* FREEBIE / NO PAYING * Chapter 234 : You think you can sleep next to me and not touch me?

After Alexander left, Jonathan arrived as promised—but he didn’t enter the lounge. Instead, he waited quietly outside until Ava stepped out, her steps light but steady.

Jonathan offered a small nod and began explaining the schedule in his usual calm, methodical manner.

“In the morning, you’ll need to wake Mr. Vanderbilt, accompany him to social events, manage his business relationships, and act as his driver when needed.”

Ava mentally jotted everything down, her expression unreadable.

“If you have any questions, just call me,” he added with a faint smile. “I’ll be stationed at the Vanderbilt Group for now. I won’t be shadowing him anymore.”

There was a brief pause before Jonathan added, almost as an afterthought, “If Mr. Vanderbilt gets angry… don’t confront him directly. Say something soft—he cools down faster that way.”

Ava nodded, absorbing the advice without argument. She gathered her notes and went to reorganize the day's plans. But the moment she stepped into the top-floor office of the Vanderbilt Group, she could feel the shift in atmosphere.

The buzz of whispered conversations rippled through the air like static.

“Did you hear?” one voice murmured behind a sleek cubicle wall. “She replaced Victoria.”

“Seriously?”

“My friend’s boyfriend said Mr. Vanderbilt’s been showing up with her at parties lately. Even his circle knows he’s into Ava now.”

“She must be impressive… replacing Victoria isn’t easy.”

Amid the chatter, a voice cut through the room like a knife—cold, sharp, and laced with venom.

“Using her looks to climb up the ladder won’t get her far. Mr. Vanderbilt isn’t shallow. He’ll grow bored of her soon.”

The room fell silent. No one dared respond—not to her.

The woman speaking was known for her ambition. She had once vied for the position of Alexander's secretary but had been passed over in favor of Jonathan. And now Ava had seemingly replaced even him. Her bitterness was palpable.

Standing up from her desk with practiced grace, the woman radiated sharp professionalism. “She’s a designer, not a secretary. All she knows is how to seduce men. Women like her? The most despised in the workplace.”

The silence was deafening. Colleagues exchanged nervous glances. No one dared correct her, though many disagreed.

But the woman’s sneer vanished the moment she realized her audience had gone quiet for another reason.

Ava was standing right behind her.

Turning around slowly, the woman locked eyes with Ava—but made no apology. Her glare was bold, defiant.

Ava didn’t flinch. She merely lifted an eyebrow in amusement, her expression cool and unreadable. She said nothing. It was her first day at the Vanderbilt Group—she wasn’t about to spark drama before noon.

So, with quiet dignity, she nodded politely to the room and stepped into the elevator.

Behind her, the woman scoffed. “She definitely looks the type,” she muttered. “One of those who climbs with her heels instead of her head.”

No one replied. They knew envy when they saw it.

Later that morning, Ava arrived at the Vanderbilt mansion to pick up Alexander. She didn’t dare go inside—she remained in the car, hands lightly gripping the steering wheel, the engine humming softly beneath her.

Inside, chaos reigned.

Alexander had just finished throwing Vivienne and Cordelia out of the house. The confrontation had turned ugly.

Vivienne, her voice shrill with emotion, hurled accusations as she was escorted out. “Alexander, did you kill your brother? Is that what you're hiding? What happened back then?!”

Cornelius, still weak from stress and age, had nearly collapsed at her words.

But Alexander remained unmoved. His heart had long since gone cold to these kinds of attacks. If he were the type to be broken by guilt or bitterness, he would have shattered in that house years ago.

After a brief conversation with Cornelius—mostly sighs and silence—Alexander exited the mansion.

And there, parked in the driveway, was the sleek black car. Through the tinted glass, he saw her.

Ava.

She sat in the driver’s seat, her delicate features framed by sunlight filtering through the windshield. His eyes softened instantly.

He knocked lightly on the window. She rolled it down.

“Take me to the hotel,” he said, his voice low but gentle—entirely different from the coldness he'd shown inside.

Then, without warning, he leaned through the window and pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips.

Just as he pulled back, a familiar voice thundered behind him.

“You little rascal—who are you kissing?!”

It was Cornelius.

Alexander froze for a beat—then slowly turned around. Ava’s eyes widened slightly as she tried to suppress the laugh rising in her throat.

And for the first time that day, Alexander looked a little caught off guard.

Alexander instinctively moved in front of Ava, shielding her with his body as he turned to face the figure at the gate.

