* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * 2nd * Chapter 265

Dear Gentle Readers, 

Firstly this author would like to apologize for the timeline-confusion in Chapter 262 (perhaps the worsened flu has gotten its way into his ability of simple copy & paste). It has been fixed at his end but his editor needs to approve it first before it is fixed at readers’ end. That being said, thank you Massiline Makichi for noticing and please enjoy this freebie chapter as a token of apology and gratitude for your continuous support. 

Yours, E.C. 

P.S. while this author was checking this chapter again and again before updating, he notices comment about being changed twice for same words or so, please forgive this author and know that it is NOT intentional. This author has never cheated on his readers and always give freebies chapter (against his editor’s wishes and the correct way to publish here) whenever he could ... 

***

In the other car, Alexander Vanderbilt sat in silence, reclining in the driver’s seat, the window slightly cracked to let in the crisp mountain air. The breeze carried the earthy scent of pine and distant rain, cooling the cabin in rhythmic pulses. Below the window, a small pile of cigarette butts had collected—evidence of how long he’d been waiting.

He hadn't brought one of his sleek luxury vehicles; doing so would've tipped Serena off instantly. Instead, after arriving in Charleston, he'd had the local manager swap it out for an inconspicuous sedan.

It was late—well past midnight—and by now, he figured Serena was already on her way to Roastercoast Garden. Alexander had called ahead, quietly instructing the staff to give her a ring, planting the idea in her mind to go there. Now all he had to do was drive over and "coincidentally" run into her. That way, she wouldn’t be suspicious—or angry.

He watched her car vanish around a curve before slowly pressing his foot to the gas, blending into the darkness behind her trail.

He drove for over an hour, winding through back roads and the quiet outskirts of town, just in case she doubled back or suspected she was being followed. Cautious. Deliberate. His gaze swept the familiar surroundings as he aimlessly circled through Charleston’s sleepy streets. Someone had once told him Serena had spent her senior year of high school here. Nostalgia tugged at him, and he found himself idling near the old campus gates.

But by now, the school was cloaked in shadow. The courtyard was deserted, the buildings silhouetted against the cloudy night sky. There was nothing to see. Just silence and memories that weren’t even his.

Feeling that enough time had passed, he turned the car around and made his way back to Roastercoast Garden. Once there, he discreetly switched out his borrowed sedan for his personal car. Even if Serena noticed, she'd think he’d just arrived.

The manager was already waiting for him.

“This way, Mr. Vanderbilt,” he said, leading Alexander down a softly lit corridor. “Your room is ready.”

Before they reached the door, Alexander asked, “Did anyone else check in tonight?”

The manager hesitated. “Are you asking about Serena?”

Alexander’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “Yes.”

“She’s in the room next to yours,” the manager said carefully. “Our staff arranged it that way. I can move her if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“No,” Alexander interrupted coolly. “Leave it.”

Though he sounded indifferent, his pace quickened ever so slightly.

As they passed through the stone path toward the guest rooms, Alexander suddenly stopped in front of a wall near the courtyard—a familiar one. His gaze locked onto it.

He remembered the first time he’d been here. Serena had been standing right in that spot, brush in hand, sunlight streaming over her shoulders as she painted. Her strokes were fluid, alive, as if she were breathing life into the mural with every movement. He’d been drawn to the moment, unable to resist picking up a brush and adding a few strokes of his own. Back then, he’d chalked it up to aesthetic admiration—an artist’s respect for another’s skill.

But now... Now it felt like a moment suspended in amber.

He could still see her in his mind’s eye—spilling paint onto his shirt, her startled face lifting, her voice light and flustered as she said, “Mr. Vanderbilt...” It echoed in his memory like a melody.

That Serena—the one who once looked at him with spark and innocence—felt like a different person altogether.

He stood in front of the wall for a full ten minutes, lost in thought, until the manager finally broke the silence.

“If Mr. Vanderbilt likes this painting so much,” the man said with a smile, “we could ask Miss Ava to paint another. Or a few.”

Alexander didn’t respond right away. He had thought about inviting Serena to Manhattan Villa to paint—had pictured her there, creating something beautiful while he watched. But now, it felt like nothing more than a foolish hope. She hated him. That dream had long since crumbled.

“There’s no need,” he said quietly, turning away and continuing toward his room.

But fate, always so cunning, had its own timing.

