𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The 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.“What?” I ask, smiling. “You’re staring.”“I’m calculating.”“Calculating what?” I stretch my arm along the back of her seat, not touching her but close enough that her hair brushes my fingers.“Whether this trip is worth enduring your company for another forty-eight hours.”“Ouch.” I clutch my chest with exaggerated pain. “You wound me. And here I thought we were starting to bond.”“I don’t bond with trouble.”“You sat next to me. That makes you complicit.”She snorts and turns back
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The 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
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚By 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.“Mr. Lancaster,” she says to Cameron, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. “And Miss…”“Hawthorne,” I offer with a polite smile, extending my hand. She doesn’t take it. She j
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.Not awkward. Not tense.Just… still.Cameron alternates between texting on his phone and staring out the window, one of his arms draped over the backseat with his fingers tapping out a silent rhythm against the leather. I watch the landscape blur by—stone buildings and narrow alleyways, ancient churches perched atop hills. The sky is beginning to burn orange at the edges, and for the first time all day, I feel the adrenaline ebb from my body like a tide retreating after a storm.I messed things up. I know I did.But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.We enter the hotel lobby without a word, both of us nodding politely to the concierge who greets us. The golden glow of the chandeliers bathes the space in warmth, but I feel anything but. My shoulders are still tight, my hands still restless.We step into the elevator together, side by side. The polished gold doors slide shut, enclosing us in a gentle hum of silence.I glance at him. “Yo
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The moment I shut the door to my suite, I loosen my collar and finally let the smile fall from my face.I’ve been wearing it like armor all day—through the suffocating politeness, the backhanded compliments, the curt dismissal of logic from a spoilt heir with too much money and too little sense. The matriarch was composed, yes. Graceful even. But her silence when her son spat that sexist garbage…That silence said more than I liked.I sink into the armchair by the window, the city of Yerevan sprawled beneath me like a glittering mosaic. I should let it go. But the tension stays, coiled tight between my shoulder blades.With a sigh, I reach for my phone and dial.“Hey,” I say when my marketing manager answers. “I need you to pull up alternatives. If the Barsamians don’t get back to us, we need other options for that stone.”“You’re thinking they’ll back out?”“I’m thinking their prince of a son might poison the whole deal. I just want to be ready.”We talk logistics, pro
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧Everything about this meeting screams a trap.I sit in the backseat of a nondescript black SUV, eyes trained on the quiet stretch of road as we drive out of the city. The address I was given isn’t the Barsamian mansion where we had the last meeting—it’s a guesthouse tucked into the outskirts of a neighboring city. That alone is a red flag. But what makes it worse is that I was explicitly asked to come alone.Of course, I’m not that foolish.A second vehicle trails behind, discreet and distant—my hired security detail, professionals I trust with my life. I keep my phone in my hand the entire ride, fingers tapping idly against the screen, sending occasional location updates to my manager just in case.Because this? This feels like the kind of story that ends in a disappearance headline.The guesthouse is impressive in a quiet, understated way. Rustic wood beams, a sweeping stone terrace, and tall windows that reflect the gray morning sky. Inside, it smells like lavender a
A/N: Wanted to clear this up before you start the story. Selena and Aretha are the same person. She changes her name from Selena to Aretha later on in the book. Thank you!𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒂“Mrs. Berfield, I must say you look quite stunning tonight.” The umpteenth business partner Daniel has introduced me to tonight says, shooting me a smirk but he may as well be talking to my cleavage just like most men here had done. Today is supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, but the lecherous stares from men and judgmental glares from their female companions are making it difficult to enjoy the moment. The atmosphere in the extravagant events hall is filled with joy and anticipation as both the Winthrop and Berfield families gather to celebrate multiple milestones—my husband's 30th birthday, his induction as CEO of his family business, and my personal favorite surprise for him: the news of my pregnancy.After three long years of marriage and struggling to conceive, I’m thrilled to fin
“How could you resort to such a thing, Selena?!” Mother yells first, pulling me out of the safety and seclusion of the corridor, to the center of the hall. Her outburst makes head turn and before I know it, I’ve got the attention of the entire room on me and much more, courtesy of the people who have already taken out their phones to begin filming the scene.“Mother, I—”I'm cut off by another slap from Melinda, one I'd been avoiding and is twice as painful that I have to bite down on my lower lip to prevent crying out. “How dare you shame our family like this?! Is this how you repay us for taking you in when you had nothing?! It's ingrates like you that discourage benevolent people like the Winthrops from taking in orphans to help them secure a brighter future! How could you do this to us?!”She swings her hand again to hit me but is quickly held back by my foster brother, Tyler, who shoots me a death glare and a smirk that appears almost victorious as he tries to calm his mother. Bu
