Ivy's POV. Fourteen days. That's how long it took me to pour my soul into a lie. After delving old art archives from the 1700s I found some pretty wild 'facts' about the painting. I took what I needed, ignored the rest, and made a replica that turned out… impressive, it's almost as convincing as the truth itself. Valtor is behind me grinning like a mischievous imp, clearly thrilled. “Ivy, Ivy, Ivy… you sneaky thing!” I feign modesty, giving him a slight curtsy. “It was a privilege to work on such a masterpiece, Sir Now, if you'll excuse me… I must prepare for our esteemed guest's arrival." “Of course, of course. Mr. Logan will be here soon. Make sure you look the part. We must give him the impression that he’s dealing with a true connoisseur of art." He gives me a casual nod before heading out. “Just be your charming self, Ivy. And, you know, maybe don't mention the whole 'forgery' thing!” My lips twitch in a manic grin, “sure thing Mr. Valtor... I live to serve.” The
Ivy's POV “Oh, Ms McCarthy, you're as transparent as a ghost in a haunted house. I'll give you a choice: either you come clean, or we play a game of 'Art Detective.' And trust me, I always get my man… or painting.” “I-I don’t know what to tell you, Valtor. I swear on my life that the painting is gone. Stolen or lost, I couldn’t say, but I’m as much in the dark as you are.” I'm forcing my voice to stay even, but my heart's racing. The door behind Valtor is locked tighter than a bank vault on Christmas Eve, and he’s got the key on him. Surely, I underestimated the situation, and I'm giving myself a solid 10/10 for sheer stupidity. Valtor's eyes narrow, his expression turning predatory. “You're playing with fire here, and I’m not afraid to burn. You know I've got more tricks up my sleeve than a magician with a gambling addiction. So, if you want to walk out of here with your skin intact, you better start singing like a canary.” He saunters over to the window, his gaze scanning t
Brielle's POV. Coffee is brewing, laughter is flowing, and our morning mayhem has officially begun – we're chatting, chuckling, and generally making the most of our time together over coffee. Dad's back from his humanitarian aid trip to Africa, and we're scrambling to catch up, to rediscover our family rhythm after months apart. I lean back in my chair, my eyes drifting to his feet as he stretches out his legs. The flip-flops look out of place in our cozy suburban home. They're like a dead giveaway that he's been soaking up the African sun. Paired with his brown shorts – the perfect blend of practicality and vacation vibe – he looks like a completely different person. Gone is the suburban office drone, replaced by a chilled-out, sun-kissed humanitarian with a heart of gold. “Africa's a pretty wild detour from your usual routine of hitting up the grocery store. How’d you like it?” I ask. Dad chuckles, a grin spreading across his face like a sunrise. “Wild doesn’t even begin
Brielle's POV. Gazing at the mirror… Wow. … I'm a walking, breathing embodiment of corporate style. My pencil skirt is a streamlined, black number highlights my curves without being… overly revealing. My stilettos are a three-inch pointed toe box with a glossy finish a red sole that adds a pop of color to my outfit. I look like I just stepped out of a magazine ad for 'Successful Women Who Don’t Need No Man.' From the outside, I’m polished, professional, and put-together. But on the inside, I’m a total dumpster fire disguised as a grown-ass woman. I’m like a fancy chocolate truffle—shiny and sweet on the outside, but a melty, gooey mess on the inside. “And the award for ‘Most Uncomfortable Signing Session’ goes to…me, Brielle!” I whisper, trying to lighten the mood. “Let’s just hope the divorce papers aren’t written in blood—that would be a real b*tch to clean up.” I adjust my blouse, smoothing out any wrinkles, as if that’s going to make this whole ordeal any easier. Da
Brielle's POV We roll up to the Carter Estate in that sleek, silent machine of a car, and my nerves start going haywire like a bunch of ants at a picnic. Why am I this freaking nervous? It's not like I'm about to meet the Queen of England. I've handled tougher audiences – like my aunt Mildred's grilling at Thanksgiving dinner or that infamous TV conference where I accidentally swore and cursed at the journalists, including Eva Adams. Our press conference three days ago was a carefully choreographed dance, where I aimed to humanize Andrei Carter, all while preparing for the possibility that he'd announce our divorce on live TV. I couldn't help but think: This is it. This is how I die. Not from a broken heart, but from embarrassment, however, The elephant in the room remained unaddressed even though the news had already spread like wildfire. The car rolls to a stop, the sudden stillness jolting me out of my thoughts. Marcus, moves to open the door, which I take as my cue to vacat
Brielle's POV Mr. Weston, the picture of professional unease, twitches in his chair “Mr. Carter, are you sure—” “Affirmative. Revise the agreement to reflect a payout of $100 Million, effective immediately.” Suddenly, it's like time stands still. All I can hear is my ragged breathing and Mr Weston's faint intake of breath. He looks taken aback, his eyes darting uncertainly between me and Andrei. Andrei's eyes narrow slightly, his gaze intensifying as he studies me. He looks fascinated, like a scientist examining a rare specimen. “Is that what you want?” he echoes, his tone playful, almost teasing. The scoff that escapes my lips is half contempt, half exasperation. “What I want?” I repeat, my voice steelier now, “I want you to stop treating me like some sort of business venture. I’m not an employee, I’m not a shareholder, and I sure as hell am not a transaction.” Andrei's head jerks in a curt nod. Mr. Weston needs no further explanation; he scoops up his papers, rising sm
