Zander's POV
I'm about to head out to work when I bump into Mrs. Jones—the woman who's been cleaning my penthouse for years now.
She's always been there, a quiet, constant presence in my life, moving about with a no-nonsense efficiency that made me respect her long before I knew anything about her personal life.
But a few months ago, during a casual conversation over coffee, she mentioned that she'd been happily married to her childhood sweetheart for over fifty years.
And now, for the first time in my life, I find myself desperate for advice.
I watch as she pulls on her cleaning gloves, preparing for the day's work, completely unaware of the internal crisis unraveling in my head.
I clear my throat. "Uhm."
She pauses, glancing at me with an arched brow, waiting. "Yes, Mr. Vale?"
I rub the back of my neck, exhaling slowly. This is so stupid. I could be calling my assistant, arranging a high-level meeting, making multimillion-dollar deals, but instead, I'm sitting here—trying to figure out how to woo a man without money.
It's humiliating.
But I don't care.
I motion for Mrs. Jones to sit beside me in the massive living room, and she hesitates, eyes flickering with suspicion before she carefully takes a seat.
"Am I being fired?" she asks, voice low, cautious.
"No, heavens no, Mrs. Jones," I say quickly, shaking my head.
She relaxes slightly but still watches me carefully.
"It's just that I remember you saying you've been married for over fifty years," I continue, feeling ridiculously awkward about the conversation.
But then—her face softens, and a slow, fond smile spreads across her lips.
"Fifty-three to be exact," she corrects gently, her eyes lighting up with something deep and warm, something I've never seen in my own parents' marriage. "It'll be our anniversary in three weeks."
Fifty-three years.
I can't even begin to comprehend that kind of love.
"Well…" I shift uncomfortably, rubbing my fingers together. "From what I can see, you weren't exactly… financially stable, so how did you go out on dates?"
Mrs. Jones narrows her eyes at me, suspicion returning full force.
"Are you calling me poor, Mr. Vale?"
I panic.
"Ha! Ha! No! That's not—!" I start, shifting nervously under her scrutiny.
Then she lets out a deep, throaty chuckle, shaking her head.
"Relax, son. We were dirt poor."
Her laughter is warm, unbothered, as if those years weren't hardships, just memories.
"Where is this coming from?" she finally asks, pulling off one glove and crossing her arms.
I exhale sharply. "It's the omega I fancy."
And just like that, she understands.
I explain the situation—the ridiculous challenge Ivan has given me, his demand that I win him over without my money, my utter lack of experience in romance that doesn't involve extravagant displays of wealth.
Mrs. Jones listens carefully, her expression unreadable.
Then, finally, she shakes her head, chuckling to herself.
"I think what your Omega wants is something priceless—something money can't buy."
I open my mouth to argue—everything can be bought—but she holds up a hand, stopping me.
"Let me put it this way," she continues, leaning forward slightly. "Would you prefer a fancy restaurant dinner or a clumsy attempt made by your Omega?"
The answer is immediate, without hesitation.
"His food."
She raises an eyebrow. "Even if it's too salty? Or burnt?"
I laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah."
"Why?" she presses.
I pause, thinking.
"Because… it would mean he took time out of his day to do something for me."
Mrs. Jones smiles knowingly.
"Exactly."
And I get it.
For the first time, I really get it.
She sighs, shifting slightly in her seat. "You see, there's a difference between effort and just swiping your card to make something happen. Effort means something."
I sit there, digesting her words, feeling foolish for not realizing it sooner.
Because I had indeed been planning on swiping my card. Renting out an amusement park, planning a surprise trip to a secluded villa, hiring a live orchestra to play under Ivan's balcony like a goddamn fairytale.
And now?
Now, I realize that's not what he wants.
He wants me.
Not my money. Not my power. Me.
"Let me tell you a story," Mrs. Jones starts, her voice softer now, carrying the weight of nostalgia.
"Paul—my husband—lived miles away from me. And every day, he'd walk that distance just to escort me home, even when he didn't have to. One time, he brought me a bouquet of wildflowers he'd picked along the way—"she chuckles, shaking her head—"and ended up in the ER because he was allergic."*
I blink.
"He was allergic to the flowers he picked for you?"
"Oh, terribly," she laughs, eyes crinkling at the memory. "Face swelled up like a balloon. And another time, he tried baking me a cake for my birthday—burnt the whole damn thing. Our kitchen smelled like smoke for weeks."
I listen—and for the first time in my life, I envy something that money could never buy.
Love built on moments, not on grand gestures.
Love that thrived in its imperfections.
Because in my world, relationships have always been transactions.
From my parents to my grandparents, every marriage in my family has been a business arrangement. I guess subconsciously I thought of my relationship to be that way.
There is no love there, no affection beyond what is necessary for appearances.
And now, here I am, finally realizing that what I want—what I have always wanted—is the one thing I've never had.
Something real.
*
I head to work, Mrs. Jones's words echoing in my mind, her stories unraveling my entire perception of what romance should be.
I think about Ivan.
I think about how I've always tried to win him over with extravagance, because that's all I've ever known.
I think about what he's asking of me.
Not gifts.
Not money.
But time. Effort. Thought.
And for the first time in my life, I feel completely out of my depth.
Because how do you woo someone with nothing but yourself, when you've never been enough on your own before? I've always been Zander Vale, since time immemorial how can I just be Zander? Do I even know who just Zander is.
I don't know.
But I damn well intend to find out.