If Serena hadn’t kept her waiting so long, she wouldn’t have bothered coming at all. But now she was here, and she planned to make a scene.

"You're young,” Jessica said, folding her arms, “so let me explain how the world works. You mess with me, you pay. Apologize now—on your knees—and maybe I’ll let this go. Otherwise, next time, I’ll make you do more than kneel.”

She was used to this tactic. Many young actresses had knelt before her, terrified of losing their fledgling careers. Her fan base was massive, aggressive, and rabidly loyal.

But Serena didn’t even flinch.

“Ms. Ruiz, you should leave,” she said coldly. “I’m not letting Mandy’s case go.”

The words had barely left Serena’s lips when Jessica shrieked and hurled her designer bag at her.

It never made contact.

Serena’s expression darkened. In one swift movement, she lifted her leg and kicked Jessica squarely in the stomach.

Jessica went flying backward, crashing to the ground with a scream.

Clutching her abdomen, she looked up at Serena, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You hit me?! Do you know who I am? I have millions of fans!”

Serena’s lip curled into a cold smile. “And I still don’t care.”

Jessica staggered to her feet, breathless, and turned on her heel.

“You’ll regret this.”

She stormed back to her car, pulled out her phone, and opened T*****r. Her hands flew across the screen. She uploaded a photo of a medical report she’d acquired from a hospital contact, then posted a carefully crafted sob story:

> I can’t believe people like this exist. I just went to apologize, and she attacked me. I was reminded of my husband’s abuse all over again. Why do people choose violence over understanding?

Within minutes, her post was trending. Her fans flooded the replies—over 20,000 comments poured in, demanding to know who had hurt her. Articles followed. Headlines lit up the entertainment feeds.

Smirking, Jessica screenshotted the stories and messaged Serena directly.

Jessica: [You still have time to kneel and apologize. This time, I want you to kneel three times and curse your whole family. Oh wait… you don’t have one. Aren’t your adoptive parents dead? God, you’re pitiful. Who even knows where you came from? A bastard like you shouldn’t exist. LOL.]

No response.

Jessica, emboldened by silence, sent another message.

Jessica: [You have until 10 p.m. If you don’t come to me by then, I’ll reveal everything. I’ll make sure the entire internet curses you until you beg for death.]

Still, Serena did not reply.

Jessica sat back, pleased, watching her follower count climb—completely unaware that her downfall had already been set in motion. 

*

Jessica Ruiz drove home under the cover of dusk, her car cutting a sleek silhouette across the city streets. But just as she was about to turn into her neighborhood, a familiar figure caught her eye—a man standing outside a corporate building, holding a folder, his frame lean, eyes sharp despite the wear of time.

Ray.

For a moment, Jessica thought she was hallucinating. He had all but disappeared after she’d unleashed her people on him repeatedly, orchestrating smear campaigns and silent threats to ensure he’d never crawl out of the shadows again. And yet here he was—alive, upright, and reportedly seeking investors for a new film project.

Her heart skipped a beat, then twisted in panic.

Ray had always been a brilliant director, a true genius in a cutthroat industry. And now, re-emerging from the ashes?

No—she couldn’t allow it.

Without a second thought, Jessica grabbed her phone and made the call. "Get him. Tonight."

It was all part of Serena’s plan.

Ray was swiftly and silently abducted and brought to Jessica’s private residence. Despite the years of torment, she had never dared to kill him. Not because of sentiment—but because she knew the risk. Ray had covered his bases early on, filing a report with the authorities and claiming Jessica was harassing him. If he ever turned up dead, the first person the police would question would be her.

And she knew it.

Inside the dimly lit room, Ray now sat tied to a chair, his wrists bound tightly behind him. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, burned with restrained fury. Jessica sauntered in slowly, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome of menace.

"Long time no see, my dear ex-husband," she drawled, kicking him sharply in the side of the head.

Ray groaned, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. "Jessica, you’re a goddamn monster."

Her smile stretched wider, darker. Her recent humiliation at Serena’s hands had left her craving someone to destroy—and Ray had always been an easy target.

She laughed, venom lacing every word. "Do you think calling me names is going to help you? You should be begging me instead."

