Chapter 15
Alex?
Friday.
I’m back in the fluorescent-lit hellscape of modern capitalism: the 7-Eleven. Wearing my slightly-sweaty, questionably-washed apron that smells faintly of synthetic cheese and burnt regret.
I’m elbow-deep in the taquito roller. My hands are moving on autopilot—refill the beef, rotate the spicy chicken, wipe the mystery grease and pray no one asks what exactly is in a jalape?o cheese tornado stick because I will lie.
Same old. Same fucking day.
Nothing new since that creeping memory of Reginald and his Cuban cigar and some vague-ass “strategy” that sounded like the prelude to world domination or hostile corporate takeover. My own voice barking orders in that dream still rings in my ears sometimes—cold, clipped, smug as fuck.
Who the hell was I?
And more importantly—do I want to be him again?
The door dings behind me. Not that I care. It’s either a drunk college kid trying to buy Cheetos and condoms or someone looking for the bathroom key attached to a literal tire rim.
I zone out a little more, rolling the meat tubes like they owe me rent, eyes unfocused, head swirling with half-memories and full regrets.
Until someone says, “Excuse me?”
I look up.
And for a half second—I freeze.
Because the man standing across the counter, holding a card and wearing a goddamn Tom Ford jacket, looks familiar.
Not in a hey-you-shop-here-a-lot way.
In a why-the-fuck-do-I-know-your-face way.
My spine straightens.
His eyes narrow.
And the next words out of his mouth?
“Alex?”
My mouth is already halfway to a dumb uhhh when he slaps the full weight of it on me:
“Alexander Vanderbilt?”
And boom.
There it is.
A flash. No—a lightning bolt behind my eyes.
Vanderbilt.
Like a bomb detonating in my skull.
A black sedan.
A marble lobby with some swooping V logo etched in glass, gleaming and expensive as sin.
Some guy in a navy suit nodding at me like I’m the second coming of God.
Security holding a gold-edged elevator just for me.
“Holy shit, it’s really you!” the guy says, full chest laugh now, grinning like a madman.
“I thought you were off on some vacation in Cancun or Fiji or, I don’t fucking know, disappearing into the goddamn Alps or whatever rich assholes do. It’s been what? Three months? What the fuck are you doing here in a fucking apron?”
My heart’s hammering so loud I can barely hear him.
Three months.
That’s how long I’ve been gone.
“Are you okay?” he asks now, frowning. “Dude, people thought you were off the grid on purpose. Your dad’s been losing his shit. I mean, I get it, fuck that guy, but damn—7-Eleven?”
I feel like I’m going to puke. Or faint. Or punch something. Maybe all three. My hands are sticky with taquito grease and none of this feels real.
Vanderbilt.
Fucking Alexander Vanderbilt.
Of those Vanderbilts?
Like old-money, dinasty legacy money Vanderbilts?
My throat spasms, dry and useless. “I… I don’t…” is all I manage, like a guy realizing the punchline is his entire life.
He takes a step closer, voice dropping low. “Oh my God, man, you’re pale as shit—you okay? Seriously, you look like you’re about to faceplant into the goddamn nacho cheese.”
And he’s not wrong.
Because right now?
My brain is short-circuiting.
Alexander Vanderbilt.
That’s me.
Not just Crash, not just the guy folding laundry wrong and pretending Carol’s couch is a throne.
Vanderbilt.
Not a barista. Not a fucking gas station cashier. A goddamn heir. To what? Who even knows? Skyscrapers? Stock empires? Probably some weird old trust fund set up by dead men with powdered wigs.
My chest gets tight, like my ribcage is too small for the secret that just blew its way into it. My hands are shaking. Vision swimming.
“Let me call someone,” he says. “Your dad, or—”
“No—” I try to say, but it’s drowned in the storm tearing through my skull.
Because suddenly I see it—
The polished floors.
The black car.
Security nodding.
My own voice, sharp as cut glass.
“My word is final, Reginald.”
And then my body just—
quits.
The lights overhead blur. The smell of stale hot dogs and blue raspberry slushie hits me sideways. My knees go.
