Chapter 108
Alaric’s grip on Galatea’s wrist tightened as he glared down at her, his voice low and dangerous. “Good for you, Galatea,” he said, every word dripping with venom. “Let me make something clear: whether this relationship ends or not, it’s up to me. If you think you can just walk away, you’re wrong. Either you’ll never marry anyone else, or you’ll marry me. I don’t care if you hate me—I just want you to remember me.”
The audacity of her—this woman who had once been so submissive—now daring to throw everything away… Alaric could feel a surge of anger and jealousy rising in him. This wasn’t about just her anymore. This was about him being the one to control the situation, to have the last word.
He glanced at her, expecting to see some reaction, but all he got was the cold, steely resolve in her eyes. She had money, and she had the courage to end things with him. It infuriated him further. Was this because Ambrose had returned? As long as Ambrose was alive, Alaric knew, the only person Galatea would marry could be him. Not Ambrose.
Galatea, equally furious, shook off his hand with a force that surprised him. She turned and stormed toward the stairwell, clearly done with him. Alaric stood rooted to the spot for a moment, his chest heaving with anger.
But his fury wasn’t solely directed at Galatea. He was angrier at himself for letting things spiral out of control, for losing his grip on a situation he’d always thought he had the upper hand in. His fist came crashing into the wall beside him, the impact sharp and painful. Blood trickled down from the knuckles where his skin had split.
He returned to the company lounge later that night, the room dark and silent. Galatea’s room remained untouched, and Alaric couldn’t help but wonder if she had even thought of him as she fell asleep, probably without the anxiety he was suffering from.
Restlessness gnawed at him, and in a rare moment of weakness, he took out sleeping pills from his desk drawer. Three pills left. Without thinking twice, he swallowed all three in one go, but they did nothing to ease the insomnia that clung to him. Despite the pills, sleep eluded him.
The next day, Alaric dragged himself out of bed, feeling the physical toll of the past few sleepless days. His body was a wreck—tired, irritable, and headaching. He went into the office early, trying to push through the exhaustion, but his thoughts kept wandering, his mind clouded with dizziness. His concentration faltered as he tried to go through paperwork.
“Mr. Alaric, Ambrose is here,” one of his assistants announced.
Ambrose. The very name made Alaric’s stomach churn. He couldn’t hide the exhaustion that weighed on him, but he straightened himself out. His competitive streak kicked in. He couldn’t let Ambrose see any sign of weakness.
“Let him in,” Alaric ordered, his voice rough.
Ambrose entered with his usual calm demeanor, handing over a stack of documents while greeting Alaric. “Good morning, Mr. Alaric. This is the project progress report and quality inspection for the construction materials. Please have a look.”
Alaric barely glanced at the documents, but when he did, he couldn’t help but notice the flawless execution. Ambrose had done an impeccable job with the project, and the construction site looked pristine. Alaric begrudgingly acknowledged the effort.
“Very good,” Alaric said, tossing the documents aside. “I heard people say that CEO Ambrose personally does the labor. I’m surprised.”
Ambrose smiled lightly, his gaze shifting downward. “My job is to build the entertainment city for you, Mr. Alaric. Since I’m there every day, I might as well do some physical work. It’s good exercise.”
Alaric studied him for a moment, not bothering to hide the skepticism in his gaze. Why would someone like Ambrose—so polished, so refined—bother with physical labor?
“CEO Ambrose,” Alaric continued, “I’ve heard that your older brother controls Far East International now, and Todd Vale is not exactly someone to admire. For you to hold your position there under his thumb, you must have a hell of a strategy.”
Ambrose’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. But then, he remained composed, his tone calm. “Nothing escapes Mr. Alaric’s notice. Yes, my relationship with my older brother isn’t ideal. But he’s still my older brother, and my superior at work. I respect him privately and follow his orders publicly. He’s demanding, so I’ve had to work harder to meet his expectations.”
Ambrose’s words rang with an almost perfect sense of dutifulness, but Alaric could see through it. He’d been around ambitious people long enough to recognize the strain behind the mask of professionalism.
The fact that Ambrose had perfected this entertainment city project only added to his mystique—and his dangerous allure. Alaric, however, couldn’t shake off the thought: this was exactly the kind of man Galatea had once been drawn to. Ambrose was everything Alaric wasn’t: mature, refined, and responsible. Galatea had respected that.
But now, the man she had once loved had abandoned her for his career—and even now, he was too afraid to acknowledge her. What had happened to that version of him?
“Mr. Alaric?” Ambrose’s voice snapped Alaric out of his thoughts.
“Hmm?” Alaric blinked, focusing back on the present.
“I heard you have a very handsome son. I’ve never had the chance to meet him, so I bought him a small gift. I hope he’ll like it.” Ambrose set a carefully wrapped gift on Alaric’s desk, then got up to leave. “I won’t disturb you any longer, Mr. Alaric. Take your time.”
Ambrose left as quickly as he’d come. Alaric looked at the gift—expensive, no doubt. He could feel his irritation boiling. Without a second thought, he tossed it into the trash.
The dizziness Alaric had been battling worsened. He rose from his desk, swaying slightly, and had to steady himself on the desk. The sensation of vertigo was becoming too much, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse.
“Mr. Alaric?” Silas rushed in, his concern evident as he saw Alaric struggling. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine,” Alaric grumbled, pushing Silas’s hand away, though he still felt lightheaded. “Just a little dizzy. Nothing to worry about.”
“You’ve been overworking yourself, Mr. Alaric,” Silas said. “You haven’t rested in days. You should go home and take a break.”
Alaric rubbed his temples, the pain throbbing behind his eyes. He had no energy to argue. “Fine. I’ll go home. But if anything urgent comes up, call me.”
Silas quickly arranged for a car to take him home. Alaric leaned back in the seat, too tired to even think about anything other than sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his son, Caspian.
“Master,” the servants greeted him respectfully when he arrived at the mansion.
“I’m not to be disturbed,” Alaric instructed before making his way up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister.
When he reached his bedroom, he collapsed onto the bed, feeling utterly drained. He closed his eyes, but no matter how exhausted he was, sleep wouldn’t come. His mind wandered back to Galatea. Damn her.
Hours later, Alaric finally stirred. The sound of Caspian’s voice filled the air. He opened his eyes to see his son standing at the door, a look of concern on his young face.
“Daddy?” Caspian asked, his tone light but tinged with worry. “You finally remember you have a son? How long has it been since you came back?”
Alaric’s heart clenched as he looked at his son, guilt washing over him. “I’m really sorry, Caspian,” he apologized, his voice barely above a whisper.
But Caspian wasn’t done. “Daddy, you look terrible. Are you feeling unwell?” His concern was palpable, and for a moment, Alaric felt the weight of his exhaustion and guilt.
He had neglected his son—again.