Chapter 5 : Xander, promise me.

What Marken’s alter ego had said was true — though every word was woven from Marken’s own suffering.

He had clawed his way back from the brink of death, carrying nothing but a single purpose: to fulfill his final promise.

But now, both Serena and that promise were lost to him.

And with that loss, Cornelius’s heart began to fracture in silence.

He regretted ever bringing Alexander and Serena together. Knowing what Marken had endured — the experiments, the betrayal, the anguish — filled him with unrelenting guilt. If he could have turned back time, he would have shielded both his grandsons from the tangled fates that now consumed them.

By the time Cornelius lay confined to the ICU, pale and motionless beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, he had already carried the unbearable weight of his family’s ruin.

He had endured the Vanderbilt Group’s internal collapse, Charlie and Justin’s sudden departures from New York, Rita’s descent into madness and her confinement in a mental hospital…

And, worst of all, he had learned the horrifying truth — that his most beloved grandson, Marken, had been turned into a living experiment.

Now, with his life waning, Cornelius still had one final duty to perform — a cruel, necessary act that tore his soul apart.

Inviting Serena out that night had been part of a calculated plan.

Handing her the black box — another piece of that same strategy.

He was cooperating with Marken’s other self to drive a wedge between Serena and Alexander.

He loved Serena deeply, the way a grandfather might love the daughter he never had, and he loved Alexander fiercely — a grandson forged from his own pride and pain.

But now, he was forced to deceive one and wound the other.

No one in that hospital, not even the doctors, could have understood: Cornelius was already dying from more than illness. He was dying from sorrow.

---

When Alexander received the critical notice, disbelief struck him like lightning.

The doctor had assured him Cornelius had half a month left.

It had only been two days.

“Mr. Alexander Vanderbilt,” the physician said gravely, his voice lowered with pity, “we’re sorry. Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt’s will to live has collapsed. His vitals are deteriorating rapidly.”

Inside the ICU, Cornelius lay beneath a tangle of tubes and monitors. The steady beep of the heart monitor was slowing, fading. His eyes, once sharp as flint, had turned cloudy and distant, staring at the sterile ceiling as if searching for something beyond it.

Alexander entered in full protective gear, the rustle of plastic loud in the still room.

When he reached the bedside, a wave of helplessness struck him. Memories rushed in — the sound of his grandfather’s cane striking the floor, the bark of his reprimands, the sharp sting of a whip during his military training days.

Cornelius had punished him harshly, yes — but even then, there had always been that glimmer of pride, that trace of affection in his gaze.

Now, that gaze was almost gone.

“Grandpa…” Alexander’s voice broke softly as he took the old man’s frail hand. The contrast between their hands — one strong and steady, the other paper-thin and trembling — was almost unbearable.

Cornelius blinked slowly, as if his fading mind had just recognized him.

Then, with a flicker of strength, he turned his gaze toward Alexander. His lips trembled, forming broken words.

“Don’t… be with Serena.” His voice was barely more than a rasp. “Xander, promise me.”

He tried to lift himself, his bones straining beneath the hospital gown, but his body gave out after rising just a few inches. His grip tightened around Alexander’s hand with surprising strength. “Promise me,” he repeated, his cloudy eyes locking onto his grandson’s face, a plea and a command intertwined in that fading gaze.

Alexander froze, confusion flickering across his features. “Why, Grandpa? What’s going on?”

Cornelius’s breathing grew ragged. “Promise me… promise me…” he whispered again, desperation cracking through his voice.

Seeing the agony in his grandfather’s expression, Alexander could no longer resist. He swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise, Grandpa. I promise you.”

Almost immediately, the tension in Cornelius’s face softened — but only for a second.

Then the monitors began to scream.

Doctors rushed in, their voices blurring into noise as Alexander held his grandfather’s hand, refusing to let go. Cornelius’s glassy eyes remained fixed on him, his lips barely moving.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, the faintest tear slipping down the wrinkled curve of his cheek.

“Grandpa!” Alexander called out, his voice cracking, but the hand in his grasp had already gone limp.