“Grandpa,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Cornelius Vanderbilt stood rigidly, leaning on his cane like a pillar barely holding up under its own weight. His face was contorted with fury, his thin lips pressed into a hard line, and his eyes—sharp even at his age—blazed with a fire that had clearly not dimmed over the years. His chest heaved, breath rattling in his lungs as he raised his cane as though preparing to strike.

He didn’t have to speak; his fury had been simmering all night. Arguments with Vivienne and Cordelia had already pushed him to the brink. Now, seeing Alexander arrive with a woman—one more symbol of defiance—was the final straw.

He coughed violently, bent over as though the force might break him. For a moment, it looked like he might collapse right there on the front steps.

Ava instinctively moved to open the car door, her hand already reaching for the handle to go to him.

But Alexander stopped her.

“Drive a bit farther,” he said calmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Wait for me.”

Ava hesitated, torn, but obeyed. She slowly pulled the car forward, putting a good three hundred feet of distance between them. Even from there, she could still hear the shouting echo off the marble walls of the Vanderbilt estate.

Cornelius raised his cane and brought it down hard across Alexander’s back.

“You little bastard!” he shouted, striking him again. “You just live to spite me, don’t you? Bringing a woman here like it means nothing—”

Alexander took both blows without flinching. He didn’t raise a hand in defense. Only when Cornelius doubled over in another coughing fit did he reach forward to gently pat his grandfather’s back.

“Take care of yourself,” Alexander said quietly, steadying him.

Cornelius stiffened under the touch. Then, with a grunt, he planted his cane firmly on the stone path and exhaled heavily, as if his soul were trying to escape him.

“Get out. Go on, get out,” he muttered hoarsely. “You’ve all driven me to my grave tonight.”

Alexander turned to leave, but before he could take a full step, the old man jabbed his cane into the small of his back, halting him.

“And about your brother,” Cornelius rasped. “Investigate it if you must… but if you can’t get anywhere, let it go. The dead are gone. The living matter more. Remember that.”

His voice cracked slightly, wearied not just by the night’s rage, but by years of silent sorrow.

“My mother and grandmother,” Cornelius continued, “they’re too blinded by grief. They’ll never see clearly. You... You need to do better.”

Alexander bowed his head. “You should rest more, Grandpa. Your health—”

Cornelius waved off the concern, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond Alexander, as though he were already speaking to ghosts. “Do you know why I insisted you marry Serena?” he asked suddenly. “Because that girl doesn’t play games. She’s sincere. She would have stayed by your side.”

He paused, his voice almost gentle now. “When I’m gone, I want someone to be there for you. That’s all.”

Alexander remained still, his hands clenched at his sides. Cornelius’s words felt less like advice and more like a last will.

He looked back at the old man, his jaw tightening. “But I want to marry someone I love.”

Cornelius tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “And does she love you?”

Alexander was silent.

After a long pause, his voice came out rough. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what it means to love someone. No one ever taught me that.”

He looked away.

“From my mother,” he said quietly, “I learned rage. From my father, obsession. From the military—how to survive. But love?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “No one ever showed me how.”

Cornelius didn’t answer. He didn’t lecture or argue. He simply turned away and waved his hand—a gesture of dismissal, but also, perhaps, of surrender.

Alexander stood there a moment longer, watching his grandfather’s hunched form disappear back into the house.

Then, without a word, he walked back to the car. 

*

When Alexander got back into the car, Ava silently pressed the gas pedal, merging onto the quiet evening road. The interior was thick with tension, the kind that lingered in unspoken thoughts and half-finished conversations.

Alexander pulled out a cigarette from his coat pocket, twirling it between his fingers. He brought it to his lips, paused, then slid it back into the case without lighting it. His gaze shifted sideways.

"Ava."

They stopped at a red light, casting a warm amber hue across the dashboard. Ava glanced over, her expression neutral. "Yes?"

He leaned an elbow casually against the window, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. “What do you think of my personality?”

The question caught her off guard. She studied him for a second—his sharp profile, his composed demeanor. Gone was the icy detachment from earlier at the villa.

A thousand words came to mind: domineering, arrogant, ruthless, possessive.

And yet, Ava knew better than to say any of that. The last time she'd tried being honest, he'd practically bitten her head off—figuratively and literally.

She gave him a bland smile. “Mr. Vanderbilt, you’re… a good guy.”

He let out a scoff, knowing full well she didn’t mean it.

“Really? What’s so good about me?”

Ava kept her eyes on the road. “You’re rich. And good-looking.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow but said nothing. That was the extent of her praise? He didn’t press further.

When they arrived at the hotel, Ava parked the car and headed toward the elevator. He followed and reached for her wrist, tugging her in close.

