Welcome, Mr. Prescott."They all stand, the rustling of chairs and the shuffling of feet filling the room as the young man strides in confidently. The air shifts immediately with his presence, heavy with authority and an unspoken command for attention. His suit, a rich velvet that seems to absorb the light, fits him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame. With deliberate and poised movements, he takes a seat at the head of the polished oak table."I'm sorry for my lateness," he begins, his deep, calm voice carrying an edge of authority. "I had something more important to take care of—for my boss."His boss? Wait a minute... isn’t he supposed to be the boss? My brain scrambles to make sense of his words, but I keep my expression neutral.The others, however, nod in understanding, their faces reflecting a practiced agreement, as if they completely get what he's saying. Of course, they do. Nod along, people. Don’t want to ruffle the boss’s feathers, do we?"Ease up o
[Arella]The first thing I notice immediately when we step in is the fragrance—the smell of something I hadn’t eaten since my mum passed away. It’s warm, comforting, and familiar, like a hug for my senses. “Is that what I think it is?”I ask, bewildered, my eyes widening in shock. Ava steps out of the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist, her hair a little disheveled but still glowing with that teenager radiance. Her features look tired but happy, full of light, the kind of glow that always seems to follow her ever since we brought her back from the hospital."Ella," she says slowly, her voice soft yet full of warmth. "Welcome home.""Thank you," I say, my voice catching in my throat. I don’t even realize when tears start to fall. My heart is suddenly a lump in my throat, and I hold out my arms, embracing her with the kind of desperation I haven’t felt in years. "Thank you, thank you so much."I pull away, wiping my tears, blinking rapidly to stop the flood. I turn to Lincoln, w
[Arella] Lincoln's aunt walks in, her step poised and graceful, the subtle click of her heels echoing in the spacious dining room. A faint almost pungent perfume trails behind her, but the smile on her lips doesn’t quite reach her sharp eyes—or maybe that’s just my paranoia kicking in. "Trixy, what are you doing here?" Mother-in-law asks, her tone pleasant but her narrowed eyes betraying her irritation. "Why? Can't I come visit Lincoln anymore?" The way she's says it, her voice saccharine-sweet, makes me want to roll my eyes. The undercurrent of hostility between the two women is so thick, I feel like I need a knife to cut through it. "I did not mean it that way," Mother-in-law retorts, her jaw tightening. The air grows heavy with tension. Lincoln clears his throat, his baritone cutting through the awkward atmosphere. "Welcome, Aunt. Come sit. We're having dinner." She gives Mother-in-law a smug glance before gliding over to a chair, her movements calculated and deli
[Deric] I hated Chinese restaurants. It has never really been a "Deric Smith" thing. I just find them—no matter how fancy they are—not sophisticated enough for me. The dim lighting and faint aroma of soy sauce and ginger always seem to mix into one overwhelming, almost suffocating scent that sticks to everything. "You're welcome, Mr. Smith," a man said, his Asian accent slipping slightly. "Mr. Thompson is already waiting for you. I'll guide you." My heart thudded in my chest again, the sound echoing in my ears. Mr. Clement Thompson had sounded aggravatingly angry over the phone, demanding my presence at once. Vivian had come before me, something about trying to soothe the man. I don’t even know what that means. But whatever it is, it clearly hasn't worked. I shake it off, taking a small flight of stairs to an open area. The space is stark and overly minimalist, a few scattered chairs at the far end with barely any privacy between the tables. The overhead lights flicker slightly, ca
[Deric] "This is what we have to do, Deric," she cuts me off with that innocent smile that always seems to melt my resolve. But not today. Not with this. "There’s no need for that. Someone already has it covered. She’ll do a perfect job." Vivian stiffens beside me, her hands balling into fists as her nails dig into her palms. I can see the anger simmering beneath the surface. "But I wanted to—" "But nothing, Vivi," Mr. Thompson cuts her off again, his voice a low, commanding tone. My brows furrow. Vivi? Since when did he start calling her Vivi? The way he says it doesn’t sit right with me, like they share some unspoken understanding. Her shoulders slump angrily, and there’s a fire in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a while. She looks like she wants to say something, but she bites her lip, holding it in. "Now, the plan for Sawyer Group is this. Since I already have…" The more they talk, the more my mind drifts away. The words blur into a dull hum in the background. All I can
[Arella] 'ONE HOUR EARLIER' "We can go during the weekend, Linc. I promise I'm fine." "Are you sure?" Lincoln's deep, husky voice bubbles over the phone, sending involuntary tingles all over me. My cheeks heat up as I sink into my chair. Does pregnancy make women, you know….more horny? Because I don’t understand myself around Lincoln these days. It’s like my hormones have been hijacked. "Ella, your dizzy spells have been—" "Please trust me, Linc. I got this." He grumbles, his voice low and gravelly. "You're so stubborn." I let out a chuckle, twirling a pen in my hand. "Bye, hubby." "Hubby, huh? I never realized you were so mushy, Ella." I yelp, nearly dropping my pen, at Bridget’s voice. She struts into my office in a flaring pale pink gown. Her hair is styled into loose curls, she’s clearly not in work mode. "Bridge, you startled me!" She laughs, plopping onto the chair across from me. "I’ve been at the door for ages, Ella. You were too engrossed with lover boy