Brielle's POV I'm looking at Andrei hunting for that signature spark of trouble that ignites his eyes, ready to unleash a torrent of teasing and laughter at my expense. There’s no playfulness in his voice, no trace of that smirking smile that usually hides whatever he’s feeling. “Brielle, I've spent years negotiating contracts, but none as important as this. Will you be my wife, not just on paper, but in every way? My heart races as the truth hits me: this is real – Andrei's proposing.” “Yes,” the word just slips out, a whisper that's almost lost in the silence… I'm not even sure I said it out loud. “Yes,” I repeat, my voice stronger now, surer. “Yes, Andrei, I’ll marry you. For a fleeting instant, he's a kid on Christmas morning, beaming with excitement….it's not quite steady. His jaw muscles twitch, slightly. “We'll pretend to be apart, to make them think we've gone our separate ways. It's the only way to keep you protected, to keep them guessing and off our trail. We'l
Brielle's POV A limp noodle, a happy mess… Post-coital bliss has turned me into a lazy, love struck lump. I think I might be smiling… no, scratch that, I'm definitely smiling… on the inside and out… it's a smile that says, I'm happy, I'm sated, and I'm not moving from this spot for at least an hour. “Lost in thought, Ms. Monroe?” Andrei smirks, that devilish glint in his eye making my heart skip a beat. “What's on your mind?” I look at him, with his tousled, ‘I-just-got-laid’ hair and that perfectly imperfect smile, I can’t help but smile back. “Just thinking about how ridiculously perfect you are, even when you’re a complete mess.” “Oh, is that all? Well, if it’s perfection you’re looking for, you’ve definitely come to the right place.” I roll my eyes, shaking my head with a grin. “You’re unbelievable.” With a soft sigh, he turns to his side, his chest bare and rippling with muscle. My gaze drifts over his smooth, perfect skin, and I feel a flutter in my chest. I clutch the
Brielle's POV Final chapter. “Fine,” Jeremy voice cracks with restraint, the single word drawn out in a reluctant admission. I'm low-key freaking out, my heart racing with anticipation. He's just about confessing. “I'm the one who orchestrated the whole thing. I snatched Brielle's parents right from under their noses, ripping them from their picture-perfect lives. i'd kidnapped her, held her captive against her will, and drained your bank accounts. But here's the kicker, Andrei… you're too little, too late. The police are already en route, and they're coming for you, not me.” I take a deep breath, my eyes burning with determination. “No way, Jeremy. I won't let you pin Jamie's murder on Andrei. He's innocent." He narrows his gaze at me, “You know, for a hostage, you're awfully opinionated.” I sneak a peek at Andrei, and his 'I've got this' expression makes me feel like everything's gonna be okay. I mean, Jeremy's still being his usual, awful self, but with Andrei's ca
Brielle's POV “Just trying to appreciate the finer things in life, Andrei. Like that fine-ass butt.” I admit feeling my face heat up. He chuckles, clearly enjoying my unabashed admiration, “that's… Probably the most creative compliment I ever heard and the way yours fills out that robe is criminal, Brielle.” I suppress the urge to turn around. This mutual butt appreciation is getting ridiculous – or ridiculously entertaining. He scans the room, gathering his belongings. Meanwhile, I stand there, a robe-clad without any to change into or not to talk of clothings to put in a box and yesterday's clothes that are so last season — literally. Just when the silence is about to get deafening, Andrei breaks it with a casual suggestion, “you should shower first.” My mind whirs. I’m thinking, Geez, how do I break this news to him without making it super awkward?” The last thing I want is to be standing there, naked, with no clothes to put on, while he just stares at me like I’ve gon
Brielle's POV I'm deliciously spent, my senses sated. Andrei executes a brief, yet vital, wardrobe adjustment, then turns around, patting his back invitingly, “Okay, up you go.” They say “there’s a first time for everything”, and today I’m getting my inaugural piggyback ride—. Courtesy of Andrei. With the grace of a seal gliding onto an iceberg, I slide my bare rear off the table, leaving behind only a warm imprint of my departure. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight as he firmly grasps my thighs, lifting me up. With his support, I hop onto his back. “Comfortable?” He asks. “Mhm, perfect.” Our journey begins with a trio of solid thuds, Andrei’s feet hitting the floorboards of the pavilion as he descends. The night air is refreshingly still and quiet… except for the sound of my nervous laughter and Andrei's steady breathing as he navigates the stairs. His usually steady gait falters, his foot catching on some unseen obstacle, and my weight threatens to send him
