Chapter 49 49
The door closed softly behind him.
Alexander stood outside for a second longer than necessary, breathing in the night air like it could cool the fire burning in his chest. Then he reached into his pocket and made a call.
“Now,” he said quietly.
The line barely rang once before a voice answered. “On my way, sir.”
Within minutes, a black car rolled to a stop at the corner of the street—. The driver stepped out immediately, eyes sharp, posture alert.
“Sir,” he said, opening the door. “Do you need a doctor? You were inside longer than planned. The environment—”
“I’m fine,” Alexander cut in, his tone clipped.
Another man leaned forward from the backseat. “Any injuries? Elevated pulse? We can—”
“No,” he repeated, sharper this time, sliding into the car. “Take me home.”
The door shut.
As the car pulled away, Alexander leaned back, jaw tight, fists clenched so hard his knuckles whitened.
Blair’s face flashed in his mind.
Her blood.
Her eyes when he touched her.
And then—
him.
Lucas Brooks.
Alexander’s lips curled, teeth grinding together.
If I could see you right now, his thoughts hissed, I’d break your nose with one punch.
You left her bleeding. Alone. Pregnant.
And you dare breathe in the same city as her?
His fist slammed once against the leather seat before he could stop himself.
“I’ll make you pay,” he muttered under his breath, voice low . “Slowly.”
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror but said nothing.
The mansion was silent when Alexander arrived.
He shrugged out of his jacket as he walked down the hallway, loosening his collar, mind still tangled in Blair’s voice, her eyes, the way her blood had stained his thumb—
He pushed his bedroom door open.
And stopped.
Someone was sitting on his bed.
Legs crossed neatly. Silk dress. Perfect posture.
She looked up slowly, lips curved into a pout, eyes bright with expectation.
“Alex,” she said sweetly. “You left the party early.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened.
Of course.
The Garcia heiress—Valeria Garcia.
The woman every headline called the most desirable heiress in the Mediterranean. Daughter of shipping royalty. A strategic alliance wrapped in diamonds and yacht parties.
And a problem.
“How did you get in?” he asked flatly.
Valeria smiled wider, patting the bed beside her. “Your grandmother. She said I shouldn’t be kept waiting.”
Of course she did.
Alexander closed the door behind him calmly.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Valeria tilted her head, faux-innocent. “You missed the yacht party. People noticed.” She pouted again. “I noticed.”
He walked past her, loosening his watch, placing it carefully on the dresser like he needed control over something.
“I didn’t invite you,” he said.
She rose, heels silent on the floor, moving closer. “But we’re expected, Alex. Our families—”
“Our families aren’t in my bedroom,” he cut in, finally turning to face her.
Valeria faltered for half a second—then recovered, eyes softening. “You’ve been distant lately. Ever since you canceled the engagement talks.”
Alexander’s mind flashed, uninvited—
Blair.
Coffee-stained fingers.
A child asleep on his shoulder.
“I’m not in the mood,” he said coldly.
Valeria studied him, really studied him now. The tension in his shoulders. The violence barely restrained in his eyes.
“…You met her,” she said suddenly.
Silence dropped like a blade.
Alexander’s gaze snapped to hers.
Valeria’s lips curved, slow and knowing. “The woman you’ve been obsessed with for years. The ghost.”
His voice dropped dangerously low. “Be careful.”
She laughed softly. “So it’s true.” Her smile thinned. “All these years, and it wasn’t me. Was it?”
Alexander turned away.
“That’s your answer,” she said quietly.
She reached for her clutch, composure snapping back into place like armor. “Don’t worry, Alex. I won’t embarrass you.”
At the door, she paused. “But obsession like yours?” She glanced back. “It never ends well.”
The door closed behind her.
Alexander stood alone in the dim room, chest rising sharply as he dragged a hand through his hair.
Obsession.
He walked to the window, looking out into the night, fists clenching again.
You have no idea, he thought darkly.
Five years ago.
The thought tried to claw its way back in—
Blair’s body.
Another man’s hands.
Lucas Brooks.
“No,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his palm to the glass. I don’t want to know.
Because knowing would mean seeing it.
And seeing it would mean losing control.
A soft knock sounded.
“Come in,” he said, voice tight.
The door opened and his private detective stepped inside—mid-forties, sharp eyes, tablet already in hand.
“Sir,” he began, “I’ve gathered more information regarding that night five years ago—Valentine’s, Brooks—”
“Stop.”
The word cut through the room like a gunshot.
The detective froze.
Alexander turned slowly, his expression dark. “I told you not to go into detail.”
“Yes, but—”
“I said stop.” His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing at his temple. “I don’t need to hear how he touched her. Or what he did. Or how drunk he was.”
Silence swallowed the room.
The detective lowered his tablet slightly. “Sir… this information could be crucial.”
Alexander laughed once—.
“Crucial to what?” he asked coldly. “My sanity? Or my murder charge?”
He dragged a hand down his face, breathing hard. “I already know enough.”
The detective hesitated. “Then what would you like to know?”
Alexander’s eyes sharpened.
“Where he is now,” he said quietly. “And whether he remembers her.”
The detective swallowed. “Mr. Brooks is currently engaged. He shows no signs of recalling the woman from that night. Medical records suggest memory suppression due to trauma and substance abuse.”
Alexander closed his eyes briefly.
Good.
Bad.
Both.
“And Blair?” he asked, voice lower now.
The detective softened. “She’s lived quietly. No scandals. No attempts to contact Brooks. She’s… been protecting something.”
Alexander’s fists clenched.
“I know,” he said.
The detective cleared his throat. “Sir, one more thing—”
Alexander snapped his gaze to him. “I said stop.”
The detective nodded immediately. “Of course.”
As he turned to leave, Alexander spoke again, his voice calm but dangerous.
“If I ever decide to hear the details,” he said, “it won’t be to understand.”
The detective paused.
“It’ll be to destroy him.”
The door shut softly behind him.
Alexander remained standing in the dark, chest heaving.
Don’t remember, he told himself again.
Don’t imagine.
Because jealousy was already coiling inside him like a loaded gun.