Chapter 140
Zander
"Of course," I say into the phone and end the call with a faint snicker.
I don't know what exactly Dorian Black did to piss off the Greene family, but clearly, he managed it.
The Greene family rarely gets involved in public feuds they're peacemakers by nature. Mason is their baby, their golden boy. For them to call me directly and say they're done playing nice? That says it all.
Probably has something to do with today's headlines, the photos of Mason punching Dorian, the actor's first ever public altercation splashed across every gossip site.
Honestly, it's sad in a way. If Black wasn't such an atrocious human being, he'd be unstoppable. He's smart—genuinely talented at making money.
So far, I've been his ceiling made of stone, blocking him from climbing too high. But now? Now it seems I'll have to stomp him into the ground completely.
The only reason I've never seriously gone after him before is because he wasn't worth my time. Ivan doesn't take him seriously; to my husband, Dorian is a joke. And for me, anyone Ivan doesn't take seriously isn't a threat. Simple math.
Well, when I tell Ivan the Greenes are now on our side, he'll probably laugh.
"Ha, deserved," he'd say with that smug little snicker I adore.
I miss him. I reach for my phone to text him. The last message from him was an hour ago: Love ya, he'd said after I sent Maksim to drop off some cupcakes for him. I was about to reply when—
The door to my office bursts open. My secretary is pale, panting like he's run a marathon.
"What is it?" I snap, annoyed at the interruption.
His face contorts. "...The penthouse building—"
No.
No. No. No.
The words don't make sense at first, but my body reacts before my mind does. I shoot to my feet, my chair clattering back. My heart lodges in my throat.
I don't wait for him to explain. I don't wait for my security detail. I don't wait for anything.
I'm already running.
I tear through the lobby, ignoring everyone calling my name. I burst into the parking garage, slam into my car, and floor it. Traffic laws? Useless. I blast through red lights, honking, swerving, cursing anyone in my way.
My chest is tight; my hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles are white.
No. He's fine. He's safe. He has security. The penthouse has triple-layer protection. It's fine.
I finally hit a wall of traffic two blocks from home. A sea of stopped cars, horns blaring, smoke in the air. Something's wrong. Something's terribly, terribly wrong.
I slam the door open and run. Past honking drivers. Past stopped taxis. My shoes hit the pavement in a deafening rhythm. I'm panting, lungs on fire, but I don't stop.
And then I see it.
Dust.
Billowing clouds of smoke and dust where my home—our home—should be.
My heart drops. My vision tunnels.
No. It can't be. He's in there. Maksim is there. Ivan is there. My baby. My husband. My everything.
I run harder, lungs burning, my suit jacket flapping behind me. My shoes slip in the dust coating the pavement as I skid to a stop in front of what should have been a towering penthouse building.
Instead, there's nothing but twisted metal and concrete rubble. The air reeks of smoke, burnt wiring, and gas. Flames lick at collapsed walls while hoses hiss. Sirens wail.
Firemen and police swarm the scene. Reporters huddle behind yellow tape like vultures, their voices a blur until one cuts through:
"Breaking news — what's being reported as a gas explosion has destroyed a luxury penthouse west of the city…"
"...rescue operations underway." That snaps me out of it.
Rescue. That means he might still be okay. He has to be okay.
I push forward, but the sight of flashing red and blue lights, mangled metal, and smoke pouring into the sky makes my stomach twist violently. My ears are ringing; my pulse is deafening. The world has narrowed down to one thought: Ivan is in there.
I shove forward, my heart beating in my throat.
"IVAN!" I scream, voice cracking. "MAKSIM!"
I sprint toward the wreckage, into the chaos — but hands grab me. Two, three men in reflective vests tackle me back before I can throw myself into the ruins.
"Sir, you can't—"
"LET ME GO, DAMMIT!" My voice is raw, feral. I thrash, clawing at their arms like an animal. "My husband is in there! My family is inthere!"
They tighten their grip. One shouts for more backup. Someone else tries to talk to me, but all I hear is the ringing in my ears and the roar of flames.
"I'm Zander Vale!" I snarl, fighting them with everything I have. "That's my building! That's my husband! Let me the fuck go!"
I see a stretcher being carried from the wreckage, covered in soot, an oxygen mask strapped to the face of someone I can't quite make out. My knees nearly buckle.
"Is it him?!" I scream at the nearest rescue worker. "IS IT IVAN?!"
No one answers; they're too busy shouting orders, too busy trying to save lives.
The smell of gas, smoke, and burnt wood fills my lungs. I cough, but I don't stop struggling. Another pair of hands grabs me.
"Sir, it's not safe—"
"NOTHING IS SAFE IF HE'S IN THERE!" The words rip out of me, animal and unhinged. "I can't lose them. I can't—" My voice breaks into something small, pathetic.
"I can't lose him."
My chest heaves painfully, like my ribs are going to crack from the force of my heartbeat. My hands are shaking so violently I can barely clench them into fists. Every second that passes feels like an eternity.