As he rounded the corridor, footsteps echoed from the other end. Serena appeared, walking toward him from the opposite direction. She was speaking softly into her phone, brows furrowed in thought. The dim lighting outlined her figure, her hair still slightly tousled from travel, eyes fixed downward. She didn’t even glance up.

She passed him—just walked by—without a flicker of recognition.

Alexander's heart gave an involuntary jolt.

But when he realized she hadn't even noticed him, that she hadn't felt his presence at all... his heart sank, dropping like a stone into still water.

* 

Serena received a call from Uncle Marco’s old workplace. The voice on the other end was brisk, almost apologetic—someone had discovered a box of his belongings gathering dust in storage, and since word had spread that she was handling his affairs, they thought she might want to collect it.

She rushed over, navigating the familiar Charleston streets as dusk fell like a velvet curtain over the city. The office had handed her a battered cardboard box, scuffed at the corners, filled with odds and ends—pens, keys, a cracked watch, a few faded receipts. Nothing of real value, but she clutched it to her chest anyway, as though it held pieces of him.

From the riverbank, she began walking toward Roastercoast Garden. The night air was heavy with moisture from last night’s rain, and the sidewalks shimmered with a slick sheen beneath the dim streetlamps.

But something felt off.

Serena’s shoulders tensed. Her steps slowed. A prickle crawled along the back of her neck, the unmistakable sense of being followed. She stopped abruptly, spinning on her heel.

Nothing. Just the quiet lapping of the river and the rustle of wind through the trees.

Still, unease coiled in her gut. She picked up her pace, hugging the box tightly. Her boots slipped on a patch of wet grass by the greenbelt, and in a flash, she lost her balance—sliding forward and nearly plunging into the dark river.

She caught herself just in time, palms stinging from the fall.

Then a voice called out to her, frantic and sharp.

"Serena, you okay?"

"Serena!"

She froze.

Was she hearing things?

But then she saw him—Alexander—skidding down the hill toward her, half-running, half-sliding. The muddy path, still slick from the rain, gave him no traction. His dress shoes betrayed him, sending him past her in a graceless arc, one foot splashing directly into the riverbank's shallows.

Serena, still crouched in the damp grass, turned to glare up at him, her voice like ice. “What are you doing here?”

Alexander, brushing mud from his coat like it didn’t matter, straightened without answering her.

She narrowed her eyes, fists tightening around the small box. “Mr. Vanderbilt, are you following me?”

“No,” he replied smoothly, though his hair was tousled and his pants soaked.

“Then why are you here?” she asked, her tone sharp, suspicious.

“There was a project issue in Charleston. They called me down to check it out,” he said, shrugging with maddening nonchalance. “Only realized you were around when I got to Roastercoast Garden.”

Serena didn’t buy it for a second. She gave him a skeptical glance and turned away, starting up the path without another word.

Alexander trudged after her, his soaked shoes squishing with every step. The mud clung to his expensive slacks, but he paid it no mind.

She stayed a few paces ahead, trying to avoid the slipperiest parts of the trail. But her foot caught on a hidden branch, and she stumbled again. The box tumbled from her arms, landing with a dull thud, and her chin nearly struck the ground.

Alexander rushed forward.

He knelt beside her instantly, offering a steadying hand, concern etched into his face. But she ignored him entirely, scrambling to retrieve the box without so much as a glance in his direction.

His hand lingered in the air, waiting, then slowly dropped to his side.

“Am I some kind of plague to you?” he asked softly.

The night had fallen silent again. The river murmured beside them. The air, though on the cusp of spring, still held a lingering chill.

Serena stood, brushing the dirt from her coat. Her voice was calm, but cutting. “No, you’re not.”

Alexander exhaled, almost relieved—until she added, “But your family? They’re far more dangerous than any virus.”

He stared at her, stunned into silence. His mouth opened, searching for a retort, but nothing came. Eventually, he just let out a quiet sigh and turned away.

He stayed behind as she climbed up the narrow slope, keeping a careful distance. Close enough to see her silhouette moving ahead under the faint glow of the streetlamps.

But far enough to know he no longer belonged beside her. 

When they finally reached the entrance of Roastercoast Garden, a staff member hurried over, eyes wide with concern.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, what happened to you?”

Alexander looked like he’d just clawed his way out of a forest. His tailored suit was smeared with mud and bits of leaves clung to the fabric. His pants were soaked through, heavy from water and grit.

“Nothing,” Alexander muttered, his voice flat as he brushed past the staff member. He lifted one muddied shoe and stepped toward the guest wing without another word.