AUTHOR'S NOTE Hey, lovelies! (≧◡≦) Just a quick update: Chapters 69, 70, and 71 are getting a little makeover right now, so they'll be shiny and perfect for you! I have already uploaded them, but please give the system 24 to 48 hours to update them. I promise it'll be worth the wait, and this way, you won’t miss out on the juicy storyline or waste your precious coins! Thank you so much for your endless support and patience—you’re seriously the best! Love you all to the moon and back! (♡˙︶˙♡) Stay tuned; the fun continues soon! *EDIT: THE CHAPTERS HAS BEEN FIXED!(^^)* CHAPTER 72: [Arella] "Hello, ma’am. My name is Alfred, head butler of the Sawyers." The man standing before me is the epitome of professionalism—middle-aged, with a sturdy build, his uniform pressed to perfection. "I already know you, sir," I say, managing a polite smile. "And please, call me Arella." His brow twitches, as if I’ve committed a social sin. "Sorry, I cannot do that." I nod, b
[Arella]Apart from the soft clinking of chopsticks and the hum of distant conversations, the restaurant is fairly quiet. The smell of soy sauce and stir-fried vegetables fills the air, mixing with the faint aroma of jasmine tea. I sit on a wooden chair, its deep red cushion elegant.It's been roughly two minutes since I sat down, and she hasn't said a word. Not one word. But her eyes—sharp and judgmental—tell me all the things her mouth doesn't. They rake over me with open disdain, as if I’m something unpleasant she’s forced to tolerate.“I can see why my grandson got charmed by you. You're a pretty little thing indeed," she begins, her voice smooth but icy, like a blade cloaked in silk.Anger, slow and hot, burns up my chest. Pretty little thing? What am I, a doll on display? The way she says it, like I'm no different from... from—I clench my fists under the table, the nails digging crescents into my palms. I force those thoughts out of my mind, swallowing the bitter retort ri
[Arella]Vivian ran like the devil himself was on her heels.Her bare feet slapped against the filthy concrete, the sharp sting of debris cutting into her skin. The air was thick with the scent of rotting dough and mildew, the remnants of a bakery long abandoned, its glory days buried under dust and decay. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one hitching in her throat as she weaved through the narrow corridors, her frantic movements sending old flour sacks tumbling to the ground.She was fast, I’d give her that. Desperation had a way of making people move like cornered rats, a blend of terror and pure survival instinct. But I wasn’t about to let her scurry away. Not this time.I chased after her, vaulting over overturned crates, my boots thudding heavily against the grimy floor. My pulse thundered in my ears, my lungs burning with exertion, but the fire only fueled me. Every step I took, every inch I gained, I thought about what this woman had done to me seven months ago.Seven. Fuc
[Arella]Two days later, we finally located the only bakery in Backwater Alley.True to the city’s name, the place was utterly demented. The snarls and sneers we received from passersby sent a chill slithering down my spine, despite the heavy security flanking me. It wasn’t just the people that made this place hell—it was everything. The very air felt wrong, thick with the scent of rot and dampness, like misery had been ground into the pavement for generations. The streets reeked of filth and desperation, a choking combination of decay and stale piss, and even with the promise of protection, a thick wave of unease clung to my skin like a second layer.Deric, on the other hand, was visibly cowering, his head ducked so low I half-expected him to burrow into the ground. He flinched at every sound, his breath coming in shallow gasps as we passed through each ‘checkpoint’—clusters of men loitering with sharp eyes and even sharper knives, their silent appraisal as damning as a blade against
[Arella] Deric leads us to a restaurant that's just as rundown as that bar, but at least the air inside isn't nauseating. The dim lighting does little to hide the grime-streaked walls, and the wooden chairs creak ominously as we settle down. The stench of stale grease lingers in the air, but it’s a small mercy compared to the overwhelming stench of alcohol from before.I speak first, my voice sharp. "Where have you been? What are you doing all the way in Chicago?"He clears his throat, his eyes locked onto mine with an emotion I can't quite place—adoration, maybe? Like he can't believe I'm sitting right in front of him. That only makes my patience thinner."You're going to have to start talking, Deric, because trust me, I have other ways to make you talk.""Water... please," he croaks out, his voice dry and weak. Zach signals to one of his men, never leaving my side for a single second. The moment the bottle is placed in front of him, Deric chugs it down like a man starved, gulping i
