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SIXTY-THREE
Last Updated:
2025-07-02 22:28:45
Latest chapter
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
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY-TWO
CARA's POVThe dining room looked like something out of a Renaissance painting—long mahogany table polished so smooth it reflected candlelight like still water, gold silverware catching soft glints under the chandelier’s glow. Everything gleamed. Everything whispered power.I was seated to the left of Mona Morano.Of course.Wesley’s place beside me was still empty.Across the table sat Nico—lean, handsome, relaxed in that way people are when they’ve never had to try too hard. His collar open, his smile lazy. Beside him sat Pamela, dressed like she’d planned this moment down to the tilt of her fork. Her smile, when it appeared, was small and sharp.The food was absurdly beautiful. Lobster tails brushed with garlic and herbs. Snapper laid out like a painting in coconut sauce. Steaming bowls of callaloo and rice touched with saffron. Plantains grilled just until caramelized, spritzers with blood-orange pulp floating like little suns.I wasn’t hungry.I’d barely touched the lobster when
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY-ONE
CARA's POVI didn’t move.Mona Morano’s name still hung in the air like a spell I hadn’t been prepared for. She stood in my room as if she owned it—or perhaps as if she were deciding whether to burn it down. The faintest curl lifted the corner of her red-painted lips, though I couldn’t decide if it was amusement or distaste.She moved without a word, gliding through the space on sharp heels that barely made a sound against the polished floors. Her fingers, elegant and bare of any rings, drifted across my things—a pair of broken-in work shoes near the dresser, a zippered pouch of my travel paints on the desk, the curatorial text I’d fallen asleep reading last night.She picked it up, turned it over slowly in her hand, then placed it back down without comment.“Do you always keep your room this… lived-in?” she asked finally, not looking at me.My mouth was dry. “I wasn’t expecting company.”She smiled faintly at the window. “No. I imagine you weren’t.”Then she turned to face me again,
His Heartbroken Surrogate SIXTY
CARA's POVBy the time we pulled through the front gates of the Morano estate, the sun had started its slow descent. Golden light poured across the stone courtyard, soaking everything in a lazy, molten warmth. I stepped out of the SUV with a stretch and a sigh, my shirt sticking to my back and dust clinging to my calves. My hair had half-fallen out of its bun, but I didn’t care. I felt good—tired in the best way. My sketchpad was full of notes and ideas, and the Bridgetown gallery was finally starting to look like something real.The smell of garlic and chilies met me before I even reached the front door.Angela was in the kitchen, stirring a thick, red sauce in a pan that hissed with oil. She glanced over her shoulder, her curls pulled into a high puff, her face glowing with sweat and pride.“Look at you,” she said, grinning. “You’re glowing.”“That’s sweat,” I said, toeing off my shoes by the threshold.“Mmhmm. Pregnancy glow then.” She turned back to the stove, flicking her wrist w
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