Chapter 168
Vale Ex Patriarch
Month after month ,after month—I've sat here. Outside this small, faded corner store that reeks of diesel and cheap cigarettes.
At least the weather's getting warmer. The nights aren't as cruel anymore. I no longer wake to find frost biting at my fingers, only the dull ache of another morning I wish hadn't come.
A clink in the tin before me breaks my thoughts. A few bills, folded, drop in. I raise my head out of habit, mouth dry, to mumble some half-hearted form of thanks—
—and freeze.
Because standing over me is the demon who ruined my family.
The omega.
For a moment, my chest seizes up. I try to speak, to scream, to curse but no sound comes out. My throat is an empty, rusted pipe.
"My, my," he says smoothly, voice carrying that same lazy arrogance I remember. "Don't be so agitated. It's not good for you...at your age and all."
He crouches, his expensive shoes inches from my tin, his cologne cutting through the sour air of the street. I shuffle back instinctively, legs shaking, back pressing against the cold brick wall.
"What a nice little setup you have here," he continues, smiling faintly as he scans the ragged blanket, the chipped tin, the faded sign of the store behind me.
"I was curious why my husband had a gasstation on his payroll. Thought I'd come take a look. What a pleasantsurprise."
He squats until we're eye-level. His eyes glimmer evil, wicked, merciless things.
I try to form words, anything, but my lips only tremble.
"You look good, Grandfather," he says softly, almost kindly. "Time's been… generous."
Shame burns through me. Once, I stood at the top of the world. The Vale name commanded respect, fear, envy. The world bent for us. For me.
And now—this.
"I really shouldn't take much of your time," he says as he rises. "You've got a long day ahead of you… a long day of begging."
His smile sharpens into cruelty. Then—he kicks the tin.
Coins scatter, paper bills flutter like torn wings across the pavement.
"This," he says, voice low and venomous, "is for Jeremy. And for Zander's father."
The sound of his laughter lingers long after the sleek black car pulls away, its tires hissing on the hot asphalt.
For a moment, I just sit there. Then I crawl, slowly, painfully, gathering the coins one by one. My joints ache. My pride aches worse.
But if I don't, I won't eat today.
"Wow," a familiar, grating voice cuts in.
"That was Ivan Orlov, right? He's even more stunning in person."
I glance up. The store's co-owner, the prison warden one of those two useless brothers leans in the doorway, smirking.
"Seriously, gramps, what the fuck did you do to piss them off so bad?" he says, crouching just long enough to swipe a few of the scattered bills.
I don't answer. I've learned not to. He feeds on reactions like a parasite.
"Sweet," he whistles, holding up the notes. "These are hundreds."
He pockets them without shame and strolls back inside.
I stay there, on my knees, picking up the last few coins from the dirt.
***
Dorian
"Get me my lawyer."
I grit my teeth as the words leave my mouth, my patience already shredded.
This morning, I was on my way to my office. Coffee in hand, tie crisp, plans in motion. Then, out of nowhere—sirens, flashing lights, cold metal around my wrists. Arrested. Dragged through the streets like a criminal.
Now I'm here.
A holding cell that smells like sweat, disinfectant, and hopelessness. I've been sitting on this metal bench for hours. No explanations. No food. Just the steady ticking of a clock and the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.
Eventually, my lawyer arrives—sweating, nervous, phone in one hand and files in the other. He talks to people outside, whispers with officers, makes calls. I watch him through the bars like a prisoner watching their executioner prepare the blade.
By the time he finally walks back to me, I've had enough.
"What's the bail?" I demand, grabbing the bars, my voice low but sharp.
"And why the fuck am I in here and still fucking in here?"
It has to be a mistake. It has to be. Everything I've done has been by the book—mostly. I've stepped on toes, sure, but that's business. People get bitter when you win.
My lawyer looks at me, and the look alone makes my stomach twist. It's the kind of look you give someone right before you ruin their life.
"Bail's been denied," he says quietly.
For a moment, I think I misheard.
"Denied? On what grounds?"
He takes a breath, avoiding my eyes.
"An international arrest warrant was issued through the Omega Protection Council. You've been charged by… multiple complainants."
Multiple?
"How many?" I demand.
"Ten."
"Ten?" I bark out a bitter laugh. "That shouldn't even be enough to hold me, let alone—"
"One of them," he cuts in, "is married to a billionaire."
I go still. The color drains from my face. My throat feels tight, like someone's squeezing it shut.
No. No, no, no.
"Which one?" I ask, even though I already know.
He doesn't answer.
My pulse spikes. "Which. One."
He hesitates. "Ivan Orlov-Vale."
My knees nearly buckle. The sound of his name alone feels like a sentence.
I press my forehead to the bars. "What are the charges?"
He flips open a file, his voice grim.
"Sexual assault. Financial exploitation. Emotional abuse. Forced confinement. Attempted kidnapping. Defamation."
Each word lands heavier than the last. My hands tremble against the bars.
"This is bullshit," I whisper.
"How many years?" I ask.
He looks down. "Fifteen to twenty-five. Maybe more. I'll push for leniency, but…"
"But?"
"Zander Vale is backing the case."
I stare at him, the world blurring at the edges.
"And with the other victims stepping forward," my lawyer adds quietly, "they'll probably push for life."
Something inside me cracks. I sink to my knees, fingers curling around the cold concrete.
The cell suddenly feels smaller.