Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 41 - チャプター 50

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The vibrant hum of London's nightlife still lingers in my ears as Yemaya and I step into the grand entrance of the high-end shopping mall. The rooftop lounge in Knightsbridge had been a fantastic escape—elegant cocktails, a breathtaking view, and the lively chatter of London’s elite—but of course, Yemaya wasn’t satisfied with just that. She’d insisted that I needed a wardrobe upgrade, especially now that I would be stepping into the role of CEO.“You’re the face of an empire now, babe,” she says, linking her arm with mine as we stroll into the gleaming, chandelier-lit atrium of the shopping mall. “You need to dress the part. No more ‘casual chic.’ We’re talking power dressing—sexy, corporate, intimidating.”I sigh, more amused than annoyed. “You mean uncomfortable, stiff, and overpriced?”Yemaya gasps dramatically, clutching her chest as if I’ve wounded her. “Sacrilege! You’re going to thank me when heads turn at board meetings.”I let her pull me deeper into the maze of

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The 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

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚Alone in my office, I focus on the project I’m currently working on with Cameron’s company. The blueprints are spread out across my office desk, a meticulously arranged chaos of detailed sketches, notes, and material samples. The sheer scale of the design demands my full attention, every inch of available space covered in drafts and annotations.I run my fingers over the smooth edges of the jewel samples placed beside the building interior layout, mentally piecing together how each element will weave into the final aesthetic of the hotel’s interior. Not just for opulence—but for atmosphere, and for presence. The way the light would refract off the polished gemstones embedded in the marble-tiled floors, casting a subtle shimmer that whispers the luxury rather than screams it. The soft, understated accents on furniture that would add dimension without overwhelming. The deliberate placement of crystal in the chandeliers, catching and bending light to create a warm, inviting

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬The harsh, sterile glow of the overhead lights bathes the operating room in an almost surreal brightness, casting sharp shadows on the masked faces surrounding the table. The steady beeping of the heart monitor fills the silence—calm, rhythmic, an ever-present reminder that life still clings beneath my scalpel.This moment, this weight of precision and control, is what I live for.I exhale slowly, steadying my grip. “Scalpel.”Dr. Harriet, standing to my right, responds instantly, placing it in my waiting palm. Her gloved fingers brush against mine, the touch lingering for half a second too long. A deliberate move? Maybe. But now isn’t the time for distractions.“Here,” she murmurs, her voice low, smooth, as if we aren’t elbows-deep in someone’s open abdomen.I ignore it. Focus is everything.The blade glides along the marked line, parting skin and muscle with practiced ease. The scent of antiseptic thickens as suction whirs, keeping the field clear. Beneath layers of tis

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The memory of Harriet pressing her lips too close to the corners of Marcos' mouth replays in my mind like a bitter melody I can’t turn off. The way she clung to him, the possessiveness in her gaze, and how he hadn’t outright rejected her touch—it all festers inside me, an emotion I refuse to name. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.But it does.And that alone infuriates me.I should have known better. I should have learned my lesson after Daniel, after the years I wasted believing in a love that was nothing but a mirage. Marcos might not be Daniel, but that doesn’t mean I should entertain the idea of him any longer. The moment I saw him with another woman—saw him let her touch him like that—I should have let every foolish inclination I had towards him die on the spot.So I do what I must—I bury myself in work, throwing myself into tasks that keep my hands busy and my mind even busier. I stop going into the office unless absolutely necessary, opting for virtual meetin