Chapter 143
The Vale estate had never been this quiet.
Not during board meetings. Not during family feuds. Not even during the patriarch's infamous banquets.
Now the halls reeked of gunpowder and blood.
Every surviving member of the Vale dynasty sat huddled in the opulent drawing room. Chandeliers glittered above their bowed heads, reflecting off the puddles of crimson pooling beneath the sprawled bodies of guards who had tried—and failed—to defend them. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of fear.
A ring of men in black surrounded them, rifles raised and steady. Their faces betrayed nothing. The muzzles didn't waver.
"How dare you!" one of the aunts shrieked, voice cracking.
"Do you know who we are?" another uncle rasped, clutching his bleeding arm.
"I'll pay you double!" a cousin spat, his bravado fooling no one.
The double doors creaked open.
Zander Vale stepped inside.
Gone was the pristine corporate prince they all thought they knew. The man who entered was a storm in human skin. His once-immaculate suit was rumpled, dusty, streaked with dried blood. His knuckles were split and scabbed; his eyes were ringed with sleepless shadows.
"Zander, thank God—look at this madness!" one of them began, desperate.
The words died on their lips as he ignored them entirely.
He strode across the Persian carpet and dropped into the chair opposite his family with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who hadn't slept in days. The flick of a lighter broke the silence. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled a plume of smoke that curled through the tension-thick room.
"You're not very smart, are you?" His voice was low, hoarse, but razor-sharp.
"What is that supposed to mean?!" a cousin demanded.
Zander took another drag, unbothered. "I haven't smoked in months. But after the last three days, I think I've earned one."
"Zander, stop this madness!"
"Zander—"
"Zander, listen—"
Their voices overlapped, desperate, but he cut through them like a blade.
"I had a lot of time to think," he said, eyes flat and cold.
"While I sat beside my husband's unconscious body, I wondered what might finally quiet this rage inside me. Should I burn you alive? Hang you from the gates you worship? But the truth is, none of that would be enough."
"Let us go!" the patriarch barked. "Now!"
"Let us go, you bastard!" another cousin screamed.
The report of a gunshot silenced the room. One of the bodyguards had shot the cousin clean through the arm. His scream echoed like a warning.
"You can't do this to us!" an aunt sobbed.
Zander leaned back, smoke coiling around his head like a crown of ash.
"You know what's fascinating? I dug. Turns out Vales have a few… proclivities. A taste for barely legal partners. A habit of cleaning up multiple murders with money. And that's just scratching the surface."
His gaze swept over them, contempt plain. "I wish I could cut my own veins and erase the fact we share DNA."
"You… you're insane," one whispered.
"Yes," Zander said simply.
" Did you think there'd be no consequences? Did you really believe you could blow up my home—almost kill my husband and child—and walk away?"
The patriarch sneered, summoning the last dregs of his authority. "The omega isn't even dead! Stop this foolishness now!"
Zander's laugh was humorless, sharp.
"No. You still don't get it."
He stubbed out the cigarette against the armrest, stood, and looked down at them like a judge passing sentence.
"You pride yourselves on the Vale name. That name is everything to you. So I'm taking it away. You won't die—not yet. Death is mercy. Instead, from this second until your last breath, I will make your lives hell. Piece by piece."
"You can't kill us all," one uncle whispered, sweat dripping down his temple.
Zander's smirk was pure ice. "Who said anything about killing? You'll wish I had."
He raised a hand lazily, and his men moved with military precision. Chains clinked. Shouts turned to muffled cries as the Vale family was dragged from the room, their pleas echoing through the halls that once symbolized untouchable power.
***
Ivan
Pain flares everywhere the moment I stir. My arm is bound, my leg hoisted up in traction, my neck braced. Each breath feels like fire licking my ribs. But I welcome it.
Pain means I'm alive.
A hoarse croak escapes me as I try to speak. My throat is parched. The sound is pathetic, yet it draws attention.
In my blurry line of sight, a silhouette leans closer—broad shoulders slumped, dark suit rumpled, his presence familiar even through the haze. My eyes adjust, and the shadow sharpens into the man I love.
Zander.
He looks wrecked. His usually polished hair is messy, his jaw dusted with uneven stubble. The dark circles under his eyes could shame a sleepless ghost. And there are tears—actual tears—caught at the edges of his lashes.
I rasp out the only thing I can manage, my voice broken.
"You look horrible."
A sad, relieved smile curves there, and his eyes close for a beat, as if he's savoring the sound of my voice.
"And you look beautiful," he whispers back, voice shaking. "Even now. Especially now."