As he opened the door to his suite, his gaze flicked instinctively to the room next door. The door was closed tight, no light seeping through the crack beneath. He had no idea what she was doing inside—and it unsettled him more than he’d admit.

---

Inside her room, Serena was meticulously sorting through a weathered box filled with Uncle Marco’s old belongings. Yellowed papers, tarnished cufflinks, notes scribbled in his precise hand. After organizing everything, she set the box aside and headed for a hot shower, letting the steam clear her head.

Wrapped in a soft robe, she sat down with her laptop and began reviewing the day’s company documents.

Her phone buzzed. She checked it—still no reply from Whitney. Serena had been trying to lock in a meeting, hoping to reel Whitney in before another agency made an offer.

But Whitney Morrison was playing hard to get. She insisted she wouldn't talk unless Simon came to meet her personally.

Serena sighed, typing out a message:

[Mr. Moore is currently busy with other artists and probably doesn’t have time to see you.]

The reply came quickly.

[Then there’s nothing to discuss.]

Whitney's fingers trembled as she put her phone down. The rejection stung.

Simon already has new artists? So soon?

The thought unsettled her more than she'd expected. Panic crept into her chest like a slow-burning ember. If she didn’t sign with E.A. Corporation now, would Simon forget about her altogether—just like in their senior year?

Back then, he’d left without a word, disappearing from her life. It had taken her years to recover.

Her pride wrestled with her longing. Chasing after him hadn’t worked before, and it wouldn’t work now. He’d made it clear—he didn’t want marriage, didn’t want her.

Just then, another message from Serena popped up:

[Ms. Morrison, please reconsider. I sincerely want to sign you.]

Whitney didn’t reply.

Back in her room, Serena set the phone aside and returned to her documents. The numbers blurred slightly as her mind drifted—but a sudden knock on the door pulled her back.

She paused, brows furrowed. For a second, she thought it might be Alexander again.

Instead, a young staff member stood in the hallway, holding a ceramic cup. Steam rose from the surface of the ginger tea, fragrant and warming.

“Ms. Morales, this ginger tea was specially prepared for our guests,” the staffer said with a polite smile. “If you’d like a late-night snack, the kitchen’s still open.”

Serena wasn’t one for midnight indulgences. She opened her mouth to politely decline—until the door next to hers creaked open.

Alexander.

His disheveled presence lingered in the doorway, and for a brief moment, their eyes met.

He froze.

The staffer turned toward him cheerfully. “Mr. Vanderbilt, have you finished your tea? Can we bring you something to eat?”

“No, thank you,” he said curtly, setting his empty bowl on the tray with a clink and closing the door swiftly—without sparing Serena a second glance.

Inside, Alexander leaned against the door for a moment, heart ticking in his ears. He didn’t want to hear another sarcastic jab or cutting remark from her tonight. He’d had enough of that.

Still, he couldn’t help but linger, eavesdropping.

“Ms. Morales, would you like something to eat? The chef prepared a special corn chowder,” the staffer offered.

Serena hesitated, but the mention of corn chowder made her stomach rumble at the worst possible moment.

She gave a small nod. “Where can I get it?”

“We’ll bring it right to you.”

As the staff walked away, she murmured a quiet thanks and stepped back inside.

Only when the hallway had gone completely silent did Alexander finally move away from the door. He slumped onto the sofa, exhausted, restless, haunted by her nearness. The rooms were well-insulated, yet earlier he had heard the faint rush of water through the walls—her shower running.

The thought alone sent a heat crawling under his skin.

He raked a hand through his hair, breathing in the stillness. This... this wasn’t him. He wasn’t the type to obsess. Wasn’t the type to ache for a woman who only looked at him like a storm she had to weather.

He ran a cold shower, hoping it would wash the image of her from his mind.

It didn’t.

Not even close.

--- 

Steam still clung to Alexander’s skin as he stepped out of the shower, a towel slung low around his waist. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Quinton from Darby Construction was calling.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” Quinton began, his tone nervous. “The finance department flagged an error in a batch of material payments. I’d like to go over it with you and Ms. Alvarez personally. May I set up a meeting group for the three of us to review the records?”

A mistake involving payments was no small thing—especially not with Alexander Vanderbilt. Quinton half-expected to be torn apart verbally. But after a pause, Alexander simply said, “Go ahead.”

The ease of his agreement took Quinton by surprise. Everyone in the industry knew Alexander had a zero-tolerance policy for errors. Still, within minutes, a meeting group popped up on Alexander’s phone. Serena’s avatar appeared next—an image he recognized instantly. She hadn’t changed it since he added her to his contacts.