And then—
Black.
No noise. No weight. No breath.
Just dark.
And the ringing truth:
I’m not who I thought I was.
I’m not Crash.
I’m Alexander fucking Vanderbilt.
And I don’t know what the hell that means.
----
Caroline Atkins
Something’s wrong. So fucking wrong I can feel it in my bones.
Alex should be home. He always is. His shift ends at 2PM. He gets home by 3PM. Calls me before he leaves, every time, like clockwork. It’s our thing. Our weird, domestic, barely-holding-it-together routine.
And now it’s 7PM.
No call. No text. No Alex.
And I can’t leave. I’ve got a half-delirious old lady fighting me over a wheelchair, a toddler with a fever in the waiting room, and a man bleeding through a rolled-up t-shirt like it’s a minor inconvenience.
The ER is a fucking zoo and I can’t just drop everything to chase down my possibly concussed, emotionally complicated, glorified gas station boyfriend.
But then—
then—
I glance at the TV in the waiting room. The one that never works unless it’s playing the worst possible news at the worst possible time.
And there he is.
Alex.
No—Alexander fucking Vanderbilt.
On the screen, crystal-clear.
In a goddamn suit that probably costs more than my entire rent for the year.
Arms crossed, jaw sharp, Rolex peeking out like a smug little bastard.
It’s him, alright. But not the man who steals my leftovers and folds towels like a war crime.
Breaking News: The missing heir to the Vanderbilt Conglomerate, Alexander Vanderbilt, was found today in a miraculous turn of events.
Mr. Vanderbilt was brought in after reportedly being discovered working at a 7-Eleven gas station in Queens by a family friend.
Sources say Mr. Vanderbilt appeared disoriented and did not immediately recognize him.
The Vanderbilt Conglomerate has released a brief statement confirming that a private investigation had been underway since his disappearance, citing concern for his safety and a desire to avoid public panic. No further details were released.
My heart drops into my fucking shoes.
The old lady finally gives up and lets the wheelchair take her. Good, because I’ve just been gutted and glued to the damn floor. The toddler’s crying again, the waiting room smells like bleach and bile, and I’m pretty sure I just watched my entire life flip inside out on a 40-inch flatscreen.
Alexander Vanderbilt.
Heir. Billionaire. Vanishing act.
My Crash.
Holy shit.
I stumble backward like someone just gut-punched me with a pile of inheritance papers. My knees hit the back of a gurney and I grip the edge like I might float the fuck away if I don’t hold on.
The anchor that’s been sleeping in my bed, making pasta with me, moaning into my mouth with words like baby and home—he’s not some lost stray I took in. He’s a fucking Vanderbilt.
Like old money. Generational wealth. Probably owns a castle in France or something stupid like that.
“Carol?” Rhonda’s voice cuts in, snapping fingers again like I’m a toddler who wandered into traffic. “That guy on the news just now… Wasn’t that your—your friend?”
I look at her. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
She squints. “Jesus Christ. Carol. That was your guy, wasn’t it?”
I nod, wooden. “Apparently I’ve been sleeping with goddamn royalty.”
She lets out a low whistle. “You got a dick appointment with America’s Most Eligible Billionaire and you didn’t say anything?”
“I didn’t know, Rhonda,” I snap, louder than I should. “When I met him, he was half-dead and bleeding all over my trauma room. He didn’t know his own name, let alone the fact that he’s got a net worth that starts with a B.”
Someone across the waiting room looks at me. I glare back.
Rhonda raises her brows, hands up. “Alright, alright. Jesus. You’re not wrong to be pissed. But what the hell are you gonna do?”
And that right there—that’s the real kick in the tits.
I don’t know.
Because it’s not just about me anymore.
He has a name now.
And a past.
And a life that isn’t here.
And no matter how many blowjobs I gave him on that loveseat, no matter how many times he held me in the dark or called this place home—he might not stay.
He might not want to.
Fuck.
I suck in a breath that tastes like antiseptic and heartbreak and whisper, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do.”
Or if there’s anything to do…