“Why the rush to get home? No one’s waiting for you.”

The elevator chimed. Inside, he pressed the button for their floor with a casual air.

“Make the bed,” he said as the doors slid shut. “And you’re working overtime tonight. Still think being my secretary’s easy?”

Once in the suite, he slipped off his suit jacket and hung it on the valet stand, then turned to her, issuing instructions like they were second nature.

“Someone will be by to pick up my clothes. Make sure you hand them over.”

Ava nodded silently, watching him head into the frosted glass bathroom. The sound of running water soon filled the air.

Moments later, the door creaked open. Steam rolled out like mist spilling from a cave. His hand emerged, holding out his trousers.

“Can sandalwood get wet?” he asked abruptly.

Ava blinked, caught off guard. “I… I’ll check.” She pulled out her phone and quickly searched.

“No, it shouldn’t,” she reported back.

He passed her the sandalwood bracelet next. She took it gingerly, placing it on a tissue and wiping it down while folding his pants and jacket neatly into a garment bag.

About ten minutes later, a knock came at the door. She opened it, handed the bag to the staff member, and shut it quietly.

From inside the bathroom, Alexander called, “Grab my clean pajamas from the closet.”

She walked into the bedroom and opened the closet doors. Everything inside was immaculately organized—rows of custom robes, pressed shirts, all aligned by shade and material. It was the kind of order only a personal valet could maintain daily.

She pulled out a black silk set and approached the bathroom.

The moment the door cracked open, she extended the pajamas—but Alexander seized her wrist and pulled her inside.

A blast of humid heat hit her. The bathroom was enveloped in steam, the glass fogged, the floor warm beneath her feet.

Before she could speak, he kissed her.

Hot water poured from the rainfall showerhead as his lips found hers, intense and demanding. The mirror had long since fogged over, and everything felt blurred and surreal. She was pinned against the wall, the sound of the water roaring around them.

Her breath hitched. His kiss deepened.

When he finally pulled away, his voice was hoarse, low against her ear. “If you don’t leave now, I’m going to take you right here.”

Ava’s hand trembled. She pushed open the bathroom door and bolted, the soaked pajamas still clutched in her arms.

“You brought the wrong set now,” he called after her. “Get another.”

Only then did she realize the pajamas she’d brought were drenched from the steam and her proximity. She quickly retrieved a new set and brought them back, avoiding his gaze this time.

Alexander didn’t tease her further. He accepted the clothes and let her leave.

Once out, Ava wrung the water from her clothes and changed. The room was comfortably warm with the air conditioner on, and she felt the tension ease slightly. Soon after, Alexander passed her a crisp white shirt.

“For you.”

It was one of his own. Ava accepted it with a small nod and locked the bathroom door behind her—just in case.

The shower was long and calming. She scrubbed away the tension, washed her clothes—including her undergarments—and neatly hung them to dry. If anyone had seen her wearing Alexander Vanderbilt’s shirt in his private suite, they’d have fainted in shock. The man was known for his clinical cleanliness, bordering on obsession.

By the time she stepped out, the soft hum of conversation and the rhythmic clack of keyboard keys reached her ears. Alexander was seated at the desk, shirtless under a robe, hosting a video meeting.

He looked up, eyes lingering on her figure in his oversized shirt, then motioned to the seat beside him.

Next to him were detailed notes, some half-completed—her job.

Feeling sheepish, Ava quickly crossed the room and sat down, grabbing a pen.

She straightened her spine and got to work, scribbling down the rest of the meeting summary with brisk focus.

Work, after all, was far less complicated than Alexander Vanderbilt. 

---

An hour later, the meeting finally ended. The room had long since quieted, the air still humming faintly with the weight of decisions made.

Ava closed her laptop and forwarded a summary of the meeting’s key points to Jonathan. Then she turned to Alexander and gently reminded him, “Since the renovation at Manhattan Manor is nearly complete, I’ll be meeting with the president of Darby Construction tomorrow morning to confirm the final handover date.”

As she spoke, her arm subtly folded across her chest, covering herself. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her shirt—and Alexander noticed her gesture instantly.

“You’re probably not planning to go tomorrow, Mr. Vanderbilt,” she added lightly. “I’ll inspect the site, confirm the delivery results, and let you know the final schedule.”

“I want to go,” Alexander said simply, reaching over to twirl a lock of her damp hair around his finger. “Your hair’s still wet. You should dry it.”

Ava blinked, surprised at how smoothly he had shifted from business to something personal. She nodded, heading to the bathroom where she blow-dried her hair for a few minutes before returning. Picking up where they left off, she added, “It’s just some paperwork. You really don’t need to be there.”