Alexander collapsed onto the leather sofa, scrolling lazily while waiting for the call to begin. Serena’s mic lit up, her voice calm and crisp. “Yes, Quinton?”

Quinton’s voice followed, sheepish. “Ms. Alvarez, I sincerely apologize. One of our finance staff was just arrested—internal embezzlement. The accounting team reviewed all the accounts he handled and found some discrepancies in the payments for the Manhattan Villa renovation. I wanted to inform you immediately and apologize directly.”

Serena sighed quietly, fingers already flying across her keyboard. Financial issues were the cancer of corporate life—but at least this one had been caught early. She pulled up her transaction history and began cross-referencing with Quinton, her voice confident and precise. She remembered each payment with startling clarity.

Alexander leaned back, one arm draped across the couch. He wasn’t even looking at the numbers—he was watching her, through the screen and in memory. The first time he met her at Roastercoast Garden… the way her eyes flicked up, guarded yet curious. The way she had said, “Mr. Vanderbilt,” like it was a challenge.

That voice. Calm. Unbothered. So different from the women he was used to.

His gaze dropped. His towel shifted slightly. He glanced at the mic, made sure it was muted. Then, unable to stop himself, he closed his eyes and listened—to her voice, to her laughter when Quinton cracked a joke.

It hit him harder than he expected. Goosebumps raced along his arms, heat rising. Her laughter—it felt so familiar, so intimate. His breathing quickened, quiet but heavy. He was almost—

A sudden silence. Then her voice, sharp and direct:

“Mr. Vanderbilt, what are you doing? Mr. Darby’s been speaking to you.”

Alexander’s eyes flew open.

He checked the mic. It was still muted.

His pulse raced. Had she sensed something?

He unmuted, keeping his tone steady despite the rasp in his voice. “What?”

Serena’s voice was neutral, but the edge was unmistakable. “Mr. Darby’s been asking you something. If you’re not interested in the meeting, feel free to leave.”

He sat there, stunned into stillness. He hadn’t realized just how much of his control she had quietly stolen.

“I’m listening,” he said finally, unmuting Quinton’s mic as well.

Quinton, sweating bullets, jumped in. “Yes—right, Mr. Vanderbilt. We’ve reconciled everything with Ms. Alvarez. There was an overcharge of two hundred thousand. We’ll process the refund to your account immediately.”

“Fine,” Alexander replied flatly. The rest of the call was a blur—polite formalities exchanged, numbers confirmed.

The moment the meeting ended, he shut his laptop with a soft snap. He kept wiping his hands with a tissue, as if trying to scrub away the moment—her voice still echoing in his head.

Then—a knock at the door.

He stood slowly, heart thudding. When he opened it, Serena stood on the other side.

Her eyes, unreadable. Her presence, electric.

He didn’t say a word.

And neither did she. Not yet. 

---

Serena placed the printed documents neatly on the table, her tone clipped and businesslike. “Mr. Vanderbilt, these are the complete material lists from that project. You’re welcome to have the finance department at the Vanderbilt Group verify them again.”

She glanced up from the stack of papers—only to catch a flicker in his eyes. There it was: satisfaction mingled with something else. Something heavier. That familiar, simmering look of desire.

She knew that look.

Having tangled with Alexander more times than she cared to count, Serena recognized the subtle cues. The way his pupils darkened, the quiet hitch in his breath, the way he’d murmur the filthiest things in that low, dangerous voice when aroused. Right now, he looked exactly like that—hungry, restrained, but burning beneath the surface.

Alexander stood at the threshold of his suite, the door open behind him, a single towel slung low on his hips. His skin was still damp from a recent shower, and the breeze coming through the hallway cooled the droplets glistening on his chest. He took the slip of paper from her hand, eyes scanning it slowly, word by word, as if it held the secrets of the universe.

A $200,000 line item. Normally, he wouldn’t have given a number like that more than a passing glance—but tonight, he read every digit as if it might give him an excuse to keep her here longer.

Serena, arms crossed and one heel tapping rhythmically against the marble floor, gave him a look. “Just give it to your finance team. You’re acting like $200,000 is a big deal now?”

“$200,000 is still money,” Alexander replied without looking up, his voice low, smooth. His gaze remained on the paper, but his attention was clearly split. He didn’t meet her eyes—perhaps afraid she’d read too much in his expression.