The world dimmed around him. The flashing lights, the shouting doctors, the rhythmic press of CPR — all of it felt distant, muffled, unreal.

His eyes stayed locked on Cornelius’s face, on that single tear frozen against his lifeless skin.

He hadn’t noticed until that moment just how much his grandfather had aged, how hollowed out his face had become.

Alexander reached out with trembling fingers, trying to wipe the tear away — but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to touch it.

As if the universe itself had already taken his grandfather somewhere far beyond his reach.

---

An hour later, the sterile quiet of the hospital corridor was broken by the doctor’s heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vanderbilt,” he said softly. “We did everything we could.”

The words struck like a cold blade.

Alexander sat motionless in the harsh fluorescent light, his hands clamped tightly around Cornelius’s—the warmth already fading from the old man’s fingers. He stared at the frail, still body, as though sheer will could draw breath back into it.

The doctors exchanged uneasy glances. No one dared to speak further. One by one, they removed their masks in silence and stepped aside, letting the family members waiting outside filter into the room.

Alexander didn’t move. People came and went—faces blurred, voices muffled—as though he were trapped underwater. The world had slowed to a dull hum until, finally, a nurse approached with quiet reverence and drew a white sheet over Cornelius’s face.

The soft rustle of the cloth was deafening.

“Alexander…” Raphael’s voice came from beside him, quiet but weighted with sorrow. He rested a hand on Alexander’s rigid shoulder, his touch tentative, careful—as if Alexander might shatter beneath it.

Everyone in the Vanderbilt family knew that Alexander had been closest to Cornelius.

While others in the family had gravitated toward Marken—Cornelius’s favored grandson, the family’s pride—Alexander had remained the quiet shadow by the old man’s side, tending to him, listening, learning. He had been the one Cornelius confided in during the sleepless nights, the one who carried his burden in silence.

And now, the one left behind.

Raphael gave his shoulder a firm pat before pulling back, unsettled by how cold and stiff Alexander felt beneath his palm. The man looked like a statue—carved from grief, yet utterly still.

Family members began filing into the room, their hushed discussions filling the sterile air. Someone mentioned funeral arrangements; another suggested informing the press. Voices overlapped, words like burial, inheritance, and statement floating above the low sobs of the women gathered near the bed.

Alexander didn’t respond to any of it.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t tremble. His face was impassive, his expression carved in stone.

Compared to the wailing relatives crowding the bedside, his silence seemed almost unnatural—chilling.

A whisper rippled from the back of the room. “Didn’t he grow up with Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt? How can he not shed a single tear?”

The words were soft, but not soft enough. Still, even if Alexander had heard them, he wouldn’t have answered. There was nothing to say.

After a long while, he finally rose. The chair scraped quietly against the polished floor as he stood, his eyes fixed on the white-shrouded figure before him. He said nothing—only a faint exhale escaped him, a sound almost like a sigh, or perhaps a prayer.

Then, with steady movements, he pulled out his phone and began making calls. His tone was calm, composed, businesslike—discussing funeral arrangements, guest lists, and media protocols as though speaking of a stranger, not the man who had been his only true family.

When the calls were made, Alexander turned and walked past the others, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Raphael watched him leave, a hollow ache forming in his chest. He knew Alexander well—had fought beside him, seen him bleed, seen him laugh. And he knew this silence wasn’t indifference.

The calmer Alexander appeared, the deeper the wound.

And tonight, that stillness was terrifying.

---

Serena didn’t believe a word of it.

But she didn’t have the strength left to argue—not tonight. Her head was heavy, her heart heavier. She simply sat there, watching Marken’s alter ego tip back glass after glass, the amber liquid trembling under the dim light before vanishing down his throat.

The room smelled faintly of whiskey and rain, its silence broken only by the soft clink of crystal against wood. Outside, the night stretched endlessly—dark, cold, and full of unanswered questions.

A strange thought began to settle in her chest like a weight she couldn’t shake. It almost looked as if he were grieving too.

But that couldn’t be right.

Cornelius’s death… was his doing.