“It’s my house. Why wouldn’t I go?” Alexander replied, casually closing his laptop with a soft click—the subtle signal that work was done for the night.

Seeing that the conversation was over, Ava said quietly, “Then I’ll head home.”

She gathered her things—her damp clothes now tucked into a bag—and turned toward the door.

Alexander patted his thigh. “Come here.”

“Mr. Vanderbilt, you said no sex tonight.”

“I didn’t say I wanted that now.”

‘This man...’ Ava gritted her teeth. Just earlier, he had dragged her into the bathroom and kissed her until her knees had nearly buckled. The memory of it still lingered on her lips, like a tremor embedded in her bones.

She regretted agreeing to this arrangement. Alexander flirted with a precision that disarmed her at every turn. She wasn’t built for this kind of emotional warfare—not for two entire months.

And she'd underestimated how many ways there were to kiss someone.

Still hesitant, she sat down. Alexander didn’t hesitate. He pulled her gently into his arms.

There was something grounding about holding her. Her scent was faintly floral—soft, clean—and they used the same body wash, which only made the intimacy feel more natural. It wasn’t the first time he’d held her like this. But this time, they were both free. Divorced. Unattached.

This time, it felt different.

Ava had barely settled on his lap before his hand slid beneath her shirt. Without a word, Alexander slipped the familiar sandalwood bracelet back onto her wrist.

She had an exquisite figure, something she typically concealed with her modest clothing. But tonight, in the glow of the house lights, seated on his lap, her silhouette was outlined clearly against the room. Alexander’s six-foot-three frame made Ava look especially delicate in comparison. She looked like something rare—too rare to touch without reverence.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, kissing her with a patience that still managed to leave her breathless.

When he finally looked up, his dark eyes were bright with something unreadable. His gaze was so intense that Ava had to look away, her eyes drifting to the soft city lights twinkling through the window.

“Ava,” he murmured, “does your family treat you well?”

The question caught her off guard.

‘If they treated her well,’ he thought, ‘they wouldn’t have let her marry a man like Liam, a serial cheater.’

It was the first time Alexander had asked about her past—her family.

Ava tensed for a moment, then exhaled slowly. “Not bad.”

“So… not good either?” he pressed.

“When I want to talk about it, I’ll tell you,” she replied coolly.

Alexander didn’t push. Instead, without warning, he lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the bedroom.

Ava protested, squirming slightly. “Didn’t we agree—no sex?”

“I just want to sleep with you,” he said softly.

“You think you can sleep next to me and not touch me?”

Alexander’s gaze met hers, and he noticed the hesitation in her eyes—almost like fear. He held her tighter. “I won’t touch you.”

Ava didn’t argue further. When he laid her down, she instinctively rolled to the opposite side of the bed. Alexander dimmed the bedroom lights, leaving only the soft bedside lamp on. Then he lay down beside her—quietly, without a word.

To her surprise, he didn’t reach for her again.

Instead, he quickly fell asleep.

It was Ava who couldn’t sleep. She turned on her side and watched him in the dim light. He looked… drained. There was something heavy in the way he slept, as if the night had worn him down more than he let on.

She reminded herself it had nothing to do with her.

And yet—just as she was about to roll away—a warm chest pressed gently against her back. An arm curled around her waist, pulling her close.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t stir.

But his body—pressed tightly to hers—said everything.

Alexander’s arm slid around her waist, drawing her into the warmth of his embrace. He didn’t say anything—just held her, steady and silent.

Ava didn’t move or resist. Somehow, in that quiet moment, she sensed that something deeper weighed on him. She had come to understand that Cordelia and Frederick were anything but nurturing parents, and Vivienne had always favored Marken, the golden child. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Alexander had grown up in the long, cold shadow of his cousin—isolated, emotionally starved.

Marken had always carried a good reputation. Polished. Admired. The golden boy of the family. And Alexander? He’d been expected to match or exceed it—and when he couldn't, he was left with nothing but the echo of constant comparison.

The only real affection he’d known came from Cornelius. That bond alone had been enough to make Alexander agree to the family’s marriage arrangement three years ago.

Still, Ava couldn’t help the question that lingered in her mind. Her voice was soft, careful:

“Mr. Vanderbilt… why did you get involved with Victoria in the first place?”

She had noticed that Alexander now regarded the Laurents with cool detachment. It was clear he hadn’t truly loved Victoria—at least, not in the way people assumed.

