Chapter 23
Alexander Vanderbilt?
It’s 1 A.M. when the call comes in. Clean. Sharp. Final.
The investigation’s done.
Reginald ordered the accident—under direct instruction from Leopold.
My own father. The man who shook my hand at board meetings, posed with me for Forbes covers, gave me nothing but polished praise and private disdain—that man planned to have me fucking erased.
Or at the very least, broken enough to mold back into his little pawn.
I stare at the open email on my laptop like it’s a live wire, humming with every filthy truth I was too stupid to see back then. The report’s attached, timestamped, sealed. Cold and legal.
And still, I don’t click it.
Not yet.
My hands are clenched around the edges of the MacBook, like it might leap off my lap and bite me. Like if I open it, everything will be real. Irrevocable.
Then I feel her.
Carol stirs beside me like she’s tethered to the chaos in my head. Her soft sigh as she turns over, silk nightgown slipping off her shoulder, golden hair tangled around her cheek, mouth kiss-swollen from hours ago. She squints at the glow of the screen, blinking.
“You okay?” she rasps, voice full of sleep and concern, like it’s hers to carry.
I close the laptop a little too fast.
She sits up, sheets pooling at her waist, her hand brushing my forearm. “Alex.”
My throat works, dry as sandpaper. I could lie—God, it’d be easier to lie—but not to her. Not to the only person in my whole fucked-up life who never wanted anything but me.
“It’s done,” I say, voice hoarse. “The report’s in.”
Her brows pull together. “The accident?”
I nod once. “It wasn’t one. Reginald gave the order… under my father’s direction.”
Carol doesn’t speak. Doesn’t gasp or fumble or try to soothe me with platitudes.
She just reaches for my hand. Strong and warm and steady.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until she grounds me. Until the weight of it—all of it—crashes down.
My fucking father tried to end me.
And the only thing keeping me from falling apart is this woman in a nightgown that clings to her like sin, holding my hand like it’s holy.
“I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” she murmurs, voice all silk and steel, one hand sliding into my hair, brushing it back like I’m something fragile she’s not afraid to hold.
And goddamn, I didn’t even realize how much I needed that—her voice, her touch, her saying it—not until the words hit me right in the ribs, low and deep and aching.
My jaw clenches. My throat burns. I look down at where her fingers are threaded in my hair, her thumb grazing the side of my face like I’m worth comforting. Like I’m not a grown man unraveling in his own fucking bed over the knowledge that the man who made him also tried to end him.
“I knew he didn’t like me… I knew and still…” I murmur.
She pulls me into her, my face buried in her neck and she holds me like I’m strong and fragile all at once.
“He’s a fucking fool, Alex,” she murmurs again, tighter now, like if she could hold me hard enough she’d squeeze out the hurt. “A power-hungry, narcissistic bastard who doesn’t deserve you. And the only halfway decent thing that’s ever come out of his miserable legacy is you, baby. Just you.”
Her voice cracks, and fuck, I don’t deserve that sound coming from her. She brushes her fingers through my hair again, tender as hell, but her grip stays fierce, like she’s holding on for both of us.
I blink, jaw tight, trying to speak through the choke in my throat.
“I knew he didn’t like me, Carol… Knew it my whole goddamn life. But knowing he didn’t love me and knowing he was willing to put me in the ground—” I bite it off, rage crawling under my skin like fire ants. “I don’t know how to live with that.”
“You don’t have to,” she whispers. “That piece of shit doesn’t get to live rent-free in your chest anymore. You hear me?” She pulls me closer, and I bury my face in the curve of her neck, letting her warmth pull me out of the spiral.
“I’m so fucking glad I was on shift that night,” she says, like it’s a prayer.
“So fucking glad I walked into that room and found you half-dead and pretty. That I kept you breathing when you didn’t even know who you were. That I got to keep you, Alex. My stubborn, lost, too-good-for-this-world idiot.”
I lift my head, just enough to look into her eyes. Her voice is trembling now, but there’s no fear there. Just fury and faith and the kind of fire that could raze down empires if it meant keeping me safe.
“Because the second I saw you,” she says, fierce and soft all at once, “I knew you were worth fighting for. Worth saving. And I’ll keep doing it, even if the whole goddamn world tries to drag you back down.”
And holy shit, I think I’m crying. But so is she. And when she kisses me, it’s not sweet—it’s warpaint. It’s her saying you’re mine, and I’ll kill gods for you if I have to.