Brielle's POV He leans in again, His mouth hovering over my breast, “How many white lies have you told?” “One.” He pulls back, “Think again.” I knit my brow trying to focus, to pull my scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. It's a futile effort. I'm still drowning in waves of pure ecstasy. Andrei's lips close around my nipple, and I moan at the sudden sensation. He releases all too soon, again. “Two lies, baby” he purrs. “The first, when you said you never fucked yourself.” His words ignite a thrill that courses through my body, culminating in a sweet ache between my legs. “And the second when you denied ever having fantasies. Now, are you ready to confess them to me… and be rewarded?” His grip on my hand slackens, freeing my fingers to roam. He’s upon me, his mouth latching onto my nipple. Sensation overwhelm my ability to think as His tongue swirls and dances, only to pull back again, letting my nipple pop out of his mouth with a wet plop. I writhe be
Brielle's POV “I'd taken his crap before, no problem. He'd kick my ass, I'd take it. But watch him hurt a three-year-old?” That chuckle, that creepy-ass chuckle, is making my hair stand on end. Andrei's got a lot to say, needs to stop drowning in that drink and talk it out with me. Perhaps if we can get to the root of whatever’s got him so twisted, we can cut it out, get him right again. I screw up my courage, trying to keep my voice from cracking as I ask, “What happened next?” “I lost it. Charged at him and slammed him to the ground. I had him in a tight chokehold, crushing the air out of him. His face turned purple, eyes popping… Killing Archibald wasn't the plan. Just wanted to put the fear of God into him… In a wild twist, he managed to grab a blade and… Carved himself a nasty gash.” Andrei scrapes his thumb along the side of his neck, “This is where he sliced himself. Fucker cried assault. Tried to put me away for attempted murder.” “And Helen?” “Was locked up a
Brielle's POV He gives my earlobe a sneaky little nibble. Damn, if that doesn't stir up something inside me, “Why rush when the journey is half the fun, hmm? We've got lines to run, not lips to lock.” So glad Andrei's here to suck the fun out of… everything. What would I do without him? I'm two seconds away from giving him a good shove, just to knock him off his game. “What?” he asks, that infuriatingly smug smirk still slapped across his face. I purse my lips, cross my arms, “You're really asking 'what'? Like you don't know exactly what you're doing?” Andrei whips out a sheaf of papers from his back pocket, "Shall we begin?” I narrow my eyes, “You expect me to jump right into this after all your little games?” He chuckles, shrugging one shoulder in a charmingly nonchalant gesture. “It's all part of the rehearsal.” “Part of the rehearsal, huh?” I retort, “So that little earlobe nibbling number was in the script? I must have missed that memo.” He laughs," I figure
Brielle's POV My heart stutters, “What?” I try to speak. The words wouldn't come out. Not one single word is showing up to the party. Wearing a sidelong smirk, Andrei jerks his head towards the elevator, “she's been tapping her foot impatiently. Shall we give the poor thing some attention?” Nodding, I swallow my regret. Why didn't I just say something? “I'm intrigued, Brielle. This demure side of you is… unexpected.” He plunders the guest room closet, digging through piles of high-quality linens, designer clothes, and expensive accessories. it's basically a carbon copy of his own — super luxurious. I stand back, curious about what Andrei's searching for. My nerves are still on edge, which is… ridiculous. “Guess, I'll coax them out of you. Every last one.” My curiosity spikes, “How?” “All in good time. Shall we get you into something a bit more… refined?” The robe he hands me is a stunner — bold red, V-neck, and flowing long sleeves, all accented perfectly with
Brielle's POV. Drying soap bubbles speckle Andrei's hands as he meets my eyes, “What's so fascinating?” “It's your charm, Mr. Carter, that's got me in a stare.” His mouth curves into a sly, upward tilt, “You're not so bad yourself. Maybe we can stare at each other for a while and see who cracks first.” Deep down, I'm thinking, 'Seriously, Mr. Carter? Are you not seeing this ensemble?' Perhaps he's just trying to be kind? Yeah, that must be it. After completing the dishes, Andrei takes a moment to dry his hands before wandering over to where I'm sitting, his pace leisurely. I stare at his bare feet, my brain momentarily fixated on the sight. “Why no shoes, Mr. Carter?” “Walking barefoot is like a yoga practice. Builds up the balance, strengthens the soles, and gets you in touch with Mother Earth.” I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. How much of that is actually true, I wonder? He reaches out and takes my hand, pulling me gently into his orbit. And suddenly, my focus shifts from An
Brielle's POV. Andrei’s sweatpants could have fit two of me—and the kitchen sink. He’s a big guy, but these pants were made for a grizzly bear on a beer bender. If I didn’t cinch the drawstrings tight enough, I’d be wading in a sea of fabric, wearing a tent masquerading as sweatpants. I’m halfway through adjusting my shirt when I catch a glimpse of my him in the kitchen. Oh, dear lord. The man might as well be wearing oven mitts for hands. I reach for a bottle of water, partly because I’m parched, and partly to cover up the fit of giggles that’s about to erupt from my lungs “You okay, chef?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face as I watch him fumble with the spatula. “Yeah, sure Brielle.” He scratches his forehead, and I can practically see the sweat beading up. Poor baby's never looked so stressed. “Sure you've totally got this, Andrei?” I survey the chaos, raising an eyebrow at the egg-astrophe. The shells are scattered everywhere and there's a bowl of what appears to be e