LOGINI loved my foster brother, Cayden, for five years—five years of hiding, lying, and choking on the shame that came with every kiss, every touch, every lie. I should have hated myself for it, but I loved him too much for that to matter. I thought we had a future, until his first love, the one who had once shattered him, returned without warning. Suddenly, I was nothing more than a dirty secret. While he smiled at his engagement party, I was lying in a hospital bed, waiting for death, worn down by my heart condition and his cold neglect. I was as good as gone. Until Miles, who would later become my fiancé, saved me. A year later, I came back—with a loving fiancé, a healthy body, and a new life. Cayden seemed broken by my “death,” but all I felt was bitter irony. We were foster siblings, never meant to be together. He was just a mistake from my past, a mistake I swore I’d never repeat. But life didn’t turn out as smooth as I imagined. Miles carried secrets, and Cayden… he wasn’t ready to let me go.
View MoreAmelia’s POVScarlett knew exactly what she was doing when she went live wearing that dress. The post, the video, the little captions that came with her rehearsed laugh—none of it was an accident. She was dangling the dress, the one I had loved and returned, right in front of me like bait on a hook. And the public ate it up. Comments calling her “classy,” “elegant,” “the real winner.”My phone buzzed again. A message from the anonymous ID—the one who had tipped me during the livestream.Sorry. I didn’t expect the dress would cause trouble.I stared at the words for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I typed back.Thank you for helping me that day. It was my choice to return the dress. How could I blame you for that?The typing bubble blinked once. Then nothing. Silence. Whoever they were, they’d said their piece and disappeared.I tossed the phone on the sofa, running both hands through my hair. I hated how Scarlett got under my skin. I hated even more that part of me w
Cayden’s POVBusiness is war. Not the kind fought with bullets, but with headlines, numbers, and whispers in boardrooms. And right now, I was losing ground.The launch of Posh Posh, my new lifestyle brand, was supposed to be flawless. Months of planning, weeks of teasing, a carefully orchestrated campaign. The first wave of products had barely hit the shelves when the blow came.Maison de Clairmont.Even the name was pretentious, French-leaning, dripping with borrowed prestige. Scarlett’s ex-husband’s company. He had bided his time like a snake in the grass, then struck the same week as my launch, flooding the market with a near-identical product line.When Harvey placed a sample box on my desk, I tore into it like it had personally insulted me.The packaging was sleek, but when I twisted open a serum, the liquid sloshed too thin, cheap fragrance flooding the air. “Garbage,” I muttered, smearing it across a glossy paper. The formula separated almost instantly, oil slicking over the
Amelia’s POVPRESENT“The police said the man got drunk, fell into the sea, and drowned,” Eric told me as I scrolled down his phone screen. A blurry photo of the shoreline filled the article—police tape, uniforms, a body blurred out under a sheet.“That is insane,” I muttered, shoving the phone back at him. “How did he even get to leave the station? He attacked me. They should’ve kept him locked up.”Eric shrugged, tapping the screen closed like the story wasn’t worth another thought. “Maybe someone paid his bail. Happens all the time. Guy walks free, gets drunk, does something stupid. The report says his blood alcohol was through the roof. Open and shut.”Open and shut.But something twisted in my gut. The ribs on the platter in front of us, shiny with glaze, suddenly smelled too rich, too heavy, like oil in the back of my throat. The words on the article replayed in my head. Fell into the sea. Drowned. Just like that?I shifted in my chair, unsettled. The chatter, the clinking of
Miles’s POVONE NIGHT AGO The water was flat as gunmetal, the kind of calm that makes men confident enough to say yes to stupid, expensive things.We idled past the breakwater, just far enough from the yacht clubs and their binoculars. The city shrank to a jagged necklace of light. My captain cut the engines to a low purr.The client—navy blazer, loafers soft as pastry—leaned on the rail like he owned the horizon. His hair didn’t move in the wind. Men who buy hair like that assume weather is something that happens to other people.He didn’t bother with prefaces. “We’re expanding,” he said, voice pitched low. “Same routes we discussed. But this time the cargo isn’t trinkets.”“Not porcelain, then.” I let the word warm on my tongue, lazy, bored. “You want speed, discretion, and paperwork that says the boxes contain ‘handicrafts.’” A small smile. “My specialty.”He studied me. His hands were clean, his conscience probably wasn’t. “Weapons.”“There’s a war in every decade,” I said. “Supp
Cayden’s POVThe therapist’s office smelled of lavender oil and polished wood. Warm. Calming. Designed to make people relax.It only made my skin crawl.I sat in the same leather chair I’d been ordered into for nearly a year. My father had dragged me here after Amelia’s death, convinced “profession
Amelia’s POVScarlett’s gasp sliced through the hum of the ballroom.Her eyes locked on me, wide with disbelief, her hand tightening on Cayden’s arm. And for a beat, the entire room seemed to pause. Champagne flutes hovered mid-air. Conversations faltered. I felt the weight of dozens of curious sta
Amelia’s POVThe blue satin slid cool over my skin, catching the light as I turned in front of the mirror. I didn’t even like the dress. I hadn’t liked any of this from the start.When the invitation for the Posh Posh launch first arrived, my instinct had been to decline. I didn’t want to step int
Cayden’s POVThe police station smelled of metal and sweat. I sat stiff-backed on the bench, jaw clenched, waiting for the next humiliation.At last, the officer slid the paperwork across the desk and cleared his throat. “Mr. Morgan. Mr. Miles and Miss Sophie have decided not to press charges. You
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