* FREEBIES * 2nd * Chapter 306 : She may be tired of me—but I am not tired of her.

At six in the morning, the first pale streaks of dawn washed over New York’s skyline as Alexander’s black sedan rolled back into the city. He looked worn from the overnight drive, his sharp profile catching the cold light as one of his men leaned forward from the passenger seat.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” the man began cautiously, “we’ve confirmed it. The people who tried to take Ms. Morales out that night—they were sent by the Whitehall family.”

Alexander’s dark eyes narrowed, a glint of steel cutting through his fatigue. “The Whitehall family? Beatrice?” His tone dripped with skepticism. “She’s not even important enough in that house to pull something like this.”

The man shook his head. “Not Beatrice. Her brother—Edmund. Tristan Whitehall’s golden boy. The old man favors him above anyone else. And with the Whitehalls’ current heir on his deathbed, Edmund’s gearing up to take the position.”

Alexander leaned back against the leather seat, jaw tightening. The Whitehalls weren’t just rivals; they were blood. By old ties, he was bound to call Tristan Whitehall ‘grandfather.’ Going to war with them wouldn’t just spill blood—it would unravel both families in scandal.

He rubbed his temple, voice low. “What does Edmund actually care about?” His gaze turned razor-sharp. “If I can’t put him in the ground, I’ll break him another way. To destroy a man, you go for the soul. Make him beg for death.”

The reply came quickly. “There’s a woman. Miriam. He’s been protective of her for years. But…” The man hesitated, then almost smirked. “She’s already under Ms. Morales’ wing. Signed as an actress with E.A. Corporation.”

Alexander froze for a moment before a slow, knowing smile curved across his face. He could see Serena’s hand in this play.

She hadn’t just seen talent in Miriam—she’d turned her into a weapon. The harder Edmund struck now, the sharper Miriam’s rise would cut him later.

Alexander chuckled under his breath, a sound that carried both amusement and menace. It was the same laugh his enemies had feared in his younger, more ruthless years.

When silence lingered, the man added, “From what we know, Edmund doesn’t fear much. But he does care about two things—Beatrice and Miriam.”

Alexander’s eyes hardened into cold glass. “Then send someone for Beatrice. Whether she survives or not—let that be her problem.”

Directly taking on Edmund was useless. A lunatic who thrived on chaos couldn’t be reasoned with, only cornered. And Alexander preferred to watch a man rot from the inside out.

The subordinate nodded, then glanced at his phone. “One more thing—there’s been a call from the hospital. Ms. Vanderbilt’s been causing trouble. She’s demanding to be released.”

Rita. The name alone was enough to sour the air in the car.

Alexander’s face didn’t shift an inch. His voice was flat, almost bored. “Ignore her.”

The sedan rolled through the quiet streets of Manhattan, the towering skyline looming closer. Alexander’s expression remained unreadable—calm on the surface, but beneath, the storm had already begun. 

The night outside Manhattan Villa was hushed, the streetlamps casting pale pools of light across the stone pavement. A woman stood beneath one of them, her figure rigid against the cold air that bit through the early hours.

When Alexander’s car pulled into view, the faintest flicker of surprise crossed his sharp features. But the moment she turned toward him, recognition hardened his expression into ice.

It was Layla. She had been waiting there all night, stubborn, desperate, and utterly shameless.

The instant she saw the black sedan, she rushed forward, heels clattering against the asphalt.

“Mr. Vanderbilt!” she called, her voice tinged with urgency.

Alexander didn’t respond. He didn’t even slow down. The car glided forward with the same controlled detachment he always carried.

He had already given her two million. Their deal was finished. Layla was nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience. Serena didn’t want him—and thought he could never compare to her first love—so using Layla to provoke her was meaningless. Hugo’s little plan had gone up in smoke.

Still, Layla pressed on. She tapped frantically against the tinted glass, her face pale and pitiful under the harsh lamplight.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, I’ve been waiting for you all night. I even went to see Ms. Morales, but she refuses to let me act in E.A.’s production. I told her it was your idea, but she said…” Her voice wavered, but she pushed the words out. “She said she’s already tired of sleeping with you.”

At that, Alexander finally lowered the window.

The insult was exactly the kind of thing Serena might say, blunt and cutting. But he knew Layla—she must have provoked Serena first, twisting words until venom dripped from both sides.

His gaze swept over Layla, cold and full of disdain. Looking at her now, he felt disgust coil in his stomach. The memory of having touched her made his skin crawl. He almost felt… unclean.

