chapter two

Alexander Vale had perfected the art of the smile by the time he was sixteen. Not the genuine kind, he'd buried that years ago, but the one that made people feel seen, charmed, convinced they were the most important person in the room.

He deployed it now, leaning back in the leather chair of the conference room, watching three investors hang on his every word.

"The Asian market expansion isn't just profitable," he said smoothly, gesturing to the projection behind him. "It's inevitable. We position ourselves now, or we watch our competitors claim what should be ours."

The men nodded, already convinced. They always were. Alexander had learned early that confidence sold better than facts, that charisma could smooth over nearly any concern. His father had built the Vale empire on ruthless business acumen; Alexander maintained it on charm and the careful cultivation of his playboy reputation.

Let them think he was reckless in his personal life. It made them underestimate him in business, which gave him the advantage.

"The projections are aggressive," one investor said, though his tone suggested he was already persuaded.

"Fortune favors the bold." Alexander's smile widened. "Isn't that why you're here? Because you recognize opportunity when you see it?"

Another nod. Another victory. So easy it made him feel nothing at all.

The meeting continued, Alexander playing his part flawlessly—the brilliant heir, the calculated risk-taker, the man who could turn gold into more gold with seemingly effortless grace. Inside, he felt the familiar hollowness spreading, the sense that he was watching himself perform from somewhere outside his own body.

He'd felt this way for as long as he could remember. Present but absent. Seen but invisible.

His gaze drifted across the table to one of the junior analysts, a man about his age with dark eyes and capable hands that moved expressively when he spoke about market trends. Alexander found himself watching those hands, imagining—

He cut the thought off sharply, redirecting his attention to the spreadsheets. Dangerous. Even his thoughts were dangerous here, in this world that demanded he be exactly what they expected and nothing more.

The meeting concluded with handshakes and promises. Alexander kept the smile fixed in place until the door closed behind the last investor, then let it drop like a discarded mask.

His assistant appeared immediately. "Your 2 PM is confirmed, and you have three messages marked urgent."

"Forward them to my private line. Cancel the 2 PM."

"Sir, it's with—"

"Cancel it." Alexander's voice left no room for argument. He needed air, space, somewhere he could breathe without performing.

He checked his phone in the elevator, scrolling through messages with practiced efficiency. Business. More business. A text from last night's companion that he deleted without reading. He didn't remember her name, wasn't sure he'd bothered to learn it. She'd served her purpose—another headline, another piece of evidence that Alexander Vale was exactly what everyone thought.

Then, a message from an unknown number. Just an address and a time.

The club.

His thumb hovered over the delete button. He should ignore it. He'd been away for two weeks, busy with the yacht trip and all the publicity it generated. The club was a liability, a secret that could destroy everything if exposed.

But it was also the only place he could breathe.

He deleted the message and pocketed his phone, hating the relief he felt just knowing the option existed.

The drive home was a blur of city streets and mounting exhaustion. Alexander had barely slept in three days, running on espresso and the nervous energy that came from maintaining lies. The yacht party had been necessary—his father had hinted he was being too withdrawn, that the public needed reminding of the Vale heir's vitality. So Alexander had delivered: excess, indulgence, beautiful women draped over him like accessories.

He'd felt nothing. Not desire, not satisfaction, not even the basic pleasure of physical release. Just the hollow achievement of a performance well-executed.

The Vale mansion appeared ahead, ostentatious even by his standards. Old money trying to look like older money, every stone and column a statement of permanence and power.

Alexander pulled into the circular drive, noting his father's car was already there. Wonderful. Another performance awaited.

He grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat, running a hand through his hair, still disheveled from last night, cultivating the image of the careless playboy stumbling home at dawn. The role was so familiar now he could slip into it without thinking.

The house was quiet as he entered, just the soft footfalls of staff moving through distant rooms. He headed for the stairs, wanting only his own space, his own silence.

Then he saw Elias.

His stepbrother stood near the library entrance, clearly not expecting anyone. For a moment, they simply looked at each other—Alexander disheveled and exhausted, Elias neat and composed in casual clothes that still somehow looked formal on him.

Something flickered in Elias's eyes. Judgment, probably. Disapproval. The quiet condemnation Alexander had grown used to from his stepbrother, who always seemed to be watching him with those careful, unreadable eyes.

But underneath the judgment, Alexander caught something else. Something that made his chest tighten inexplicably.

He should say something. Good morning, or some casual quip about his late night. Play the role Elias expected.

Instead, he found himself frozen, trapped in his stepbrother's gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how he must look—wrecked and hollow, the mask slipping for just a second.

Elias's expression shifted, something almost like concern crossing his features before he shuttered it away.

They both looked away simultaneously, breaking the strange tension.

Alexander moved past without a word, taking the stairs two at a time, feeling those eyes on his back until he turned the corner. In his room, he finally let himself breathe, loosening his shirt and collapsing onto the bed.

His phone buzzed. Another message from the club, another address he'd memorize and delete.

The only place he could take off the mask.

The only place where wanting what he wanted wasn't a liability but a language everyone spoke.

He stared at the ceiling, thinking about Elias's eyes, that flash of something unnameable before the shutters came down. Wondering why that moment affected him more than anything else in the past seventy-two hours.

Wondering why, for just a second, he'd wanted to stop performing.

Alexander closed his eyes and willed sleep to come, knowing it wouldn't. The mask was exhausting to wear, but without it, he didn't know who he was supposed to be.

So he'd keep wearing it. Keep smiling. Keep pretending.

It was all he knew how to do.