The Heir And The Servent Started From A Bet novel Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Breakfast at the Blackwell household was always torture, but Alex endured it. For his mother. For his brother. For reasons he didn’t even understand himself anymore.

Alex sat quietly, forcing himself to eat the eggs and toast on his plate. His father’s booming voice echoed through the dining room as he shouted at someone on the phone, the tension already thick before the day had even started.

When Charles Blackwell finally ended the call, he walked over to his seat, the air around him commanding as usual. His gaze immediately zeroed in on Alex’s cheek.

The bruise stood out, purple and angry against his skin.

Alex felt his father’s eyes on him before the man even said a word.

Charles took his seat, his expression hardening. “What happened to your face?”

Alex didn’t look up, didn’t stop cutting his food. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” his father repeated, his tone sharp. “Hope you won.”

Alex hummed in response, a vague sound that wasn’t a yes or a no. He didn’t care to give his father the satisfaction of a real

answer.

In truth, Alex had fought the night before. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He let the guy hit him a few times-enough to feel the sting of pain, to feel something. Anything other than the fucking guilt eating at him.

It was fucking making him frustrated, he didn’t know how to handle it, how to act.

It was eating at him, clawing at his chest like a feral beast.

He didn’t do guilt. Alex Blackwell didn’t do guilt.

Yet it was tearing him apart, all because of a stupid girl with teary eyes and a trembling voice. A fucking Turner.

Why did it bother him so much? Why couldn’t he shake the image of her running out of the lounge, humiliated and heartbroken?

He didn’t owe her anything. She knew what she was getting into. He shouldn’t care.

But he did.

And it was driving him insane.

He’s losing his fucking mind.

He sighs when he still feels his father’s gaze on him

Charles wasn’t the type to let things slide. To him, a bruise without a win was a sign of weakness, a blemish on the Blackwell name, Alex could feel his father’s judgment without even looking at him.

He remembers when he was fifteen and he had lost a fight. His father had given him a punch so hard he had collapsed.

For a moment, the table was quiet, the tension almost suffocating. Then, as if on cue, Charles shifted gears.

“Your mother told me Julian needs a wife,” he said, cutting into his steak.

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in his chair, looking like he wanted to disappear.

“So?” Alex said, his voice neutral.

Charles set his fork down, meeting Alex’s gaze. “You think it’s a good idea?”

Alex’s eyes plate.

flicked back to his mother, who gave him the smallest nod of encouragement. He sighed, looking down at his

Julian didn’t need a wife. He needed rehab, therapy, and a way out of the shadow their father had cast over him.

“Maybe,” Alex said finally, his voice flat. He wasn’t about to start a fight over it. Not now.

His phone buzzed on the table, drawing his attention. It was a message from a house agent.

Alex had been looking for his own place-a space that was entirely his, bought with his own money. He needed out of this house, out of the constant power plays and expectations.

He knows he couldn’t escape his father and certainly can’t leave his mother and brother, but still he needs a place he can always escape to, a place not owned by his Father.

He wanted to text back about checking it out today, maybe he can check it out later. He has nothing to do at the office today.

But before he could think too much about it, Charles’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I think you should get married first.”

Alex froze, his hand hovering over his phone.

“What?”

Charles leaned back in his chair, his tone casual but firm. “You and Zoe. I think it’s about time you both settled down.”

Alex stared at his father, his mind racing. Was this a joke?

“I’m not ready,” he said, his voice steady.

“Doesn’t matter,” Charles replied. “I think it’s time.”

Alex let out a dry laugh, his lips curling into a smirk. He set his knife and fork down, leaning back in his chair as he locked eyes with his father.

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