Chapter 137
Vale Patriarch POV
I slam the car door hard enough that the driver flinches before peeling away. Good. Let them feel some fear. It's all anyone respects anymore.
How dare he defy me?
Zander was not like this before. Yes, he was cold and blunt—rude even—but he never openly disobeyed me. He understood the natural order. The hierarchy. The family. Now? He dares to challenge me in board meetings. He strips his uncle of privileges. He stands there, looking at me as if I'm the intruder.
He wasn't raised to be this way.
And I can't even replace him. Not with this useless bloodline. Every other descendant I have would run Vale straight into the ground. The only one with any real skill is my granddaughter who runs the cosmetics division, but she's an omega. I'll be damned if I ever name an omega my heir.
This madness started with him.
The omega.
The entertainer.
That pretty little distraction who somehow wormed his way into Zander's life and corrupted him. I thought it was a phase. Men of power always have their indulgences. But a phase doesn't end in marriage—without a prenup. A phase doesn't turn my cold, brilliant grandson into a fool who risks everything for one defective little omega.
What do you do when you have a problem?
You cut it out at the root.
And I will root out the cause of my grandson's insanity.
My phone buzzes, and I answer, voice like ice. "What have you found out?"
One of my men hesitates on the other end. "Sir, as we reported… security has tripled at the penthouse. He hasn't left for months. None of our people have been able to get inside."
Of course. Zander is no fool. He knows me. He knows what I'm capable of. That's why he has his little omega locked up tight, guarded like a crown jewel.
I scoff into the phone. "Zander thinks he's smart. Thinks that just because he has money and guards, he's untouchable." My lip curls.
"Let him believe it. It will make the fall that much harder."
There's silence on the line. My man doesn't ask what I intend. He knows better.
I stare out the tinted window at the city skyline. Vale is mine. Everything is mine. And I won't let some simpering omega, no matter how charming the cameras find him, ruin what I built.
***
Harry POV
"Wow, it's like we're going to see the president." Mason mutters, and I nod in full agreement because honestly? He's not wrong.
Ivan invited us over, but getting to his penthouse? That's been a whole mission. The security is no joke.
We've been scanned for weapons, patted down like criminals, fingerprinted, even retina-scanned. I feel like I've accidentally joined a spy movie. By the time we're finally ushered through a discreet set of glass doors, I'm half expecting someone to demand a blood sample next.
I'm worried. Ivan hasn't been photographed in months, even if his social media is still active. I've seen posts of flowers, cryptic quotes, the occasional sassy clapback aimed at Dorian, but no pictures of himself. The thought crosses my mind: what if he's being held against his will?
Finally, the last hallway opens up, and I nearly choke. There's wealth, and then there's… whatever this is.
Marble floors that shine like a mirror. Walls lined with art I'm scared to look at too long in case I accidentally add a zero to its value just by breathing. Even the air feels expensive—warm, perfumed faintly with vanilla and something citrusy.
We slip off our shoes like instructed. My eyes catch on a massive framed picture hanging in the hallway, and I stop.
It's chaotic and beautiful: the inside of an old church with those grand stained-glass murals, snow visible through the windows, and the only real light coming from the couple at its center. Ivan is in Zander's arms, carried bridal style, both of them dressed entirely wrong for the cold—their noses and ears red from the weather—but their smiles are brighter than the snow in the background.
"That must be the wedding photo," I whisper. Ivan never shared pictures, only said he and Zander got married and casually changed his socials from Ivan Orlov to Ivan Orlov-Vale like it wasn't a worldwide shock.
"Look, Maksim. They're admiring your handiwork. I told you the photo turned out okay," a familiar voice drawls.
I whip around. Ivan.
For the first time in months. I see him in person.
Maksim apparently, a large man with a buzz cut, grunts like a man being hunted and literally sidesteps us to escape down the hall.
Ivan's hair is longer now, brushing his shoulders, catching the light as he pads toward us barefoot in an oversized shirt. Ethereal doesn't even cover it. The man glows.
"Bring me pickles!" Ivan yells after Maksim's retreating form. There's no reply except a distant, resigned grunt.
He turns back to us with a grin that could melt glaciers. "Hey, guys. Glad you could make it."
"You look good. I was low-key here to confirm you weren't locked in a dungeon," Mason says as we follow him further in.
"I retired from public life, you know," Ivan says breezily.
We head into a living room that could fit my entire apartment ten times over. Ivan plops into an armchair, adjusting a pillow behind his back with the ease of someone fully committed to comfort.
"I could offer you something to drink," he says solemnly, "but I have no desire to stand up again. The kitchen's that way." He waves vaguely.
"No, we're fine," I assure him quickly, taking a seat on the couch. Mason drops beside me. Ivan's sharp green eyes flit between us, and a smirk curves his lips.
"Mason, I'm thirsty. Get me some orange juice."
"I literally just sat down," Mason protests.
"I'm not asking again," Ivan says sweetly, with all the menace of a mafia don in an angel's body.
Mason exhales the long-suffering sigh of a man who knows when he's lost and trudges off toward the kitchen.
As soon as he's gone, Ivan leans toward me conspiratorially. "Glad to see you two are getting along well. Should I open a matchmaking business?"
"We're not—" I start, and immediately he cuts me off with a raised brow.
"As an expert in sexual tension, I can recognize it. It's there. You've either slept together or you should."
"We haven't—"
"Not yet," Ivan interrupts, smirking like the devil himself.
I choke on a laugh. He's still the same Ivan. "You look great, by the way. I saw your cameo in that show."
"It's all thank you." I respond and I mean it.
Ivan waves me off with an elegant flick of his fingers, reclining against his pillow like a monarch refusing tribute.
"Please don't thank me. I just gave you the push. You climbed up the ladder all on your own."