[Arella]We pass through the back, and the stench immediately assaults my senses—an overwhelming mix of stale alcohol, damp wood, and rotting garbage. Dirty bottles are strewn everywhere, some stacked haphazardly in corners, others being washed with a half-hearted effort. The entire place reeks of neglect. Dust clings to every surface, thick enough that I can practically taste it in the air. A few workers loiter around, loading crates onto a rusty truck that looks like it's one pothole away from falling apart.The sight of it all makes my skin crawl. My fingers twitch at my sides, an instinctive reaction to the unease curling in my stomach. This place feels wrong. Like a trap waiting to be sprung.A man with decayed teeth—yellowed and jagged, a testament to years of neglect—flashes me a grin as we draw closer. The smile is anything but friendly; it's lecherous, the kind that makes my skin prickle in revulsion. "Who's this fine little birdie, Isla?" His eyes drag over me from head to t
[Arella]“How may I help you?" The bartender slurs his words, his bleary eyes raking over me. So much for being insecure—he doesn’t even attempt to hide his once-over. His gaze lingers too long, his lips quirking up like he’s amused by something. But then, something shifts. He must have noticed Zach’s piercing gaze because he suddenly straightens, feigning a sense of professionalism, shoulders squaring as he averts his gaze. My lips twitch in amusement, but I don’t let it show too much."I'm looking for the owner of this number." I thrust a crumpled piece of paper into his hand, unwilling to risk handing over my phone. My fingers tighten slightly as I pull back, watching his face carefully. His brows furrow as he glances at it, then at me, before letting out a dry chuckle."You're looking for the owner of this number... in a bar?" He shoots me an incredulous look, the kind that makes me feel every bit as ridiculous as I probably seem right now.I nod anyway, knowing full well how absu
[Arella]The private jet hummed softly beneath my feet as I approached, Zach and his men flanking me on either side like silent sentinels. My heart hammered a little harder than usual, but I ignored it, my focus locked on the mission ahead. I knew I should probably wait for Benson and Jordan to return from Florida—playing it safe would be the smart thing to do. But what if this lead went cold? What if this person changed their mind?The IP address traced back to a woman’s phone—a bartender. She ran a shady little dive bar, the kind of place where secrets slipped out between shots of cheap whiskey and whispered conversations in the dark. Maybe she’d seen Lincoln with Lisa or Thompson? Maybe she knew something crucial? Or maybe… something about that desperate message didn’t sit right. If she was just giving me information, why did it feel like a cry for help?I’d responded, asking for a time to meet. No response. Nothing. Just silence.I exhaled sharply, shoving those nagging doubts asi
[Arella] "Clement came back seven years later," Father in law continues, his voice calm, but there’s an edge to it—something bitter, something restrained. "By then, I had married Gladys. I had everything I wanted—a wife, my son, a growing empire, a future laid out exactly as it should be. And Clement already had a wife of his own. Lisa’s mother." He scoffs, shaking his head. "He claimed he wanted to make amends. That the past was behind us. That friendship meant more than old grudges. I should have known better. I did know better. But I let him in anyway, like a fool." A slow exhale, his fingers tightening around his glass. "He didn’t ask for money. Didn’t come with some grand business proposal wrapped in false generosity. No, he played it smarter this time. Said he only wanted to invest in my company, that he believed in my latest vision. And like a fool, I let him buy in. Gave him a seat at my table. Trusted that maybe, just maybe, he had changed." He shakes his head, his jaw
[Arella]Have you ever longed for something so deeply, only to be denied it over and over again? And then, when you finally get it, you feel... nothing?Because tell me why I’m sitting across from my father-in-law and grandmother-in-law in the dimly lit study of the Sawyer estate, their faces grim and pale, like they’re afraid to speak in my presence. The heavy scent of old books and polished wood lingers in the air, wrapping around us like a suffocating blanket. My father-in-law clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing with unease."How have you been, Arella?" he asks, his voice measured, like he's trying to sound casual.I raise an eyebrow. "How have I been?" I repeat, the bitterness curling around my words before I can stop it.Seven months. Seven months of silence. Not a word from either of them. Every single family gathering between our families—declined. No messages, no explanations, nothing. And now, my father-in-law suddenly shows up at work, requesting my presence, expect
[Arella]"N-not yet, President," one of them stammers, shoulders hunched in defeat. "But we can assure you, with our budget handed over to us, we can—"I tsk, shaking my head. "Greedy, greedy, greedy—just like Deric. You won’t see a single cent from me. And if you dare make another move to disrupt my peace like this, I won’t just cut you off—I’ll reduce Ames Finances to nothing more than scraps in a flea market bargain bin."A stunned silence settles over the room. The weight of my words crushes any lingering defiance."If accountability is truly what you seek, then start by holding yourselves responsible for your own failures. I have no time for empty demands or misplaced outrage. So do us all a favor—take your so-called accountability and escort yourselves out of my conference room immediately before I make that decision for you."The man in the brown suit reddens with anger, jabbing an accusing finger in my direction. "You… you—"But no words come. I watch as they all file out, dej