Serena’s throat tightened. Her vision blurred as tears welled up despite her attempts to blink them away. Everything around her seemed wrapped in a fog of confusion and disbelief. The last few days had blurred together—shadows, whispers, secrets she couldn’t yet untangle.

Whatever else might be true, one thing wasn’t in question: Cornelius had always been kind to her.

And that simple truth made the ache in her chest unbearable.

---

At the time of his death, the once-formidable Cornelius Vanderbilt no longer resembled the titan he had been. His face, once sharp with authority, had become gaunt and hollow, as though he had wrestled with ghosts no one else could see. The lines etched deep across his features told of sleepless nights, of regrets that had gnawed at him until even death seemed like a reluctant mercy.

Alexander sat alone in the dim expanse of Le Châteauesque Manor, the air thick with silence and the faint scent of sandalwood lingering from the candles that had burned during the wake. Before him, on the grand mahogany desk, stood a black-and-white portrait of Cornelius—one that captured him in his prime: proud, dignified, unyielding.

Now, that image felt like a relic from another lifetime.

The manor itself was a place heavy with memories. Once, it had been a symbol of promise—a pre-marital gift from Cornelius to Serena, an extravagant gesture to mark the union he had so carefully arranged. The staff who moved quietly through the hallways had all been trained by Cornelius himself, and they served with a reverence that bordered on devotion.

But now, since the news of his death spread, grief hung over the estate like a winter fog. The air was cold, the corridors empty. Even the ticking of the old clock in the foyer sounded mournful.

And to make matters worse—Serena was gone.

Only Rex, their loyal hound, still waited by the front door, pacing restlessly and barking at intervals, as though he believed that if he called loudly enough, his mistress would return.

Alexander leaned back in the armchair, his gaze fixed on the ornate ceiling. His phone buzzed incessantly on the side table—calls from relatives, board members, journalists—but he didn’t answer a single one. On the day of Cornelius’s memorial, the entire world seemed to demand his attention. He gave it none. Eventually, the phone’s screen dimmed, then died in silence.

He rose without a word, ascended the grand staircase, and went straight to his room. The faint traces of Serena lingered there—the soft perfume woven into the sheets, a silk scarf draped over the chair, the faintest outline of her touch on the mirror. He took a slow shower, letting the water scald his skin, then collapsed into bed, burying his face in the pillow that still smelled faintly of her.

The house was too quiet.

So quiet that he could hear the faint chirping of birds from the garden outside—mockingly alive in a world that suddenly felt so still.

Alexander pulled the pillow close against his chest. Exhaustion finally overtook him; he hadn’t slept in two days. And when he did, sleep came with dreams.

He dreamed of a time long before all of this—before tragedy, before loss—when he still didn’t know Serena was his wife. He dreamed of their arguments, of the day he had stood before Cornelius demanding a divorce, of the cold fury in his grandfather’s eyes as he refused. Back then, Alexander thought the marriage was a chain, a punishment. He thought Cornelius’s interference was cruelty. He had despised the man for forcing him into something he didn’t understand.

And yet… in the dream, those days felt unbearably warm.

Cornelius was still alive.

Serena still slept beside him.

The air had still carried her laughter.

The dream shifted, as dreams do—abruptly and cruelly.

Cornelius lay in a hospital bed now, his skin pale as wax, eyes dim with regret. His frail hand reached out, trembling, as he whispered that he regretted ever bringing Alexander and Serena together.

But how could that be?

It was Cornelius who had arranged their marriage. Cornelius who had insisted that she was the one.

Why, then, would he regret it?

Serena was so wonderful. So alive. So achingly human.

The dream kept replaying, looping like a broken film reel.

Alexander kept asking him why—why he wanted them apart, why he had changed his mind—but Cornelius’s cloudy eyes only drifted past him, as though looking at someone else entirely.

And before Alexander could demand another answer, the scene dissolved—Cornelius fading, Serena’s voice echoing somewhere distant—and he awoke, alone in the cold gray light of dawn.

The question still lingered in the silence.

And, like in the dream, he never got an answer.