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Chapter Fifty-Eight
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2025-04-13 22:41:12
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Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Seventy-Two
ššš¦šš«šØš§Iām in my office when the news arrives: the Barsamian matriarch has passed. Iād met her only days agoāfrail but still razor-sharp, the first in her family to extend a genuine welcome to Aretha and me. Iād admired her vitality, even in her advanced years: the way her mind raced ahead of every conversation about rare gems, her bright eyes challenging mine as she negotiated. To think she could be gone so suddenly twists my stomach into knots. A hollow ache settles behind my ribs.I stare at the email notification, disbelief flickering across my features. She had warned meāher life wasnāt safeāthatās why she transferred the family jewels without her usual demands or delays. Now, with her gone, I wonder if sheād been right. Was her sudden demise simply the price of these stones?Before I can dwell on it, my phone buzzes. Unlocking it, I glance down at the screen to see a message from an unknown number. My breath catches in my throat when I read the contents of it.āSoon, she
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Seventy-One
šš«ššš”šMarcosās house is exactly what I imagined it would beāelegant, structured, and yet effortlessly warm. The kind of place that feels like a home rather than a showcase. Books line the built-in shelves along the far wall, some stacked horizontally, some upright with worn spines and dog-eared corners. Thereās a hint of cedar in the air, a scent Iād somehow already come to associate with him.āWelcome to Casa Marcos,ā he says with a mock bow, holding the door open as I step in. āShoes off or on?āāIām not in Japan,ā I deadpan, slipping them off anyway. āBut Iāll humor your inner neat freak.āHis grin is boyish, dangerous, and far too charming for a man who claims he doesnāt brood.Lunch is already prepped by the time we move into the kitchen, and the aroma alone is enough to make me weak in the knees. Heās made roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, buttery roasted potatoes, tender-stem broccoli, and gravy that smells like it was made by the angels themselves. For dessert: sticky
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Seventy
šš«ššš”šThe familiar buzz of activities at the GemsThorne company headquarters feels like a warm hug after days of unpredictable terrain, ancient jewels, and family feuds that felt like something out of a historical thriller. Londonās cloudy sky greets me with its usual moody charm, and for once, I donāt mind. Thereās something grounding about being back. About knowing exactly where I stand.My heels click softly against the marble as I step out of the elevator and onto topmost floor where my office is located, a genuine smile lighting up my face.āMs. Hawthorne!ā Winnie, my long-suffering and endlessly efficient personal assistant, pops out of her glass-walled office like a meerkat. She looks impeccably put-together as always, in a lilac blouse and black pencil skirt, with her work tablet in hand.āWinnie!ā I greet her in a similar fashion, sweeping her into a brief, exaggerated hug that makes her squeak.āWelcome back, ma'am. I must say though, you seem to be in a good mood tod
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Nine
ššš¦šš«šØš§Everything 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 isnāt the Barsamian mansion where we had the last meetingāitās 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, Iām not that foolish.A second vehicle trails behind, discreet and distantāmy 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
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Eight
ššš¦šš«šØš§The moment I shut the door to my suite, I loosen my collar and finally let the smile fall from my face.Iāve been wearing it like armor all dayāthrough 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 garbageā¦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.āHey,ā I say when my marketing manager answers. āI need you to pull up alternatives. If the Barsamians donāt get back to us, we need other options for that stone.āāYouāre thinking theyāll back out?āāIām thinking their prince of a son might poison the whole deal. I just want to be ready.āWe talk logistics, pro
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Seven
šš«ššš”šThe car ride back to the hotel is quiet.Not awkward. Not tense.Justā¦ 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 byāstone 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 Iād 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. āYo
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Six
šš«ššš”šBy the time we arrive, the estate looks like something out of an oil paintingāornate 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 havenāt 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.Sheās nothing like I expected.Older, yes, with the kind of face carved by time and quiet power, but thereās 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 youāre the one being examined.āMr. Lancaster,ā she says to Cameron, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. āAnd Missā¦āāHawthorne,ā I offer with a polite smile, extending my hand. She doesnāt take it. She j
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Five
šš«ššš”šThe door slams shut behind him.Cameron is gone.And Iām 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 themāCameronās 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 driverās 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
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The PhoenixĀ Ā Ā Chapter Sixty-Four
ššš¦šš«šØš§The 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 Barsamiansāhow 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.āWhat?ā I ask, smiling. āYouāre staring.āāIām calculating.āāCalculating what?ā I stretch my arm along the back of her seat, not touching her but close enough that her hair brushes my fingers.āWhether this trip is worth enduring your company for another forty-eight hours.āāOuch.ā I clutch my chest with exaggerated pain. āYou wound me. And here I thought we were starting to bond.āāI donāt bond with trouble.āāYou sat next to me. That makes you complicit.āShe snorts and turns back
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