Ray’s body trembled with rage, his face contorted in pain. "I never wronged you. I caught you cheating with your assistant, and what did you do? You fabricated a scandal—claimed I harassed an actress. You bribed the woman, Jessica! You even paid off the doctor to say I was abusive. You’re sick!"

Jessica circled him like a predator toying with its prey. Watching Ray bleed, broken and powerless, sent a rush of gratification through her.

"Ray, Ray, Ray..." she mocked. "Still clinging to your delusions of justice? You’re nothing but a washed-up rat. You think the world cares about your little sob story?"

Ray spat blood, his voice hoarse but defiant. "I won’t let you get away with it."

Jessica narrowed her eyes. Something about his confidence unsettled her.

Turning to the bodyguard beside her, she barked, "You searched him thoroughly, right?"

The man stiffened. "Yes, ma'am. We found a phone and a recorder. Both destroyed."

Her lips thinned. So he had been trying to record her.

With a snarl, she kicked him again—this time in the jaw. The pointed toe of her designer heel left a crimson streak on his cheek.

Ray curled into himself, shielding his head with trembling arms. His face, already swelling with bruises, twisted in silent agony.

"Still dreaming of a comeback?" she sneered. "You should stay in the gutter where you belong."

She turned to her men. "Ruin him. I want him bedbound for a month. Don’t kill him—but make sure he remembers what it feels like to be beneath my heel."

"Yes, Ms. Ruiz."

What followed was a sickening symphony of fists and boots. Ray’s cries echoed through the walls, muffled and choked by blood and despair.

An hour later, when the violence had finally ceased, Jessica stood over his barely conscious form. His face was unrecognizable, swollen and bloodied beyond repair.

"Dump him at the hospital," she ordered coldly. "Make sure he lives. If he dies, the cops will be knocking on my door. And believe me..." she smirked, "...sometimes living hurts more than dying."

---

Ray was dumped unceremoniously outside the emergency entrance, just like old times. But this time, Serena was already waiting.

She rushed to his side, helping him into the hospital as the staff quickly took over. Her expression remained composed, but her eyes brimmed with a quiet fury.

The doctor issued a full medical report. Serena had the wounds documented with high-resolution photos. Each bruise and gash told a story of humiliation and injustice—a narrative the world would soon hear.

Ray lay in the hospital bed, every breath he took punctuated by pain. His fists clenched the blanket, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Mr. Rossi," Serena said gently, sitting beside him, "look forward. The past is a wound, yes—but your future is still yours to shape. You can still make films. Your voice isn’t gone."

Ray, now in his forties, wept silently. Shoulders heaving, he couldn’t stop the tears. "To go public with this..." he rasped, "...means exposing everything. I’ll be humiliated. People will laugh at me. A man, beaten and broken like this?"

Serena leaned in, her voice soft but firm. "Let them see. Let the world see who Jessica really is. When you’re ready, I’ll help you release the recording. It will go viral. I’ll make sure of it."

Ray nodded slowly, tears falling freely down his battered face. "Thank you..." he whispered, the words catching in his throat.

"Rest now," Serena said, standing. "I’ll handle everything else."

And with that, she left him in the care of the doctors, his future uncertain—but no longer without hope. 

Meanwhile, Jessica, still simmering from her earlier outburst at Ray, found herself oddly content. The frustration that had clouded her thoughts now felt lighter, as if venting had cleared the static in her mind.

Her post from earlier that day continued to stir chatter online. The gossip was relentless. Comment sections buzzed with speculation—everyone wanted to know who the woman was that had dared to slap Jessica.

With a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, Jessica cast a glance at the gilded wall clock. The hour hand hovered near six. She tapped her long, lacquered fingernail against the armrest of her chair, counting down the hours.

If Serena didn’t show up by 10 p.m.—kneeling and begging for forgiveness—then Jessica would go through with it. She would release Serena’s personal information to the public. Let her squirm beneath the weight of public opinion. Let her drown in the same fire Jessica had endured.

Let’s see if Serena could handle the storm.

"That arrogant bitch," Jessica muttered under her breath, venom in her voice. "She really thinks she can challenge me? What a joke."

As far as Jessica was concerned, Serena was nothing more than an overconfident upstart. And by tonight, she’d learn the consequences of crossing the wrong woman.