Vale family name

Zander's POV

The dining hall of the Vale estate is as ornate as ever, a grand display of power and wealth, meant to remind everyone present of their place in the family hierarchy. The ceilings stretch impossibly high, adorned with chandeliers dripping in crystal, casting a golden glow over the long mahogany table that seems to extend for miles. Every polished surface gleams, reflecting the candlelight from the extravagant candelabras placed at precise intervals down the center.

The staff move in perfect synchronization, gliding across the floor in crisp black-and-white uniforms, serving each course with mechanical precision. The scent of expensive wine, seared meats, and truffle-laced dishes fills the air, but I hardly pay attention.

The food might be Michelin-starred, but everything here is cold—from the expressions of the people sitting around me to the artificial pleasantries exchanged between forkfuls of overpriced delicacies.

I miss Ivan.

The thought has been looping in my mind all evening, whispering in the back of my head as I sit through yet another so-called family dinner, trapped in a room full of distant relatives who barely carry a drop of Vale blood in their veins.

They cling to the prestige of our name, basking in wealth they didn't earn, in power they didn't fight for.

They're all dressed in impeccably tailored suits and designer dresses, wearing smiles that are as sharp as knives. But behind those polished exteriors, I see the truth.

Greed. Jealousy. Envy.

I've been accustomed to these gazes since my teens, since the day my grandfather named me heir.

It's exhausting.

Not because they pose any real threat to my position, but because I can feel their hunger, their desperation. They cling to the prestige of the Vale name, as if it is their birthright rather than an inherited privilege.

And yet, I have never wanted it.

Not the power.

Not the responsibility.

Not the endless cycle of expectations and duty.

The irony of it all makes me want to laugh.

I swirl the wine in my glass, staring at the dark red liquid, my thoughts drifting somewhere else—somewhere better.

To Ivan.

To his laughter, the way it bubbled out so effortlessly when he saw my sad excuse of an octopus.To his hands, warm and firm, guiding mine over the clay.

To the way he looked at me, teasing but affectionate, making my chest feel too tight in a way that was both irritating and intoxicating.

My fingers twitch, resisting the urge to pull out my phone and text him. Would he even respond?

I don't get the chance to decide.

"Zander."

I don't immediately react, taking a slow sip of wine before I glance up, meeting the sharp, calculating eyes of my grandfather.

He motions for me to follow him, and though I internally sigh, I push back my chair and oblige.

The hallways of the Vale estate are vast, lined with towering bookshelves, elaborate oil paintings, and centuries-old artifacts that serve no real purpose beyond reminding everyone just how long our bloodline has ruled over the business world.

As I walk beside my grandfather, I feel the weight of countless eyes on me, lingering in the shadows of the hall.

I meet their gazes briefly—some filled with disdain, others with thinly veiled ambition.

It's amusing.

"I've been seeing you in the tabloids," my grandfather says suddenly, his tone carefully neutral.

I roll my eyes internally but keep my face expressionless.

Here we go again.

"As a Vale, do you know how embarrassing it is to see your name in gossip magazines?"

I have heard this speech for years, ingrained into me from childhood, drilled into my skull with the same repetitive lectures about legacy, responsibility, and discipline.

I have never cared.

"You are even old enough to—" he begins, but I cut him off sharply before he can finish.

"Stop right there."

I finally turn to face him, my gaze cold and unwavering.

"The deal was that you don't meddle in my personal life."

My voice is measured, but there is an edge to it, sharp enough to warn him.

His eyes narrow slightly, calculating, as if debating whether to push further.

Then, after a long pause, he speaks again, his voice lower, but filled with unmistakable disgust.

"Don't tell me you want to marry him."

His tone alone is enough to send a spark of fury through me.

It takes everything in me to keep my expression composed, to not react emotionally the way he wants me to.

I exhale slowly, steadying myself before responding.

"I am my father's son, after all."

The words are deliberate, landing between us like a well-placed strike.

I see the flicker of displeasure in his expression, the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch at his sides.

Good.

"If you don't like it, feel free to take away the crown."

I turn on my heel and walk away, not waiting for a response.

If he has a problem with my love life, he can deal with it himself.

I refuse to justify something that is none of his concern.

As I exit the hall, I finally pull out my phone, hesitating for just a moment before typing a message.

>"Are you awake?"

Sent.

I don't know if Ivan will answer.

But I hope he does.