She thought he might not answer. His breathing had evened out as if he’d fallen asleep. But a few minutes later, his low voice broke the silence, gravelly and distant:

“I just wanted to be better than Marken at something. He liked Victoria.”

Ava turned her head slightly. “You really never slept with her?”

Alexander’s fingers, resting on her waist, started tracing slow, absentminded circles.

“I was acting out,” he admitted. “Later, I figured—since everyone believed we were together—I should try to treat her well. I tried. But every time I went to kiss her, Marken's face would flash in my mind. I couldn’t do it. So I gave up.”

There was no bitterness in his tone, only the resignation of someone who’d long made peace with his past.

“Touching her would’ve felt wrong,” he added quietly. “She was his. Or at least, he wanted her to be. The idea of crossing that line… it disgusted me.”

All he’d really wanted back then was to win. Just once.

Ava stayed quiet, absorbing his words. Alexander continued, as if needing to get it all out now, before he lost the courage.

“I’ve never been with anyone else. Not like this. Not with anyone but you.”

He hesitated, then added, “Honestly, I’m surprised we’ve done it so many times. I didn’t think I could.”

Maybe it was the comfort of tonight’s silence, or the way her presence softened the sharp edges inside him, but Alexander was saying things he rarely, if ever, spoke aloud.

“Ava,” he said, his voice roughened by honesty, “I’m not the kind of guy who wants to sleep with every woman I meet.”

What he didn’t say was: You’re the exception.

He thought it, felt it in every breath—but the words felt too raw, too vulnerable to release. Even now, Alexander Vanderbilt found it easier to express himself through action than with words.

For a man like him, love was far more difficult to admit than desire. And this—what he felt for Ava—was both. For Alexander Vanderbilt, having sex was much easier than talking. 

---

In a secluded villa on the outskirts of the city, the atmosphere was tense—thick with fear and anticipation.

Several bodyguards knelt on the cold marble floor, their heads bowed, eyes glued to the ground. Their expressions were grim, and the silence in the room was stifling.

“Sir,” one of them finally reported, his voice low and careful, “we’ve exhausted every method. The security at Le Châteauesque Manor was personally established by Mr. Vanderbilt. It’s airtight—no blind spots, no vulnerabilities.”

The man seated at the center of the room did not respond. He sat in a high-backed crimson chair, the ornate wood carved into a design of serpents and roses—an unsettling throne for someone like him.

Years in the military had shaped Cornelius Vanderbilt into a man who trusted few but trained his men like a fortress. The security team at Le Châteauesque Manor was composed solely of hand-picked personnel—each one fiercely loyal, each one a shadow impossible to displace.

The bodyguard continued cautiously, “There are very few household staff on the premises. Most have been with the family for more than three years. Maria Torres conducts daily headcounts. We haven’t been able to infiltrate their ranks.”

“In other words,” the man in the chair murmured, his voice laced with quiet menace, “if the item is inside that house...”

“We’ll need Miss Morales to retrieve it herself,” the guard finished.

Silence followed.

The masked man didn’t respond right away. Instead, he slowly turned the glass in his hand. Crimson wine reflected the dim chandelier light like blood. Then, with a sharp, deliberate movement, he clenched his fist and crack—the glass shattered in his palm.

Slivers of glass bit into his skin. Blood dripped freely.

No one dared move. The scent of blood mingled with the sharp tang of wine, thickening the air.

One of the men finally broke the silence, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Boss, what if we just… kidnap Miss Morales?”

Bang!

A single gunshot rang out.

The man crumpled to the floor, a neat hole between his eyes.

Smoke curled from the muzzle of the gun still in the masked man’s grip. He exhaled calmly, then raised the weapon to his lips and blew away the smoke, as if wiping dust off an old relic.

“If I could harm her,” he said, voice eerily soft, “do you think I would’ve let her get away with deceiving us once already?”

He rose slowly, his presence towering. Boots clicked against the marble as he walked to the lifeless body, now sprawled on the ground in a pool of blood. He looked down, his expression unreadable behind the mask.

“Find that item. But do not touch Serena Morales. If she bleeds, you bleed. Understood?”

The room echoed with a chorus of low, fearful nods.

He ran a blood-slicked hand over his brow, as though trying to collect his fraying thoughts, but frustration snapped through him. With a furious kick, he sent a chair flying across the room, the legs splintering as it crashed against the wall.

“Also,” he growled, “start looking into Alexander Vanderbilt’s offshore assets. I want to know everything. I want to know where he’s hiding his real wealth.”

“Yes, sir,” the bodyguards responded in unison.

And with that, the masked man returned to his seat—no longer a throne, but a war table in a room full of ghosts...