Chapter 7 : I don’t believe it, sir.

The first light of dawn crept through the half-drawn curtains, painting faint gold streaks across the room. When Aunt Torres pushed the door open, the hinges gave a soft creak — and she froze mid-step.

Alexander was still there.

She had assumed he’d gone back to the city the night before. He hadn’t come down for dinner, and the entire house had fallen quiet, so she thought he had turned in early. But there he was, sitting motionless by the window, his suit jacket draped carelessly over the arm of the chair, his white shirt slightly wrinkled from the long night.

For a moment, he looked more like a statue than a man. His expression was unreadable — calm, but in that calm was something hollow.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” Aunt Torres spoke softly, hesitating at the doorway, “should I prepare breakfast for you?”

The clock on the wall ticked past seven.

Alexander blinked, the sound of her voice breaking through the fog of his thoughts. He glanced outside, realizing that the sky had already lightened, and that he’d spent the entire night sitting there without once closing his eyes.

He rose to his feet, methodically straightening his cuffs and adjusting his tie, every motion practiced — a man returning to his armor.

Just then, his phone buzzed against the wooden table. The message on the screen was brief, emotionless:

“Mr. Vanderbilt, you may collect Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt’s ashes today.”

For a moment, his gaze lingered on the text. The room seemed to grow quieter, the air thicker. He gave a small nod — not to Aunt Torres, not even to himself, but to something unspoken — and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He turned toward Aunt Torres and shook his head slightly. “No breakfast,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from disuse.

When he came downstairs, the familiar sound of claws clicking against the marble floor greeted him. Rex, the golden retriever, bounded over with his tail wagging, circling his legs in excitement. The sight drew a faint, wistful smile to Alexander’s lips.

He crouched down, resting one hand lightly on the dog’s head. “So it’s you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “That’s why you were so happy to see me before… you remembered.”

Rex leaned into his touch, letting out a small bark, tail thumping against the floor. Alexander’s eyes softened, though faint redness gathered at their edges. He had always been allergic to dog hair, and back then, he could only feed Rex from afar — tossing him treats in the garden, watching from the balcony as the dog trotted happily after them. Later, when his condition worsened, Rex had been sent away.

Yet somehow, the dog had found his way back.

Alexander gave a quiet chuckle, one that held more sorrow than amusement. “You still remember, don’t you?”

Rex barked again, almost as if answering him.

Alexander stayed there for another heartbeat, hand resting on the dog’s fur, before standing up. He straightened his jacket, took a deep breath, and opened the front door.

The cold morning air hit his face like a silent wave, carrying the scent of dew and distance. Without looking back, he stepped outside — leaving Rex sitting at the doorway, watching as he disappeared beyond the gates.

---

The Vanderbilt Villa was draped in white. Every corridor, every wall, every floral arrangement bore the somber hue of mourning. The air was heavy with the faint scent of lilies and sandalwood incense—symbols of farewell and reverence.

Downstairs, relatives and attendants moved quietly through the hall, their voices subdued to whispers, their faces cast in solemn grief.

Alexander ignored them all.

Without a word, he ascended the staircase, his polished shoes soundless against the carpet. Inside his room, the scent of cedar soap mingled with the cold air as he stripped off his funeral clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water beat against his skin, yet no amount of heat could thaw the numbness in his chest.

When he reemerged, he was dressed in a crisp black suit—his movements mechanical, deliberate.

He drove himself to the crematorium. The winter sun glared off the windshield as he carried out each step alone—signing documents, waiting for the urn, and finally, holding the small, polished vessel that now contained what was left of Cornelius Vanderbilt.

He placed the urn carefully in the passenger seat beside him, as though afraid even the wind might disturb it.

No calls. No words. Just the hum of the car engine and the hollow echo of his own heartbeat.

By noon, the burial ground outside New York shimmered under a brutal sun. The cemetery was quiet except for the rhythmic thud of shovels filling the grave. Dust rose with every scoop, clinging to black suits and veils alike.

Alexander stood beside the tombstone, expression unreadable. The engraved photo of Cornelius smiled faintly back at him—composed, dignified, as if untouched by the cruelty of death.

When the last shovel of soil was leveled, Alexander straightened his cuffs, gave one final look, and turned to leave.

The rest of the Vanderbilt family watched, whispers following him like shadows.

“He didn’t shed a single tear.”

