Damian stepped out of the elevator on the 11th floor, tired but glad to be home. He walked down the hallway to their apartment—where he and Clarissa Velmonte had lived since their wedding two years ago. Despite her family's long-standing disapproval, he'd still managed to marry her, and now they had a child together.
He swiped his key card, and the door clicked open. There she was—Clarissa—standing by the living room entrance, holding their newborn baby who was already asleep in her arms. She looked beautiful, just as she always did, with her hair tied back loosely and a soft smile forming as soon as she saw him.
Damian walked up to her and pulled her in for a warm hug, planting gentle kisses on her forehead.
"How was your day?" she asked softly, adjusting the baby's blanket.
He sighed and shook his head. "Messy. Alexander had to kick his fiancée out of the company today."
Clarissa paused, her brows drawing together. "Emily? As in his fiancée?"
He nodded, walking to the kitchen counter and pouring himself a glass of water. "Yeah. The board voted. The majority didn't want her there. Said she was intimidating staff, making it hard for anyone to correct her. Erica stirred the pot, of course—and Alexander… he was cold about it. Didn't even flinch."
Clarissa rocked their child gently, processing the news. "So… what happens now?"
Clarissa Velmonte sat on the edge of the couch, adjusting the baby's blanket as she looked over at Damian. "I always knew my family would find a way to push her out," she said softly, her tone not entirely surprised. "Especially Mother… she's never liked anyone Alexander becomes close to and I don't think Alexander cares about her."
Damian sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees. "You think he really doesn't care? Because the way he looked at her right before announcing it… it wasn't nothing."
Clarissa tilted her head slightly. "He may not realize it now, but I think it hurt him more than he's willing to admit. Alexander's never been one to wear his emotions. You know that."
"She looked broken," Damian said, his voice lower now. "And the worst part? That expression on Erica's face—it was like she won some prize."
Clarissa scoffed. "Erica's desperate. She's been circling Alexander like a vulture for years. This is just her being bold enough to show it now that Emily's out of the picture."
The baby stirred slightly in her arms. Clarissa adjusted him with practiced ease.
"I just wonder," Damian muttered, "if pushing Emily out really solved anything—or just lit a fuse."
Clarissa's eyes met his. "We'll just have to see."
The city lights streamed across the windshield as Andrew drove Alexander home in silence—at least for a while. Alexander sat in the backseat, gaze fixed outside, jaw tight, unreadable as always. But Andrew, having worked beside him long enough, knew when something was off.
"I thought you'd be smiling," Andrew finally said, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. "You kicked Emily out just the way everyone expected—cold and clean. But here you are, looking like you buried someone."
Alexander didn't flinch. He just stared ahead, as if the question didn't deserve a response. But then, quietly, he said, "That girl has nothing. Nothing. No one."
Andrew frowned slightly, puzzled by the rare tone in Alexander's voice. "Then why the look? You said it yourself, she's still a suspect."
Alexander's eyes lifted from the window, and he met Andrew's gaze through the mirror. "Exactly. She's still a suspect. I'm not showing sympathy for someone I'm not sure of yet."
There was a pause. The car slowed at a red light.
"Then let's go find out more," Andrew said. "That place I mentioned—Alderidge. If there's anything hidden, we'll dig it out."
Alexander nodded once. "Fine. Plan the trip soon."
Andrew glanced back again, curiosity still lingering. "And Emily? What now? How's she supposed to take care of herself?"
"She didn't complete the month," Alexander said flatly, "but I'll still pay her for it. I'll handle it."
Without a word, Andrew made a sharp turn, pulling into the next street.
"What are you doing?" Alexander asked.
Andrew smirked slightly. "We're going to Emily's. Let's deliver it now."
The car rolled slowly down the narrow street, headlights casting long shadows against chipped fences and potted plants lined haphazardly on the porches. It wasn't a part of town someone like Alexander Velmonte belonged to—this place had no polished gates, no luxury, no scent of power. It was honest. And ordinary.
They pulled up outside a modest home. No grand entrance. Just a simple wooden door framed by a few fake flowers and worn-out welcome mats. Alexander stepped out first, his expression unreadable, and walked with cold precision to the door. He knocked twice.
The door creaked open, and there she stood.
Emily.
Her eyes were tired, her face bare, her hair tied in a loose knot like she had stopped caring hours ago. Still, even beneath the exhaustion and the weight of disappointment, she looked beautiful. Fragile. Real. Alexander's gaze locked onto hers, and for a second, he didn't speak. He didn't blink.
