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
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I wake up with a jolt, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. The room is dark, but the nightmare lingers, burning behind my eyes like an after-image I can’t blink away. My chest tightens, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, each beat a cruel echo of the fear still curling around my spine.I can still see them. Stella’s smug, knowing smile. Daniel’s cold, detached stare. The cruel laughter of those who reveled in my humiliation. Their voices slither through my mind, sharp as glass, slicing through the thin veil between past and present. It was just a dream. But it doesn’t feel like one.The air in my bedroom suddenly feels suffocating. I shove the damp sheets aside, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet meeting the cold floor. Ground yourself. Breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands against them, as if that alone could drive the memories away. But they refuse to fade, lurking like shadows just out of reach.How l
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 weekend has arrived once more, but this time, I’d decided to spend it with my best friend, Yemaya, at the apartment we used to share just a couple of months ago while I had worked at The Gilded Stag restaurant. I figured it was high time I returned for a visit, especially since just the week before, she had come to visit me at my parents' mansion and had spent the entire weekend there. Besides, there’s a certain comfort in being back here, in a space filled with memories of late-night gossip, spontaneous dance-offs, and shared struggles. And just to admit it, I had missed my best friend despite being doted on and surrounded by my loving family. Because no one can ever take her place in my life no matter what.And now on this Saturday afternoon, the two of us are craving something sweet, and since Yemaya is the one between the two of us who actually enjoys cooking and baking, she’s taken charge of baking us some Eccles cakes—a British pastry filled with spiced currant
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
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The news is everywhere.Tabloids, newspapers, hushed conversations in hotel lobbies and high-end restaurants. My name, my face, my supposed triumph—spread across the city like wildfire.The lost daughter, now officially found. The hidden gem, finally unveiled.I try not to let it get to me.I bury myself in work, tell myself this is what I wanted—what I’ve been preparing for. And for the most part, I believe it. I tell myself I’ve moved past the distractions of Marcus and Cameron, that they no longer occupy space in my mind. That my focus is solely on the company and my role within it.But the illusion only lasts until the night of my father’s party.A grand affair, of course. My father doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. The ballroom is adorned in gold and ivory, chandeliers dripping with light, the scent of expensive champagne and wealth hanging thick in the air.Dignitaries, business moguls, and high-profile figures mill about, exchanging pleasantries, shaking hands, w
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬She walks away without looking back, her spine straight, chin up, that fire still burning in her eyes like a challenge.I should be annoyed.But I’m not.I’m fascinated.There’s something about the way Aretha holds herself—unyielding, deliberate. Like the world’s tried to break her a thousand times, and she’s still standing, daring anyone to come closer. Or try again.I watch her disappear into the crowd of guests, then exhale slowly, adjusting the cuffs of my tux. This time, I’m the one left standing alone. And damn if it doesn’t feel different.I turn and head back into the golden-lit room where the rest of the party buzzes. The room’s thick with perfume, laughter, and clinking glasses. Chandeliers drip crystals from the ceiling, casting the entire space in a soft, opulent glow. Everyone here is dressed to impress—politicians, moguls, heirs, and more. But the moment I step back in, I feel eyes trail after me. Always do.It doesn’t take long to spot Cameron and Nathaniel
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The mall is buzzing with energy as Alfie and I walk hand-in-hand past the storefronts, our steps matching in rhythm. He’s practically bouncing beside me, excitement fizzing off him like a shaken soda.“I want to check out the new Nintendo games!” he exclaims, tugging my arm like he’s trying to drag me there himself.I laugh, adjusting my sunglasses as I glance around. “We’ll get there, little man. Let’s start with shoes first. You’ve outgrown yours—your toes are probably screaming.”“My toes are fine,” he mutters dramatically, but he doesn't protest when I guide him into the kids’ footwear store.He slips onto a little bench as the attendant brings options in his size. I sit beside him, watching his nose wrinkle as he examines a pair of lime green sneakers.“These are loud,” he declares. “Like, even the birds would hear me coming.”I snort. “Isn’t that the point? So the entire house can hear when you try to sneak cookies after bedtime?”He flashes me a mischievous grin. “
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚Marcos’s house is exactly what I imagined it would be—elegant, 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. There’s a hint of cedar in the air, a scent I’d somehow already come to associate with him.“Welcome to Casa Marcos,” he says with a mock bow, holding the door open as I step in. “Shoes off or on?”“I’m not in Japan,” I deadpan, slipping them off anyway. “But I’ll humor your inner neat freak.”His grin is boyish, dangerous, and far too charming for a man who claims he doesn’t 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. He’s 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
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The 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. London’s cloudy sky greets me with its usual moody charm, and for once, I don’t mind. There’s 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.“Ms. Hawthorne!” 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.“Winnie!” I greet her in a similar fashion, sweeping her into a brief, exaggerated hug that makes her squeak.“Welcome back, ma'am. I must say though, you seem to be in a good mood tod
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧Everything 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 isn’t the Barsamian mansion where we had the last meeting—it’s 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, I’m not that foolish.A second vehicle trails behind, discreet and distant—my 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
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The moment I shut the door to my suite, I loosen my collar and finally let the smile fall from my face.I’ve been wearing it like armor all day—through 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 garbage…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.“Hey,” I say when my marketing manager answers. “I need you to pull up alternatives. If the Barsamians don’t get back to us, we need other options for that stone.”“You’re thinking they’ll back out?”“I’m thinking their prince of a son might poison the whole deal. I just want to be ready.”We talk logistics, pro
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.Not awkward. Not tense.Just… 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 by—stone 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 I’d 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. “Yo
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚By the time we arrive, the estate looks like something out of an oil painting—ornate 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 haven’t 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.She’s nothing like I expected.Older, yes, with the kind of face carved by time and quiet power, but there’s 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 you’re the one being examined.“Mr. Lancaster,” she says to Cameron, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. “And Miss…”“Hawthorne,” I offer with a polite smile, extending my hand. She doesn’t take it. She j
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The door slams shut behind him.Cameron is gone.And I’m 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 them—Cameron’s 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 driver’s 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
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The 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 Barsamians—how 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.“What?” I ask, smiling. “You’re staring.”“I’m calculating.”“Calculating what?” I stretch my arm along the back of her seat, not touching her but close enough that her hair brushes my fingers.“Whether this trip is worth enduring your company for another forty-eight hours.”“Ouch.” I clutch my chest with exaggerated pain. “You wound me. And here I thought we were starting to bond.”“I don’t bond with trouble.”“You sat next to me. That makes you complicit.”She snorts and turns back
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚Yerevan greets us with a soft haze over the mountains and the thick warmth of afternoon sun pressing against the tarmac. The capital feels like a secret whispered between the ancient and the modern—a city made of stone, sky, and silent stories.Several hours after we land, I expect we’d be whisked straight to our client. That’s what I signed up for. Business. Strictly business.Instead, we end up checking into a hotel nestled in the city center—a luxury boutique place that smells faintly of rosewater and cedar. I wheel my suitcase into a suite that could easily host a cocktail party, then march back out toward Cameron’s room, irritation simmering just under my skin.He opens the door already dressed in a crisp linen shirt and slacks, smelling like something expensive and maddening.“Why are we here?” I demand, arms crossed. “I mean—here, at a hotel? Shouldn’t we be heading to the client’s estate or... at least contacting them?”Cameron’s smile is entirely too relaxed for