In the morning, the world fucking explodes.
Every major outlet. Every tabloid. Every push notification. It’s everywhere.
My name. My face. My family’s rot, peeled back and laid bare for the world to see. The receipts, the statements, the legal documents—all of it. Reginald wiring two million dollars to a broke Queens mechanic with a record, the same man whose cousin was driving drunk the night of my accident.
Only it wasn’t a real accident, was it? It was a setup. A hit job masked as another messy, forgettable DUI fatality. Only I didn’t die. And now?
Now the world knows.
The headlines are bloody, brutal, and fucking beautiful:
“Heir to Empire: Alexander Vanderbilt Exposes Family’s Murder Plot”
“From Amnesia to Annihilation: Inside the Fall of the Vanderbilt Powerhouse”
“Reginald Wexner Indicted in Murder Conspiracy Against Alex Vanderbilt”
“Old Money, New Crimes: The Billionaire Coup That Failed”
“Vanderbilt Dynasty Crumbling After Shocking Revelation of Heir’s Attempted Murder”
“Carol Atkins: The Nurse Who Helped Take Down the Vanderbilts”
And my personal favorite:
“From 7-Eleven to Revenge: How the Lost Heir Crashed Back Into the Spotlight”
I sit on the couch in the penthouse—my penthouse—with the remote in one hand, Carol’s thigh in the other. She’s in my shirt again, hair wild, legs bare, a mug of coffee she hasn’t even touched, and that stunned look in her eyes that still hasn’t faded.
“It’s like watching a fucking movie,” she mutters, flipping between channels. CNN. FOX. CNBC. Even TMZ’s foaming at the mouth with a “VANDERBILT BLOODLINE SCANDAL.”
“Correction,” I say, jaw tight. “It’s watching my family eat their own teeth.”
She whistles low. “You think your dad’ll survive this?”
I take a sip of coffee that tastes like ash and war. “No. But that’s not my concern anymore.”
Because this isn’t just the fallout.
This is the fucking reckoning.
Not just press. Not just scandal. It’s warpath.
Cleaning house like a goddamn hurricane in a suit.
The board’s still reeling, stunned like they got hit by a fucking semi. Half of them too scared to breathe without checking my expression first. The other half? Trying to kiss my ass faster than you can say “Chairman.”
And guess what? Daddy dearest? His platinum pension account? Gone. Frozen. Cut off. Poof.
No more five-star lawyers. No more under-the-table payoffs. If he wants to plead not guilty, he can do it in a county orange jumpsuit with a half-asleep public defender who smells like vending machine burritos.
Reginald? Oh, that slick bastard made one last move. Packed a suitcase with untraceable cash, a burner phone, passport, and tried to cross state lines in the dead of night like this is some fucking crime thriller.
Too bad the feds were already waiting.
The headlines didn’t even have time to cool down before there was fresh blood.
“Wexner Arrested at State Line with $1.2M in Cash: Attempted Flight Confirmed”
“Leopold Vanderbilt’s Assets Frozen Amid Criminal Investigation”
“Alexander Vanderbilt Moves to Dissolve Old Board – ‘We Burn It Down or It Rots From Within’”
I walk into the boardroom the next day, tailored black suit, power practically radiating off my shoulders like a second skin. My fiancée’s name is on everyone’s tongue—and not one of those motherfuckers dares say it disrespectfully.
“Good morning,” I say. “Let’s begin.”
Then I drop the folder of new leadership changes onto the polished mahogany like it’s a loaded weapon.
This isn’t just damage control.
This is me putting a bullet in the old machine and building my own from the bones.
And when I got back home that night?
Oh, fuck me running.
I opened the door expecting silence, maybe some news still blasting from the TV. Instead?
There she is—my goddamn fiancée—in black fucking lingerie that looks illegal in at least twelve states, barefoot in my kitchen, a plate of shrimp and fries on the counter, and a bottle of champagne already sweating next to it.
Carol fucking Atkins. Hair down, tits half-out, biting a fry like it’s foreplay.
“I figured since you destroyed the old world order today,” she says, cocking a hip and sipping champagne straight from the flute, “you deserved something fried… and someone willing.”
I don’t even shut the door behind me. I’m halfway out of my suit jacket before my brain catches up.
