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 “She said you'd betray me,” Andrei responds, and feel the tension rolling off him. He's clearly got some pent-up emotions brewing beneath the surface. “You believed her.” The words slice out of my mouth, my tone more accusatory than I meant it to be. “Somewhat…" He shakes his head as if to dispel the memory. “I don't want to believe her. I don't want to think that you'd ever do that to me.” He rips off the black pants he'd put on just moments ago and strides over to his wardrobe. He yanks out a fresh pair of distressed denims and slides them on. The jeans are perfectly faded, with ripped knees and frayed hems that give Andrei a rough-around-the-edges vibe. “Oh, Andrei, I’m not surprised. Those accusations didn’t come from thin air, did they? Someone put them in your head, someone gave them life. Someone twisted your faith in me.” My stare falls, settling on the knotted sheets tangled around my legs. “Enough of this nonsense. We've got business to attend to. Mr
Andrei's POV Can’t bear to see Brielle cry. It tears me up inside when she’s hurting, and I don’t know what to call that feeling. It's something profound. Something so much stronger than just basic empathy or sympathy. I'd take a beating any day over seeing her hurt. “If you're willing to spend the rest of your life behind bars, Andrei, then you'd better have a plan for how I'm supposed to move on without you. How do I live without you by my side? You'd better have an answer because otherwise, I won't let you take that step.” “Jail for life? You're jumping to conclusions.” She shoots me an incredulous look. “Are you seriously gaslighting me again?” I laugh, the sound a little rough around the edges. "I'm talking forever with you, Brielle – but not the kind that involves parole officers or therapists' couches." Her head cants to one side, Her gaze skewers me, a sharp, pointed thing that demands an answer. “Andrei, do you honestly believe that talking to someone about our
Brielle's POV “What's going to happen?” I ask. A simple query, yet one that stirs my heart to frantic rhythms. A faint sneer ghosts Andrei's lips as opens the car and steps out into the night air. I follow suit, Why? Because I'm dying to know what's gonna happen. The glint in his beautiful brown eyes is unmistakable, as mischievous as a raccoon raiding a trashcan, “A war is coming, Brielle. A category 15 hurricane that's gonna rip our families apart. We're talking Corleones vs. Tattaglias, but instead of just guns and money, it's gonna be secrets and lies that kill us. You know how Tony Soprano's crew thought they were above the law? Yeah, our families are about to take that to a whole new level. You ready for that?” I respond in kind, my tone tart with annoyance, while fighting the impulse to shake some sense into him." Are we reenacting The Godfather or something? Is someone gonna wake up with a severed horse head in their bed?” My eyes narrow, daring him to feed me anot
Brielle's POV The Aston Martin Vantage is parked curbside That glossy blue paint job is pure perfection. And there’s Andrei, his lean frame propped against the car like he’s auditioning for a part in ‘The Fast and the Furious: Therapy Drift.’ His effortless charm is on full display as he lounges against the car… Why, do I feel like a gas station hotdog next to his caviar-and-dom-perignon charm? That’s right, I’m feeling like a greasy, no-frills piece of road trip sustenance compared to his gourmet level of sophistication and style. He’s the Maserati, and I’m the beat-up Honda Civic from the 90s. “Took you longer than I expected.” With I calming breath I query, “No heads-up, huh? Why's that?” “Seriously, Brielle? You're asking me why?” “Didn't you send me a text asking about my therapist choice?” The passenger door swings open, and he steps back, his eyes never leaving the horizon. He's not even bothering to look at me, just stands there, holding the door. I'm thinkin
Brielle's POV Coffee. My savior. I stumble to the kitchen, brew a cup, and chug it down. Now I'm human, sort of. I scroll through my phone, check my schedule, and see that I've got an appointment with Dr. Lane later. Ivy's been trying to reach me, but I've been conveniently unavailable. For a reason. I'm not investing in her therapist fan fiction. I've got a real-life storyline with Andrei, and that's where my focus stays. Pope Moonlight on the pole? Just a little satire, don't @ me. The Pope's got enough on his plate, saving souls and whatnot. And Dr. Lane? He's an island of calm, not a stormy sea of scandal. Ivy's just casting her own wild net of imagination over the poor guy who's nose-deep in his notes, trying to decipher whatever scribbles are in there. Dr. Lane’s focus shifts, back to me. “You and Andrei. I’d like to know how things are going between you two. Are you getting along, or is there friction?” “We're fine. Just…coexisting, I guess. Things have improved between u
