Novels by ilyon

ANNA POV“I’m Elena,” the woman says, standing up the second I open my office door. “Peter’s fiancée.”She’s tall, blonde, and wearing a tailored European-cut suit that screams old money. She holds a sleek leather clutch in her hand, smiling at me with a polite, razor-thin expression that doesn't reach her bright blue eyes.My chest tightens so hard I forget how to draw air into my lungs.“He didn't mention you were coming,” I say, holding the door handle tight to keep my fingers from trembling.“So you’re the sister,” Elena says, stepping forward and taking her time looking me up and down like I’m a piece of cheap furniture. “Peter mentioned you when Richard married your mother. Though he didn't mention you were still living under his roof.”The word sister hangs heavy in the quiet office, spoken with a sharp emphasis that feels like an intentional stake in the ground.“I’m his business partner,” I correct her, walking past her to slide into the chair behind my oak desk. “Is there so

ANNA POV“How long were you planning to hide out down here?” I ask, pushing the heavy wooden door of the boathouse open.Three full days of dead silence. Three days of Peter hiding behind back-to-back corporate meetings, late-night office hours, and closed bedroom doors. He’s been systematically avoiding me ever since he punched Jack at the hotel bar.He sits on an overturned wooden crate near the edge of the dock, staring down at a faded photograph in his hand. The dim moonlight reflects off the dark water beside him, cutting harsh shadows across his sharp jawline.“I’m not hiding,” Peter says, his voice flat, dead, and entirely drained of emotion.“You haven’t looked at me in seventy-two hours, Peter,” I say, stepping across the dusty wooden floorboards until I’m standing right in front of him. “What is that?”He doesn’t answer with words. He simply holds up the photo Victor Kane gave him at the gala.I take the glossy photo, tilting it toward the pale moonlight. I trace the red tim

ANNA POV“Put the camera pen in the left side of your purse,” Peter says, his voice flat and clinical as he leans over my shoulder.We’re sitting in the back of his black utility van, parked two blocks down from the high-end hotel bar where Jack drinks every Thursday night. The plan is mine. I’m meeting Jack under the guise of an emotional breakdown. I’m going to pretend I’m considering taking him back, play the heartbroken ex, and push him until he admits on tape that Richard paid him to target me from the very beginning.Peter reaches out, his cold fingers brushing against my collarbone as he adjusts the micro-microphone clipped to my dress lining. His touch sends a sharp shiver straight down my spine, but his grey eyes remain totally detached, like he’s fitting a wire on a total stranger.“If he touches you, give the signal,” Peter says, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second against my skin before he pulls back. “I’ll come in.”“You’ll blow our cover,” I say, taking a slow

ANNA POV“We aren't going to that gala,” Peter says, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and cutting through the quiet living room of his apartment.It's three in the morning. He sits behind his glass desk, papers and digital tablets spreading around him like a battle plan. He’s been digging into Victor Kane for six hours straight, his face pale and drained under the dim desk lamp. On the corner of his desk lies an old framed photo of him at seven years old—standing stiffly beside a smiling woman right before his mother disappeared from his life forever.“Victor knows something about my mother,” I say, stepping closer to his desk and folding my arms over my chest. “About why she really died five years ago.”“Your mother died in a car crash on Route 9,” Peter says, not even looking up from his laptop screen. “It’s a police record.”“So did Princess Diana,” I shoot back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Doesn’t mean it was an accident.”Peter slams his laptop shut with a sudden, sharp crac

ANNA POV“Your debt-to-equity ratio on the Singapore acquisition is projected at four point two percent,” Peter says, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and totally commanding the quiet boardroom.I sit at the long wooden auxiliary table in the corner—the designated seats for family members who don't hold voting rights. Across the room, floor-to-ceiling windows look straight out over the gray skyline of Manhattan. I keep my eyes on Peter. He stands beside the digital projection screen in a charcoal three-piece suit, stepping through the financial metrics with cold, flawless precision. He looks untouchable. He looks like a man who doesn't feel pain, doesn't hesitate, and never makes a mistake.“The board won't approve a leverage ratio above four percent without additional collateral,” a senior director says, shuffling his papers.“The collateral is secured through the tertiary holding account,” Peter replies without blinking. “We clear four point two, or we don't buy.”Before the director ca

ANNA POV“Look at this,” I say, holding the plastic stick with two fingers like it’s radioactive.The two sharp pink lines in the little window glare back at me in the harsh light of the boathouse study. I found it thrown in the bottom of the guest bathroom trash bin ten minutes ago.Peter takes the test from my hand, his face draining of all color. “Lydia’s?”“She’s the only other woman living in the main house,” I say, my chest tightening as I watch him stare at the white stick. “And those lines are pitch black.”Peter’s eyes narrow as he starts calculating dates in his head. “The conception window... she was with me three weeks ago. She was with Richard... when?”I pull out my phone and quickly scroll to the master family calendar. “The trade conference in Geneva. Two weeks before you.”Silence drops over the room like lead.Peter collapses backward into the leather armchair, his long legs going slack as his spine hits the cushions. I’ve never seen him sit down in this room. Not on