“Baby…” I rasp, stepping closer like I’m stalking a fucking meal. “You tryna kill me?”
She grins. “No, just drain you a little.”
Jesus Christ.
The lingerie’s lace is see-through in all the right places, her nipples hard through the fabric, thighs bare and gleaming.
She perches on the edge of the counter, spreads her legs slightly, and dips a fry in sauce like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
“You gonna stand there and drool or come take what’s yours?”
I don’t remember crossing the room, but the next thing I know I’ve got my hand around her throat, her legs wrapped around my waist, and that wicked smirk still curling her lips like she owns me.
Because she does.
The empire’s mine. The crown’s on my head. But this? This woman is the only throne I give a fuck about bending the knee to.
My tongue slides into her like it’s coming home, slow at first, savoring, and she lets out this helpless, broken moan that makes my cock throb against my slacks. Her hands fly to my hair, yanking—because she’s always impatient when it comes to this, when it comes to me like this.
“Alex—fuck, baby—” she gasps, thighs clenching around my face as I suck her clit with intention, two fingers sliding inside her soaked cunt and curling just right. “Oh my god, you’re gonna make me—”
“That’s the fucking plan,” I growl into her, licking her mess like a man starved, fingers pounding as she rides my mouth like it’s a throne and I’m just her devoted fucking servant.
She jerks against me, writhing, trying to get away even as she begs for more. “Too much, fuck, too much—”
“Too bad,” I smirk, pulling back only long enough to say it. “You tease a man with black lace and shrimp, you earn this.”
And she fucking breaks on me, coming so hard her whole body goes taut, legs trembling, scream punched out of her lungs like she forgot how to breathe.
I don’t stop. I don’t even think about stopping.
I lap it all up like it’s holy and keep working her until she slaps weakly at my shoulder, laughing through gasps and curses.
“You’re insane,” she breathes, dazed.
“I’m yours,” I correct, standing, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “That’s worse.”
She grabs the lapels of my suit and yanks me down into a kiss that tastes like power and desperation and shrimp grease and fucking forever.
And then she pants into my mouth, eyes still glassy, “You better fuck me on this counter right now, Vanderbilt, or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”
I shove my slacks down and slam into her in one brutal, hungry thrust, and she screams my name like a war cry.
“Yeah?” I say, fucking her up like a mad man, shoving a hand on her blonde hair and yanking her, “What my pretty fiancée’s gonna do now, huh?”
She whines—needy, wrecked—and tries to answer but all that comes out is a gasp as I slam into her again, harder this time. Her hands scramble against the counter, nails digging into the marble like she needs something to anchor her while I pound her through it.
“I—I’m gonna—fuck, Alex!” she chokes, head falling back as I yank her hair tighter, baring that pretty throat I love to bite. “I’m gonna come, that’s what I’m gonna do, shit—shit—”
“Yeah, you are,” I growl into her ear, slapping her ass once, just to hear her moan. “Fucking dripping all over my dick like it’s your job. Wanna run your mouth, baby? Huh? Want me to fuck the brat outta you right here, where I eat breakfast?”
Her legs try to close, but I hook one around my waist and keep driving into her, cock thick and pulsing deep inside that wet heat that squeezes me like she owns me.
“Counter’s too fucking high,” I grunt, lifting her up like she weighs nothing. “So let’s try the floor.”
She yelps as I drop her down, flat on her back, thighs spread wide on the cold marble, her tits bouncing with each brutal thrust as I fuck her without mercy, sweat dripping down my spine.
“You gonna threaten me again, baby?” I snarl, thumb finding her clit. “You gonna dare me like that again?”
Her eyes roll back. “Fuck you, yes! Always—fuck, Alex—always gonna mouth off if you fuck me like this—!”
She’s gone. Legs locked around my back, arms flailing for something to grab, cunt pulsing so tight around me I see goddamn stars. Her orgasm hits like a fucking freight train, and I fuck her through it, chasing my own release as I growl into her throat:
“Say you’re mine.”
“Yours!” she screams, crying and smiling at once. “Yours, yours, fucking yours!”
I slam in one last time and shatter, spilling deep inside her with a snarl, hands clamped on her thighs, pulse wrecked.
We’re a mess. Sweaty. Slick. On a billionaire kitchen floor covered in couture lingerie and shrimp crumbs.
And she just grins up at me, smug as sin. “Congratulations on the crown, baby.”