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Chapter Forty-Three

last update Last Updated: 2025-03-31 21:06:05

š€š«šžš­š”šš

The morning goes by quickly, and before I know it, it's time for my lunch break.

Craving a much-needed breath of fresh air away from all the expectant stares and thinly-veiled bootlicking I have already started receiving from some of the employees amidst walking around the vast building as well as all the names and executive positions I'd have to remember, I decide to head somewhere a bit distant from GemsThorne.

My personal driver drops me off at the restaurant my personal assistant, Winifred, had recommended earlier—Ristorante Celeste, a quiet, upscale Mediterranean restaurant nestled in the heart of corporate London. The restaurant exudes an effortless blend of elegance and warmth, with soft golden lighting, terracotta walls adorned with delicate mosaic patterns, and large arched windows that let in streams of natural light. The air carries the tantalizing aroma of olive oil, fresh herbs, and slow-simmered sauces, promising a dining experience that is both refined and
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  • Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Forty-Four

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  • Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Six

    š€š«šžš­š”ššBy the time we arrive, the estate looks like something out of an oil painting—ornate gates, lush grounds, cobblestone paths winding toward a home that could easily double as a museum. The sky has softened into a lazy afternoon haze, and I still haven’t fully shaken the image of that gun pointed at our driver. But Cameron and I are both dressed in our game faces now, and like good little liars, we smile.A housekeeper ushers us into a sitting room where the matriarch waits.She’s nothing like I expected.Older, yes, with the kind of face carved by time and quiet power, but there’s nothing soft about her. Her posture is steel, her eyes sharp behind thin, gold-rimmed glasses. She wears a high-necked black dress and sits with the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re the one being examined.ā€œMr. Lancaster,ā€ she says to Cameron, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. ā€œAnd Missā€¦ā€ā€œHawthorne,ā€ I offer with a polite smile, extending my hand. She doesn’t take it. She j

  • Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Five

    š€š«šžš­š”ššThe door slams shut behind him.Cameron is gone.And I’m frozen.My pulse hammers so loud I can barely hear the silence that follows. That kind of silence that only exists when something horrible is about to happen. The kind that makes your stomach twist and your lungs forget how to breathe.I press a hand to my chest, trying to ground myself, but the cold leather of the seat beneath me feels more surreal than comforting.Outside, I can see them—Cameron’s tall frame moving like a slow fuse toward a man with a gun. A gun. Pointed directly at our driver, who still stands with his hands raised, eyes wide and pleading. The wind catches the hem of the driver’s jacket, and for a second, he just looks so human. So fragile.I curse under my breath and lean forward to get a better view. My fingers grip the edge of the headrest so tight they ache.What the hell is going on?This was supposed to be a business trip. Silk deals, rare jewels, Cameron flirting too much and me pretending

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    š‚ššš¦šžš«šØš§The next morning, we hit the road.Our driver, an older man with warm eyes and an encyclopedic knowledge of Armenian history, doubles as a tour guide. As the SUV glides through the countryside, he tells us about the Barsamians—how their lineage traces back centuries, how they built an empire from silk and spice and sheer force of will.Aretha listens, chin resting in her palm, her gaze drifting between the window and me. I catch her watching me from the corner of her eye for the fifth time.ā€œWhat?ā€ I ask, smiling. ā€œYou’re staring.ā€ā€œI’m calculating.ā€ā€œCalculating what?ā€ I stretch my arm along the back of her seat, not touching her but close enough that her hair brushes my fingers.ā€œWhether this trip is worth enduring your company for another forty-eight hours.ā€ā€œOuch.ā€ I clutch my chest with exaggerated pain. ā€œYou wound me. And here I thought we were starting to bond.ā€ā€œI don’t bond with trouble.ā€ā€œYou sat next to me. That makes you complicit.ā€She snorts and turns back

  • Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Three

    š€š«šžš­š”ššYerevan greets us with a soft haze over the mountains and the thick warmth of afternoon sun pressing against the tarmac. The capital feels like a secret whispered between the ancient and the modern—a city made of stone, sky, and silent stories.Several hours after we land, I expect we’d be whisked straight to our client. That’s what I signed up for. Business. Strictly business.Instead, we end up checking into a hotel nestled in the city center—a luxury boutique place that smells faintly of rosewater and cedar. I wheel my suitcase into a suite that could easily host a cocktail party, then march back out toward Cameron’s room, irritation simmering just under my skin.He opens the door already dressed in a crisp linen shirt and slacks, smelling like something expensive and maddening.ā€œWhy are we here?ā€ I demand, arms crossed. ā€œI mean—here, at a hotel? Shouldn’t we be heading to the client’s estate or... at least contacting them?ā€Cameron’s smile is entirely too relaxed for

  • Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Two

    š€š«šžš­š”ššThe airport is already buzzing when I arrive—suitcase in hand, coat slung over my arm, and a knot of mild anxiety sitting in my chest. I barely slept last night. My thoughts kept circling back to Cameron’s smug face, the glint in his eyes when he said ā€œI’ll take that as a yes.ā€ It irritated me more than I care to admit.Still, I’m here. Against my better judgment, I’m here.I pull out my phone to check my itinerary again when a sharp ding draws my attention. A new notification.My brows knit together as I stare at the screen.A credit alert?The amount is exact—down to the cent—of my flight ticket.What the…?I spin around and march to the nearest cashier window. ā€œHi, sorry—can I ask about a refund I just received? I don’t remember requesting one.ā€The woman behind the glass taps a few keys on her terminal, blinking at her monitor. ā€œYes, ma’am. It says here the refund was requested and approved on your behalf.ā€ā€œBy who?ā€I hear it before I see it.ā€œWell, well,ā€ comes a dr

  • Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-One

    š€š«šžš­š”ššI’m still in Marcus’s arms, chest to chest, as the crowd roars around us in a frenzy of triumph. My pulse hammers in time with the chant echoing through the stadium. His hands are firm against my waist, anchoring me, while mine are curled around his shoulders, refusing to let go. It should be awkward—hell, it is—but in this bubble of noise and adrenaline, nothing else exists. Just us. Just this moment.Then I feel it.A shift.My eyes flicker down to his lips. They’re parted, breathless from cheering. There’s a softness there. A dangerous invitation. And I—I’m not thinking pure thoughts. At all. I want to kiss him. God, I want to kiss him.But his voice breaks through the haze, low and amused, ā€œWe’re just friends, remember?ā€It’s like cold water on heated skin. My smile is tight, reluctant as I pull away. ā€œRight. Just friends.ā€We fall back into our seats, cheering as the team does their victory lap, but the electric charge between us doesn’t fade. Not entirely. Every bru

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