"Miss Emily," he finally said, voice sharp and formal.
Emily didn't flinch. She had expected him. "Come in, Alexander," she said. "No matter how I feel, you're still my fiancé in the public eye. People wouldn't like seeing me chase you away from my doorstep."
He stepped inside, the coolness of her tone mirroring his own. It was his first time in her home. He scanned the space—small, barely furnished, lived in. A modest table, chairs that had clearly been repurposed over time, a faint scent of lavender clinging to the curtains. It was a quiet kind of survival.
They both sat.
"Would you like anything?" she asked.
"No."
"I figured." Her voice was flat.
He got to the point. "You've worked in Velmonte Technologies for a while. I came to pay you the remainder of your salary."
"I don't want your money," Emily said, lifting her chin. "I wanted to earn it. I don't need your pity, Mr. Velmonte."
His brow twitched. "Miss Emily, it's not pity. It's a salary. I hope you can comprehend that."
She leaned forward, fury buried under her tired voice. "Then comprehend this—because of you and your actions, I lost my job. My future.
Alexander's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "Will you take the money or not?"
Emily stared directly into his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes that had haunted her for weeks, maybe longer. She saw the steel behind them, but also something else now. A flicker. Not of guilt, not of regret—something far more dangerous: curiosity. But she didn't flinch.
"No," she said simply, her voice low but firm.
Before he could respond, she raised her arm and pointed toward the door. "And do not come back here."
The air in the room grew colder.
Alexander remained seated, his fists clenched tightly on his lap. His entire presence crackled with restrained rage, his eyes fixed on her like a lion debating whether to pounce or walk away. But before he could act on any impulse, the front door opened.
Andrew stood there, catching the tension thick in the air.
"Alexander," he said, voice low and cautious. "Let's go. We'll come back."
Still glaring at Emily, Alexander stood slowly. Emily didn't drop her arm until she watched them exit her home. She kept her eyes locked on his retreating back, her hand raised like a silent barrier until the sound of the car engine fading down the street assured her he was finally gone.
Only then did she lower her hand.
She turned away from the door and walked straight to the mirror in the small hallway. She stared at her reflection—red eyes, a trembling lower lip, tears streaked across her cheeks. Slowly, she wiped them off with the back of her hand. The trembling stopped.
It had all been an act.
A small smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. "This is just the beginning, Alexander," she whispered. "First, I'll tear down that stupid wall of emotional protection you hide behind. For once, you will feel what it means to hurt."
She stood straighter, walked into the living room, and began tidying up, moving with purpose. Alexander Velmonte had made his move. Now it was her turn.
—
Meanwhile, Alexander stormed into his estate like a man possessed. His eyes were wild, unfocused. The servants stood frozen as he passed them, unsure whether to greet him or disappear into the walls. He didn't acknowledge anyone. His steps were loud on the marble floors as he took the stairs two at a time and vanished into his room, slamming the door behind him.
Andrew stood at the bottom of the staircase, watching.
No one had ever done that to Alexander—not in years. The only person who had dared speak to him that way was Mrs. Velmonte, and even she had lost her power over time. But Emily? She wasn't just defiant—she was dangerous in a way Alexander wasn't used to.
And it bruised him.
Andrew shook his head slowly and turned to a nearby servant. "Prepare something strong for him. He's not going to take this lightly."
—
Upstairs, Alexander stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pound against his skin, almost as if it could burn the memory of her words away. But it didn't. He clenched his fists and slammed one against the tile wall with a grunt. The handle cracked under the force.
"Who the hell does she think she is?" he muttered.
The memory of her finger pointing toward the door, her voice so calm and final—it replayed like a film he couldn't shut off.
She had humiliated him.
He stepped out of the shower, dragging a towel around his waist as steam rolled out into the bedroom. He dressed quickly, throwing on black lounge pants and a fitted shirt before storming downstairs. Andrew was waiting.
"Prepare the trip," Alexander ordered, his voice sharp as ice. "We leave tomorrow."
Andrew nodded and walked away without a word. He'd been waiting for that command.
Alexander moved to the dining table but didn't touch the food that had been set out. He sat, hands clasped together, eyes burning with something colder than rage.
"She thinks she's clever," he muttered. "Emily Woods… I'll find out what you're about. Soon."
And when I do, he thought, you'll wish you never stepped into Velmonte Technologies at all.