A gust of wind swept through the corridor. Serena turned her face to the side and sneezed.

Alexander half-turned toward her, voice casual. “Come in for a bit. Get out of the wind.”

She shot him a quick, dismissive smile. “No, thanks. I’ll head back to my room. If your team finds any issues, let me know. Mr. Darby already went through everything, so I doubt there’ll be a problem.”

“Serena,” he said suddenly, her name sharp but soft on his tongue, as though it had slipped out before he could stop it.

She paused mid-step and turned to face him, her expression blank but her eyes sharp with warning.

He stood still, leaning casually against the doorframe, tall and imposing in the dim light, his features sculpted like stone. From the outside, he looked as cold and untouchable as ever. But Serena knew better. She knew what he’d just done. She knew what simmered just beneath that carefully composed surface.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Vanderbilt?” she asked coolly, her voice edged with impatience.

Alexander hesitated for just a breath, then said, “I had Rita transferred to a psychiatric facility.”

It was a peace offering. Or maybe a test.

Serena gave him nothing—no reaction, no reply. She simply turned around and closed the door behind her with a soft but unmistakable finality.

For a moment, Alexander stood frozen.

If it weren’t for the faint scent of her perfume still lingering in the air, he might’ve thought he’d imagined the whole thing.

There was no gratitude. No affection. Not even the barest flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Just clean detachment.

If she ever found out he’d followed her here, it wouldn’t move her—it would only piss her off.

Her body—he knew how to master it. He could pull her into him, make her tremble, steal every breath from her lungs. She responded to him without fail.

But her heart? That was a different battlefield. It was guarded, locked, and cold. Even at the height of passion, her words could cut like glass.

Sweet in body. Sharp in tongue.

And it drove him mad.

For a fleeting second, Alexander felt the urge to kick her door down, drag her back out, make her feel something—anything.

Why should it matter where her heart was, as long as her body was his?

But then the jealousy crept in, sharp and bitter. Who did her heart belong to? Alexei? Wes? Lucca? The thought alone made his blood boil.

Back in his room, Alexander sat on the edge of the bed. The bin beside him was full of crumpled tissues. Just the memory of her voice could get under his skin. It was ridiculous.

But it wasn’t over. Not even close.

And he knew—this would happen again. 

---

Meanwhile, Serena lay on her bed, her thoughts a tangled storm of frustration. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, unwilling to let the anger settle. But then her gaze drifted to the wooden box on the dresser—the one Uncle Marco had left behind. Its simple presence steadied her.

She exhaled slowly. There was still too much to do.

By morning, she had made up her mind. She set her alarm for five, determined to leave before Alexander even stirred. She needed distance, and she wasn’t in the mood for another one of his veiled remarks or prolonged stares.

But the moment she opened her bedroom door, fate played its cruel trick.

Across the hall, Alexander’s door creaked open at the exact same time. He stood there, silent and composed, like he’d been expecting her.

Her expression immediately darkened. Had he stayed up all night just to catch her leaving?

Without a word, she turned sharply and walked past him, refusing to meet his eyes. Her heels clicked with brisk purpose down the hallway and echoed through the marble foyer of Roastercoast Garden. Once in the car, she started the engine with a firm twist of the key and sped off, tires crunching over the gravel drive.

But she didn’t head straight for the highway. Not yet.

Instead, she made a quiet detour, the kind that weighed on her conscience.

She drove to Uncle Marco’s old house—a modest, weather-worn place that still smelled faintly of books, oil paints, and the past. It had been sealed again since his passing. She used her key, the metal cold against her fingers, and let herself in. The air was heavy with stillness.

She stepped inside and gently set the box on the old oak table in the middle of the living room.

There, it would stay.

Maybe no one would return to this house again. But something about leaving the box here—returning it to where it belonged—gave her a strange sense of closure.

She locked up, got back into her car, and this time made for the open road.

But as the highway stretched out in front of her, something in the rearview mirror made her pulse spike.

A sleek, dark car was following her. Close. Too close.

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel.

It was him. She knew it.

Alexander.

The realization clawed at her nerves. He was following her—but of course, he’d never admit it. He’d play it cool, insist it was coincidence. Deny everything. That was the most maddening part.

Being watched. Followed. Without proof.

That quiet, suffocating feeling of someone always being one step behind you—and never owning up to it.

Serena pressed harder on the gas, trying to outrun not just the car in her mirror, but the rising heat in her chest.

And the chaos Alexander always managed to bring.