Lahat ng Kabanata ng Aaliyah’s Return : Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

I was nineteen when I followed Geena into The Noir Flame.Nineteen. Naive. Stupid. Thinking I had hit the jackpot and a few professional photos could change my life. I had already started calculating what I'd do with the money in my head — silly, huh?I didn't know the cameras were fake. I didn't know the drink they handed me was an aphrodisiac — Spanish Fly. I didn't know I was being handed over like some kind of… offering.I trusted them. Geena, my sister. Karly, my best friend. They'd talked about this opportunity for weeks — "It's an exclusive studio," they said. "No one gets in unless they're handpicked by a well-known scout."They smiled the whole way there, practically buzzing with excitement. I ignored the pit in my stomach and believed them. Why wouldn't I?I remember the smell of the place before anything else — old money, expensive Cuban cigars, sex. Everything was warm, candlelit, and intimidating. The kind of place where people whisper instead of speak.We weren't even al

Desmond Luke had always lived a fast extravagant life. Fast cars. Fast women. Fast decisions. Born into wealth, but forged by tragedy, he was the kind of man who laughed too loudly in boardrooms and didn't flinch at danger or heartbreak. The death of his parents when he was just ten had changed something inside him, something permanent. But it didn't break him. Not completely.By nineteen, Desmond had already graduated from Wharton. By twenty-one, he was flipping distressed hotels into five-star paradises across the globe. By twenty-three, he was a Wall Street legend. Headlines called him a genius. The men called him lucky. The women called him an EnigmaAnd he didn't mind any of it.He ran his empire like he ran his life with precision and pleasure. There wasn't a single deal that Desmond didn't enjoy breaking down. There wasn't a single woman he believed he couldn't have in his bed. And there certainly wasn't a city where someone didn't recognize the name Desmond Luke. The Luke Dyna

Noah's Room After the whole debacle, I was a little frazzled, to be honest. I didn't want to walk back into Noah's room. He's sensitive and can always sense when I'm upset or sad. Instead, I took a walk around the block. I passed one of my favourite cafés and decided to walk in. I ordered a scoop of red velvet cheesecake ice cream and a scoop of red velvet. I sat down to enjoy my treat and something the reporter was saying on the television caught my attention. I turned around to listen attentively and grimaced. It was just what I thought I heard: "We are here with the Governor-elect, Mr. Morgan…" (Geena's husband.) Mr. Morgan Sparks is a native of Manhattan, he went to Manhattan High and just won the primaries to represent his party. I stared at his smug face. Geena stood beside him in a Chanel suit looking like Jackie Onassis. I must confess, she looks good. I drowned out whatever the asshole was saying and drifted back to high school — to a particular conversation we had before

I settle into a routine.Every day, I order breakfast from the patisserie nearby or sometimes Brandon sends it over. Then it's usually a toss-up between Desmond and Shawn one sends lunch, the other sends dinner. They never come all at once. Their visits alternate, almost like they have an unspoken schedule. Brandon is the constant. He visits every day, always carving out time to spend with his son. He's even taken us out to lunch and the park a few times. Noah loves those outings, and I… well, I pretend it's all casual, but it warms something in me that I thought had long gone cold. Dr. Lisa is thrilled with Noah's complete transformation. He's even gained a few pounds. The light is back in his eyes, and he laughs easily now — that full-bodied laughter that only children can manage. We're to be discharged tomorrow. Desmond will be picking us up at noon, and Brandon says he'll meet us at home after work.We dress casually that morning — matching T-shirts and jeans

The next morning, I woke up early. It's Saturday, but that doesn't mean I get to sleep in. I have a few remote meetings lined up, just like I mentioned earlier. One of them is with a client I've been meaning to get to for some time—Mr. Young. He's been trying to get a hold of me to help style his estate, and today's our first real walkthrough. I shower quickly, tie a loose silk robe over my nightwear, and move to the living room where I've already set up my workspace. I log into the call, and soon, Mr. Young's face fills my screen. He begins to show me around his sprawling estate via video—room by room, angle by angle, every inch of the space laid bare. His property isn't in Manhattan, but near Amanda. That means I can delegate. I'm only here to provide expert visual direction, and I'm more than happy to. We go deep into themes—clean Nordic lines, high-contrast accent vases, and layered resin pieces. I suggest the best painting arrangements, wood grains, and furniture curves. The co