“Wasn’t even at the memorial service. How can he be so cold?”

“Marken would have never acted like this. He understood family.”

“With the entire Vanderbilt Group under Alexander’s control now, who knows what will become of us.”

“Both his uncles have been sent packing. There’s no one left to stop him.”

“If only Marken were still alive.”

“Please. The dead don’t return.”

Their words tangled in the humid air, bitter and self-serving.

Raphael stood slightly apart from the group, his expression calm but his gaze sharp. There was irony in the way they spoke now—idolizing the same Marken they once resented.

When Marken had been alive, these same relatives had whispered different words: jealousy, suspicion, envy. Two brilliant heirs in one family had always been too much for their comfort. And when Cornelius named Marken his successor, their smiles had turned brittle.

Now, they wept for him. Hypocrites cloaked in mourning black.

Raphael exhaled slowly, glancing up at the blinding sky. His grief for Cornelius was genuine—but beneath it, unease churned.

Because everyone knew what was coming next.

The whispers in New York’s elite circles grew louder by the hour: Serena had been involved in Cornelius’s death. The scandal had spread like wildfire, and speculation followed—would Alexander cut ties with her? Would he cast her out?

Families who had long coveted ties to the Vanderbilts suddenly saw an opening. Invitations were prepared, daughters were dressed in their finest, and polite letters of condolence were sent—each one a thinly veiled attempt to offer Alexander a new bride.

But Alexander had gone silent.

His phone remained off. His staff turned away visitors.

And so, as the sun burned above Cornelius’s new grave, one thing was clear—

the mourning had ended, but the reckoning had only just begun.

---

When Alexander returned to the Manhattan Villa, the night outside was eerily still. The sprawling estate loomed under the faint glow of the streetlamps, its marble façade catching the ghostly silver light. Inside, the air carried the faint scent of old wood and cigars—a stillness that seemed to press down on the house like a weight.

Jonathan was already waiting in the foyer, his posture upright and respectful. At the sight of Alexander, he straightened even more.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” he greeted softly, his voice echoing faintly in the empty corridor.

Without responding, Alexander strode past him, his long shadow stretching across the polished floors. The heavy door to the study creaked open, and Jonathan followed quietly, shutting it behind them.

The study was dimly lit—only the desk lamp glowed, illuminating the deep grain of the mahogany table. A swirl of dust caught the light as Jonathan set a stack of folders before his employer.

“These,” he said, straightening his tie, “are the latest findings on those men’s movements. Additionally…” He hesitated, glancing briefly at Alexander’s unreadable expression. “Louis took advantage of Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt’s passing to embezzle funds from a major project. He’s fled New York City.”

Jonathan’s tone dropped, his words heavy with unease. “Forty million dollars. Gone overnight.”

Once, Louis and Justin had been men of status—Vanderbilts in name, ambition, and arrogance. But now they were stripped of everything. Their shares liquidated, assets sold, reputations in tatters. They had fallen from grace in silence, their names whispered with pity and scorn.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “It seems Louis’s escape route overlaps with the movement patterns of those unidentified operatives. There’s… also a chance Ms. Morales is with him.” He paused, watching Alexander’s face carefully. “Should we begin a search?”

The room fell quiet.

The faint hum of the air vent filled the silence, mingling with the slow tick of the grandfather clock. Alexander didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the documents, though his thoughts were elsewhere—dark, distant, unreadable.

Jonathan continued cautiously, “There are… rumors spreading in the circle. They’re saying Ms. Morales might have been involved in Mr. Cornelius’s death. I—” He hesitated again. “I don’t believe it, sir.”

Still, Alexander said nothing. His expression remained perfectly composed, cold enough to make the air in the room feel several degrees lower.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“Track Louis’s location.”

His voice was calm, almost dispassionate—but it carried a weight that made Jonathan’s chest tighten.

“Yes, Mr. Vanderbilt,” Jonathan murmured, bowing his head.

He wanted to ask—Should we find her? Should we bring Ms. Morales back? But one look at Alexander’s face, the faint tightening of his jaw, stopped him.

So he turned, quietly gathering the folders once more before leaving the study.

The door shut softly behind him, leaving Alexander alone under the golden lamplight.

For a long while, he didn’t move. His gaze lingered on the folders, but his thoughts were somewhere far beyond the villa’s walls—somewhere lost between anger, grief, and the name he refused to say aloud.