He could have been normal, but he wasn’t. So rather than tell Rose he spent a small fortune on a resort that hadn’t seen life in half a century he sent a gift wrapped box to her doorstep with an address attached to the notecard and little else. It wasn’t a dress as she may have become accustomed to, nor flowers, chocolates, perfumes or any of the other thoughtful things a heinously wealthy man might send a woman he was infatuated with. 

Alexander sent a sledgehammer. 

He thought she’d appreciate that more, anyway. And then, as he had every day for the last week, he lit a cigarette at the crack of dawn, extracted himself from his bedsheets, and hot girl walked himself from one end of St. Vladimir’s to the other until the Ives’ grounds were a memory and his demolition tower of dreams eclipsed the pain he still felt knowing his mother had been in St. Asclepius for some time and would remain there for some time more. Perhaps because of him. He didn’t want to think like that though. He had to believe it was an accident.

And then, he waited. The beaches along Lower St. Vlad’s were always quiet; what vampire who couldn’t afford the ethereum liked to spend time in the sun? It was shit real estate, truth be told. And it was Sunday, so the construction crews were all gone. He stood alone against his castle in the sand.