Mistaking his silence for hesitation, Layla’s eyes brightened with false hope. She leaned closer, breath clouding the glass.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, please. It’s freezing out here. Let me into the car, just for tonight. I want to stay with you.”

Alexander’s hand moved with deliberate calm. He reached into the console, tore a check from his book, and scrawled a number with decisive strokes. He held it out.

“If Serena doesn’t want you to act, then you won’t act. She may be tired of me—but I am not tired of her. Stay out of her sight,” he said flatly. 

The words landed like a slap.

Layla’s breath hitched as she stared at the check. One hundred thousand. Even after everything, he was still willing to throw fortunes her way. His generosity stunned her—but it also fed the gnawing greed inside her.

Handsome, powerful, and absurdly wealthy… How could she let a man like this slip through her fingers?

But Alexander had already rolled the window back up. His final words cut through the air like ice. “And don’t show yourself to me again. Let’s not meet.”

The car eased past her, gates opening silently to swallow the sleek vehicle into the estate.

For a moment, Layla just stood there, clutching the check, dazed by the lingering image of his face. Then his words replayed in her head, sharper the second time around.

Even if Serena was tired of him… he wasn’t tired of Serena.

Her blood boiled.

How could Alexander Vanderbilt, of all men, be obsessed with her? He could have any woman—dozens, hundreds—and not a single person would question it. Yet he wanted Serena. That self-righteous bitch who had humiliated her time and time again.

Layla’s nails dug into her palms, the check crumpling in her fist. Jealousy surged like molten lava, scalding every corner of her thoughts.

“What the hell does Serena have that I don’t?” she seethed under her breath, trembling with fury. “Damn her! She should just drop dead!”

Her gaze darkened. Yes, she had known Alexander only briefly, but already she had squeezed three million dollars from him. How much more had Serena taken in all this time?

Her jealousy reached a breaking point.

One thing was clear: if Alexander ever went back to Serena, Layla’s chances would vanish forever.

And she could not—would not—let that happen.

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Layla pushed her way through the neon-lit doors of Broadway Bar, the familiar thrum of bass-heavy music and the haze of cigarette smoke wrapping around her like a second skin. She’d been working here long enough to know faces, names, and whispers—but despite all her effort, she had never quite managed to belong.

Her desperation was written all over her. The way she tried too hard to cozy up to the wealthy patrons, laughing a little too loudly at their jokes, leaning in a little too close—it made her look like a climber, transparent and pitiful. Men with money might play along for a night, but no one of worth stuck around.

Tonight, she cornered her so-called friends—a cluster of women dressed in sequins and sly smiles, the kind of company that thrived on gossip and rivalry.

“Got anything strong?” Layla asked abruptly, lowering her voice as she leaned across the sticky table. “Something that can kill fast. Instantly.”

The chatter around her paused. A few women raised their brows, others exchanged quick, knowing looks. They’d seen rich men pull cruel stunts before, but hearing Layla—of all people—ask for something like that was jarring.

One of them finally scoffed. “What the hell do you need that for? Didn’t you already ‘snag’ Alexander? If you’ve got someone in the way, just have him handle it.”

Laughter trickled through the group.

“You seriously believe she hooked up with Alexander?” another chimed in, her tone dripping with mockery. “If she did, then I must’ve been his first love.”

The table broke out in open laughter, the kind that stung worse than a slap.

Layla forced a smile, but her cheeks burned. They all knew she wasn’t popular here. She had a reputation for being two-faced—smiling sweetly one moment, stabbing backs the next. No one trusted her, and most only tolerated her for the entertainment of watching her crash and burn. Now, with her blurting out a request so reckless, she was practically handing them a reason to ridicule her.

But not everyone dismissed her.

A woman with sharp eyeliner and a cigarette dangling between manicured fingers leaned forward, her smirk edged with danger. “Actually… I’ve got something. A few rich guys used it the last time they wanted to ‘punish’ someone. I was there. Scared me half to death, to be honest. But if you want it, I can pass it to you later.”

Layla’s eyes gleamed, the humiliation from moments ago forgotten. She didn’t care about the laughter or the way they sneered. All she could think of was her goal.

As long as Serena was out of the picture, she would be the only woman in Alexander’s life.

Clutching the little packet when it was slipped into her hand, Layla left Broadway Bar with her heart pounding and her mind racing. The night air outside was heavy with exhaust and the faint reek of spilled beer, but to her it smelled like possibility.

Without hesitation, she headed straight for Serena’s company—her fingers tightening around the poison as though it were her ticket to victory.