111
Zander POV
I hate being here.
I would much rather be with my fiancé, tangled up somewhere warm—our space—not... here.
The car door clicks open, and I step out onto the stone drive of the Vale estate.
Gods, I hate this place.
It's like walking back in time—an old, cold world of shadows and sharp corners. The architecture is pristine—imposing columns, arched windows, wrought iron gates—but there's no warmth here. No life. Just a place preserved for legacy and image.
A shell.
The servants move quickly when they see me. A couple of them bow, murmuring greetings. I don't respond.
I walk the familiar path through the estate. Past portraits of Vales gone by, all of them staring down with cold eyes, dressed in old-world finery. The men—alphas, naturally—all cut from the same cloth: tall, stern, unyielding.
Not a trace of softness anywhere.
A bloodline of wolves in tailored suits.
Scratch that—snakes, actually.
I hate that I'm like them. That I share blood with them.
I reach the double doors of my grandfather's office and pause for half a breath before pushing them open.
He's there, of course.
Still alive. Unfortunately.
The old man is seated behind his massive oak desk, sunlight slanting through the tall windows, catching the silver in his hair. He looks up, eyes sharp and cold.
No smile.
There never is.
"Zander," he says. "You're late."
I resist the urge to sigh. I'm only five minutes past the appointed time. But in this house, five minutes might as well be five hours.
"I had business to attend to," I reply smoothly, crossing the room. My voice is neutral. Even. Controlled.
Anything but perfection in speech, posture, attire is unacceptable, learnt that the hard way.
My grandfather steeples his fingers, gaze tracking me like a hawk.
"For the company, I assume. Or has your attention drifted elsewhere again?"
I bite down the first answer that comes to mind. He means Ivan. Of course he does.
"I'm sure your spies have already told you—I am not distracted when it comes to work. I make no errors." I say it flat, sharp. Like I'd give them anything to blame on my fiancé? Quite the contrary—I work overtime just to clear days off for my sweet omega.
"Business is well in hand," I add. "The quarterly numbers speak for themselves."
He scoffs.
He looks at me—imposing as ever. But now that I really look at him, he's just an old man. Pushing seventy.
I can't believe I used to be afraid of him.
"How much more will you embarrass the Vale name?" he says, voice cold.
I just stare at him, blank.
"You know as well as I do—the Vales run things in secret. Silent power. And you—our heir—are in tabloids. Tabloids. First the nonsense about courting that omega, and now this?"
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"Stop this nonsense at once," he snaps, with finality.
"If by nonsense you mean marrying my fiancé... impossible," I reply coolly.
"You—"
"If you're so unhappy with everything," I cut in, "you can find another heir."
He clenches his jaw.
My father—his previous heir—ran away. He died, of course. And me being here? I was brought here against my will. He's held my father's life over my head for years.
Luckily for me, my constant paranoia has paid off—even now, after all this time, they've never found Jeremy.
"Exactly," I say simply. I turn to leave.
"Fine," he says sharply. "Bring him to dinner tomorrow. If you're so serious—introduce him."
I don't respond.
I walk out.