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧Everything about this meeting screams a trap.I sit in the backseat of a nondescript black SUV, eyes trained on the quiet stretch of road as we drive out of the city. The address I was given isn’t the Barsamian mansion where we had the last meeting—it’s a guesthouse tucked into the outskirts of a neighboring city. That alone is a red flag. But what makes it worse is that I was explicitly asked to come alone.Of course, I’m not that foolish.A second vehicle trails behind, discreet and distant—my hired security detail, professionals I trust with my life. I keep my phone in my hand the entire ride, fingers tapping idly against the screen, sending occasional location updates to my manager just in case.Because this? This feels like the kind of story that ends in a disappearance headline.The guesthouse is impressive in a quiet, understated way. Rustic wood beams, a sweeping stone terrace, and tall windows that reflect the gray morning sky. Inside, it smells like lavender a
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The moment I shut the door to my suite, I loosen my collar and finally let the smile fall from my face.I’ve been wearing it like armor all day—through the suffocating politeness, the backhanded compliments, the curt dismissal of logic from a spoilt heir with too much money and too little sense. The matriarch was composed, yes. Graceful even. But her silence when her son spat that sexist garbage…That silence said more than I liked.I sink into the armchair by the window, the city of Yerevan sprawled beneath me like a glittering mosaic. I should let it go. But the tension stays, coiled tight between my shoulder blades.With a sigh, I reach for my phone and dial.“Hey,” I say when my marketing manager answers. “I need you to pull up alternatives. If the Barsamians don’t get back to us, we need other options for that stone.”“You’re thinking they’ll back out?”“I’m thinking their prince of a son might poison the whole deal. I just want to be ready.”We talk logistics, pro
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.Not awkward. Not tense.Just… still.Cameron alternates between texting on his phone and staring out the window, one of his arms draped over the backseat with his fingers tapping out a silent rhythm against the leather. I watch the landscape blur by—stone buildings and narrow alleyways, ancient churches perched atop hills. The sky is beginning to burn orange at the edges, and for the first time all day, I feel the adrenaline ebb from my body like a tide retreating after a storm.I messed things up. I know I did.But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.We enter the hotel lobby without a word, both of us nodding politely to the concierge who greets us. The golden glow of the chandeliers bathes the space in warmth, but I feel anything but. My shoulders are still tight, my hands still restless.We step into the elevator together, side by side. The polished gold doors slide shut, enclosing us in a gentle hum of silence.I glance at him. “Yo
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚By 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.“Mr. Lancaster,” she says to Cameron, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. “And Miss…”“Hawthorne,” I offer with a polite smile, extending my hand. She doesn’t take it. She j
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The 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
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The 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.“What?” I ask, smiling. “You’re staring.”“I’m calculating.”“Calculating what?” I stretch my arm along the back of her seat, not touching her but close enough that her hair brushes my fingers.“Whether this trip is worth enduring your company for another forty-eight hours.”“Ouch.” I clutch my chest with exaggerated pain. “You wound me. And here I thought we were starting to bond.”“I don’t bond with trouble.”“You sat next to me. That makes you complicit.”She snorts and turns back
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚Yerevan 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.“Why are we here?” I demand, arms crossed. “I mean—here, at a hotel? Shouldn’t we be heading to the client’s estate or... at least contacting them?”Cameron’s smile is entirely too relaxed for
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The 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 “I’ll take that as a yes.” 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. “Hi, sorry—can I ask about a refund I just received? I don’t remember requesting one.”The woman behind the glass taps a few keys on her terminal, blinking at her monitor. “Yes, ma’am. It says here the refund was requested and approved on your behalf.”“By who?”I hear it before I see it.“Well, well,” comes a dr
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I’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, “We’re just friends, remember?”It’s like cold water on heated skin. My smile is tight, reluctant as I pull away. “Right. Just friends.”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