Todos los capítulos de Between Her Shithead And The Wrong Brother : Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

Ariella’s POV.I watched the footage three times. Each frame etched deeper into my mind, Damon in a dimly lit suite, shirt undone, a woman in red tracing his jaw, her voice low, seductive. Her name was Amira Caine, international consultant and former intelligence asset. I knew the face. The voice. The agenda.She wasn’t there for sex. She was there for leverage. I didn’t rage. I calculated. I replayed their exchange, isolating the audio. “If you fail, I don’t clean up.” Damon bellowed.“I won’t. But if I succeed, I want options.” Amira replied“You'll get them. Discretion buys you entry.” Damon said, finally. He had already started covering his exits. I wasn’t his only player anymore. “She left at 3:20 a.m. We got footage. Working facial match.”I replied, “Already did. Name’s Amira Caine. Watch her contacts.” By 6:30, I was dressed in navy. Not red. No lace. Just structure. Precision. I wasn’t here to seduce. I was here to dismantle. At 7:10, I walked into the penthouse Damon hadn’

Ariella's The digital map glowed dimly across the wall, pins and strings connecting names, deeds, and betrayals. At its center was Damon’s face. The list of bank accounts had just been updated, with new movements and encrypted transfers into a trust registered under a shell company in Dubai, a signal. Damon was preparing an escape route.I tapped the burner. “Marcus, he’s moving the money again.”“Affirmative. And Ariella... he’s in Dubai next week. Quiet trip. No board notice. No press.”I closed the ledger. “Then we get ahead of it.”“Should I arrange tail surveillance?”“No. I’ll handle it personally.”Marcus hesitated. “Ariella, you’re getting too close.”“I want him to know it’s me.”Before the call ended, I loaded the decoy file. Not the real documents, not yet. This one would trace back to a familiar shell firm: Camdis Ventures, the business Damon buried six years ago after a failed bribery scandal. I sent the file anonymously to two members of the corporate board.By 10 a.m.,

Ariella’s POVI didn’t sleep. Not even an hour. My night was raw, fractured by jagged thoughts. All I could see was the fire I’d sparked underneath Damon’s empire, burning bright behind my eyes.By 5:00 a.m. I dressed in a black turtleneck, flat shoes, and gloves—shadows for armor, not fashion. I ghosted through the penthouse, each step silent, deliberate. At the burner, the message glowed with unease:“Thorne House Archive. East Wing. 9:30 a.m. He’s clearing records. You need to get in first.” I read the lines many times, stared at the words until they branded themselves into my mind.I’d planned to wait. Collect, analyze, strike later.But this? This was an opportunity clawing at my window.I replied with one word.“Going.”At 8:45 a.m., I nestled my car under a sycamore two blocks from the Thorne estate. The East Wing, absent on blueprints, still lived sharp in my memory: once a forgotten storehouse, now a vault swaddled in pretense. The world saw an art gallery, all cool marble an

Ariella’s POVI noticed it immediately: papers misaligned by millimeters, a scent that didn’t belong, and the surveillance app freezing for exactly seven minutes at 2:03 p.m.The drawer I always locked was now flush, not recessed. My chair faced a sharper angle toward the window. The air held a note of unfamiliar cologne, sharp, industrial, and not Marcus’s, not Damon’s. Someone had been here.I checked the internal logs. Loop confirmed. Seven minutes of overwritten data. Not an accidental glitch. Someone had slipped past me while I was out picking up secure mail.Not Marcus. Not Elsa.Someone new.I locked the penthouse down. Windows sealed. Devices silenced. Burner powered. My hands moved faster than my thoughts. Panic lingered at the edge, but I filed it away. Fear was inefficient.I swept the room manually, one grid at a time.It was beneath the coffee table. Taped with transparent fiber and matte edges.A coin drive. Silver, cold, unmarked.I slid it into my air-gapped laptop.On

Ariella’s POVI didn’t wait for dawn. There wasn’t time anymore.By 4:15 a.m., I was in the basement of the old boutique Layla used to manage, now converted into one of our fallback data points. The drive Damon tried to wipe wasn’t just corrupted; it had been mirrored, and the original metadata had slipped through before the encryption collapsed.I uploaded the file.There are frames inside a buried subfolder. Damon, not in Zurich, but Tangier. And beside him? The man from the coin drive. Tall. Gray eyes. Surgical coldness in his expression. They weren’t allies. They were partners.“Name,” I said aloud.The facial match engine ran slowly, then displayed a result: Nathaniel M. Roe, former paramilitary contractor turned asset broker. Sanctioned. Blacklisted. Alive, apparently.My stomach clenched. Roe wasn’t a shadow. He was a ghost. The kind the government didn’t claim, and no one crossed. Why Damon?I called Marcus.He answered without a greeting. “I’m listening.”“Roe. Tangier. Four