บททั้งหมดของ The Mistress: บทที่ 71 - บทที่ 80

“Does the tie feel like a noose, or are we actually choosing to wear clothes today?”I leaned against the doorframe of the dressing room, clutching a mug of coffee like a lifeline. I watched Zander—the man who could dismantle a security system in sixty seconds—struggling with the collar of a tiny, crisp white shirt. Ethan was wiggling on a footstool, more interested in trying to see if he could make his new shoes squeak than in his father’s attempt at grooming.Zander didn’t look up, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “I’ve neutralized armed threats with less trouble than this button,” he muttered, finally getting the loop closed. He stepped back, ruffling Ethan’s hair so hard the poor kid’s head bobbed. “There. You look like a tiny boss.”“I look like I’m going to a wedding again,” Ethan giggled, jumping off the stool and doing a clumsy spin. “Zan, can I wear my dinosaur socks? The ones with the lasers?”Zander looked at the formal navy trousers of the elite academy uniform and

“If you’re trying to buy my soul, Julian, you should know the market price went up significantly after my last divorce.”I leaned back in the plush leather chair of my private office, crossing my legs with a deliberate, practiced calm. Across from me, Julian Vermon looked less like a corporate predator and more like a man enjoying a casual Sunday brunch. He was twirling an expensive fountain pen between his fingers, his eyes dancing with a playful light that made me want to either trust him or call security.“Vic, please. Souls are far too messy to manage. I’m much more interested in your portfolio,” Julian replied, his voice smooth and untroubled. He slid a thick, manila folder across the mahogany desk toward me. “Consider this a housewarming gift for your new role as Chairperson.”I opened the folder, and my heart skipped a beat. It was the deed to Vermon-Aesthetics, the subsidiary company I had been trying to acquire for weeks. The board had been blocking me, claiming the shares wer

The heavy oak doors of the study didn’t burst open. Instead, the footsteps stopped just outside. Silence stretched for a beat too long, thick enough to suffocate, before the lights flickered back to life with a violent hum.The hallway was empty.Zander’s hand was already on the hilt of the blade he kept hidden under the desk, his body a coiled spring of lethal intent. But there was no Julian. No monster. Just the lingering scent of sandalwood and the chilling realization that the perimeter of our “fortress” was as porous as silk.“He’s gone,” Zander whispered, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He didn’t look at me. He couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the door, his mind clearly racing through the implications of Julian’s last message.“Zan, look at me,” I said, my voice trembling but firm. “Project Omen. The death certificate. Why did he say you were there?”Zander finally turned, and for a second, I didn’t recognize him. The “Soft Dad” who had been wrestling wit

“If you break that stylus, Sophie, I’m charging it to your department’s dwindling budget.”I was propped up against a mountain of pillows in the master suite, a plate of sliced organic apples—courtesy of a very hovering Zander—sitting untouched on my lap. Sophie was pacing the length of the Persian rug, her tablet clutched so tightly her knuckles were white.“I didn’t do it, Vic. I swear on every designer bag I own, I did not send those files to the Chronicle,” Sophie gasped, her voice thick with a mixture of panic and betrayal. “I went to grab a latte for three minutes. Three minutes! When I came back, my outgoing mail was full of internal memos about the Vermon Art Foundation’s ‘mismanaged’ funds.”“I know you didn’t do it, Soph. Breathe,” I said, though my stomach felt like it was tied in a knot that had nothing to do with the pregnancy.The scandal had broken an hour ago. A minor leak, but a damaging one. Someone had framed the Foundation for laundering money—the very Foundation I

“If you don’t take that red dot off my chest in the next three seconds, Julian, I don’t care who’s watching through that window—I will end you, and I will enjoy the mess.”Zander’s voice wasn’t a shout. It was a low, vibrating snarl that seemed to rattle the windowpanes. He was half-risen from the bed, his body positioned as a human shield over mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to snap. His hand was hovering inches from the nightstand drawer where his custom Glock rested. But Julian didn’t look phased. He stayed leaning against the doorframe, the dim light from the hallway casting a long, jagged shadow that stretched across the Persian rug.“Always so aggressive, Zander. It’s the Blackwood in you,” Julian said, his voice dripping with mock pity. He tilted his head—that same unsettling gesture that mirrored my own. “You see a threat, you want to kill it. You never stop to ask if the threat is actually the only person in this zip code