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SIXTY-SEVEN
Last Updated:
2025-07-06 22:50:25
Latest chapter
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY EIGHT
CARA's POVI stepped over a coil of wire near the front entrance, my heels clicking against the unfinished tiles as I walked inside, clipboard in hand. Light spilled through the tall windows, catching on the particles in the air and making everything feel a little suspended—unfinished, but full of promise.Few weeks to finish construction. Few more until the grand opening.I scanned my checklist, ticking off electricals, security installations, and display case deliveries as I walked past a few men in hard hats hauling a massive sculpture toward its pedestal. One of them turned to ask where to center it.“Two feet to the left,” I said, stepping in to help angle the base. “No, turn it—yes, like that. Perfect.”“You sure you’ve never done this before?” the guy grinned, wiping his brow.I smiled faintly. “Not professionally.”The air shifted behind me, and I turned to see Frankie Thompson coming my way. He looked the same as always—creased button-up, rolled sleeves, clipboard thicker tha
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY-SEVEN
WESLEY's POVThe door slammed behind me, hard enough to rattle the old hinges. Dust trembled on the spines of antique books. Mona didn’t flinch. She sat behind her desk with that ridiculous calm, flipping through one of her endless folders like I hadn’t just come in ready to tear the walls down.“You should’ve told me,” I said, voice clipped. “Before I got on the plane. Before I brought her here.”Her pen didn’t stop moving. “If I had, you wouldn’t have come.”“No. I wouldn’t have,” I said. I was trying to keep my voice level, but the heat was already rising in my throat. “And you damn well know why.”She looked up at last. Cool grey eyes, unreadable as always. “You’ve handled worse.”“This isn’t worse. This is him.”I didn’t say the name right away. Couldn’t. Saying it would make it real, and I was still hoping stupidly that it wasn’t.Mona exhaled slowly and set her pen down. “Yes,” she said. “It’s Salvatore. Or at least… a whisper of him. We haven’t confirmed his presence.”I stare
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY-SIX
CARA's POVThe island light filtered through the gauzy curtains like syrup—slow and golden, warming everything it touched. I sat cross-legged on my bed, hair damp from the shower, staring at my phone screen while the FaceTime call rang.Jenny’s face popped up, all frizzed curls and caffeine energy. “God, you look disgustingly relaxed. Are you exfoliating with sand and lies now?”I laughed. “Hi to you too.”She took a long sip of coffee and raised an eyebrow. “So how’s soft life in Barbados? Have you started ordering people around with a bell yet?”“If by soft life you mean stepping over armed guards to get to the front door, then sure. Luxury.”Jenny whistled. “Damn. Living like a Bond girl.”I leaned back against the headboard. “It’s weird. This place is gorgeous—like… absurdly gorgeous. But it’s also crawling with people who make me feel like I’m five minutes away from being thrown in a shark tank.”Jenny blinked. “Who?”I hesitated. “Wesley’s mom showed up a few days ago. Mona.”He
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY-FIVE (Wesley's Debut)
WESLEY'S POVThe call came just before midnight. One of the lieutenants, voice tight with urgency.“Containers at the east docks. Fire. Three confirmed so far.”I stood, phone still pressed to my ear, staring out the hallway window as the voice crackled through. Three containers. That wasn’t an accident. That was a message.As I stepped out of my room, I passed Cara’s door. It was cracked open. I almost didn’t look, but something caught my eye. A soft gold light. The sound of brushes moving across canvas.She stood in front of the easel, barefoot. The room smelled like turpentine and clean sweat. The painting wasn’t the usual shadows and smoke she leaned toward. It was… different.A wide field. Dry. Colorless, almost. The sky above it an impossible shade of blue. Empty. Hot. Vast.She didn’t notice me at first.“What happened to the woman in the dark?” I asked quietly.Cara flinched and turned. She looked tired, but not weak. “She’s still there,” she said. “You just can’t see her yet.
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY-FOUR
CARA's POVThe scent of sawdust and paint hit me before the car even rolled to a stop. Morning sunlight bounced off the unfinished glass panels of the Bridgetown gallery, casting fractured patterns across the sidewalk. Workers in neon vests moved in and out, hammering, lifting, shouting in short bursts. It was alive with motion, but something about it felt half-strangled.Cooper pulled the sleek SUV up to the curb, engine low and steady. He didn’t speak. He rarely did unless necessary, but his eyes followed every movement in the rearview mirror. He gave me a small nod as I opened the door.“I’ll be here,” he said.I stepped out into the heat and adjusted my blazer. The dust clung instantly to the hem of my trousers.Inside, the space was still rough. The bones of it were here—tall ceilings, raw gallery walls, skeletal scaffolding reaching toward skylights not yet fitted with glass. Somewhere deep inside me, the artist in me stirred. The potential was breathtaking, even buried beneath
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY-THREE
CARA's POVThe gown slid over my skin like it had been stitched from molten silk. A deep wine-red, it clung to my hips, dipped low across my chest, and exposed more of my back than I was used to showing. Every movement I made felt curated, deliberate—like the fabric had its own agenda.Golden light poured through the tall windows, staining the floor with long shadows. I stood before the mirror, smoothing the front of the dress with both hands, heart slow but loud. My hair was pinned up, strands falling soft and intentional around my face. I looked like someone I didn’t quite recognize. A woman designed for war by other means.I wasn’t supposed to belong here.So I’d act like I did.At least until I could make my way through this twisted parade of crystal and secrets.There was a knock at the door.I turned. “Come in.”Wesley stepped inside, dressed in a tux so sharp it made silence feel like a weapon. His jacket fit him like a second skin, collar precise, the black of it darker than n
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