Jeremy's POV. I light a cigarette, fighting the urge to grab Odessa by the throat. “You're in bed with that son of a bitch, aren't you? You're working with brother.” I watch as her eyes slightly go wide. She sucks in a breath so deep, I think she’s gonna pass out. Then, she shakes her head at me. “No. I’m pretty damn sure you’re playing for the other team, so let’s cut the crap. Which side are you on?” “My side has been yours… since day one.” I pull out my gun from the drawer. Patience isn't my strong suit. That's the fundamental difference between my brother and me: while Andrei's a saint, I'm the devil with a deadline. Odessa, on the other hand, looks unafraid, trying to tough it out. Typical witch, all bravado, and mystery. I'd caught her off guard back there; for a split second, her mask had slipped. Beneath all that witchy bluster, she's just a softie who's been caught… and isn't exactly thrilled about it. “Seems my brother worked his charm on you. I'm well aware of Andre
Andrei's POV “I'm dead serious, Paul. I'm asking you because I need a second pair of eyes on this. Maybe you'll catch something I'm missing. Help me out. Give me your gut instinct.” Paul’s eyes shift to the left, then to the right, “Well. I’ll put it this way—if Odessa told me she was baking a cake, and it tasted good, I’d still check for poison. If she said it was sunny outside, I’d still look for storm clouds and if she told me she was going to buy me a beer, I’d still count my fingers after shaking her hand. That’s all I’m saying.” I cock my head to the side, "Just doing your usual verbal gymnastics to avoid giving me a straight answer, Paul." He smiles, "She's a unique snowflake, boss. I'll give her that, and technically, You've spent more time with her than I have" Paul's not wrong. I've been riding this wild Odessa train way longer than he has. If there's a forked tongue behind her Bambi eyes… I'm better off knowing than he is. “Monitor my sanity.” I tell him. “If I start
Andrei's POV “Are you with me or against me, Odessa? Will you stab me in the back when I'm not looking?” Cat's got her tongue… and I've got the images with her signature on them. Let's see how long she can keep up the charade. No words necessary. I'm too busy deciphering the hieroglyphics of her face… She's got a world of pain inside I realize, her laughter a thin veil hiding a deeper wound. We’ve all got our scars, our pasts—Odessa is no exception. And while I don’t know the gritty details of her story, I know that whatever it is, it’s written on her, bold, permanent. "Know what's more likely to happen, Andrei?" she asks. "Me tripping and falling on my own sword than stabbing you in the back." A deep breath, in and out, steadies me. I return with two cups of coffee, and we dive into easy conversation. Odessa and I settle in for what might just be a little less “interrogation” and a little more “impromptu therapy session”—not that I’m about to admit that to myself. We s
Brielle's POV The door's soft click is followed by my own softer “oh”, a tiny expulsion of air as I realize, belatedly, that Andrei's jacket is still slung over my arm. I'm pondering this lapse when Mom materializes on the stairs, a vision in red satin. Guess my internal clock was off – I could've sworn she'd be dreaming of entrepreneurial summits by now. “Bri, there you are.” Her hands glide along the railing, guiding her steps. “A phone call would have sufficed, but I didn't want to interrupt... whatever was going on with you and Andrei.” She seems curious, making me a bit uneasy, and I wonder what she might have guessed – or misguessed. “Dad?” I ask hastily, eager to steer the conversation toward a safer subject, one that doesn’t threaten to puncture the delicate bubble of emotions I’m trying to hold together. “Your dad's conked out. You know how he transforms into a grizzly bear in hibernation mode when exhaustion strikes – nothing can rouse him, not even a hurricane
Brielle's POV The double doors of the hall part, and our ride is waiting for us, looking all resplendent under the lights. It's the quiet gesture of Andrei wrapping his jacket around me that truly stirs my senses. My beautiful black dress, while stunning, is not quite enough to fend off the frosty night air, and I can't help but shiver involuntarily. His jacket, however, shields me from the cold, enveloping me in warmth that's hard to resist. And He's still got this old-school charm thing going on, always opening doors for me, even when I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself. Once Andrei gets me situated in the front seat of his car, he takes his time exchanging pleasantries with the valet. After a brief chat and a warm thanks, he slides into the driver's seat, shutting the door. He starts the car, lets out a sigh, and says, "Every time I see your Audi in my driveway, I'm reminded of the 'brake' you put on my heart when you left. Now, even the car seems to be 'idling'