All Chapters of Desired by the Billionaire Brothers: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Veronica's POV:An hour later Theo had to leave. “Client in Malibu,” he said, apologetic and businesslike. He kissed my forehead as he stood. “Text me if you need anything. Don’t stay up too late.” Then he was gone, and there was only quietness around me.Working alone suddenly felt harder. The prototype still needed polishing; the rendering stalled on my screen, a spinning icon that mocked me. If I could just finish this one build, I told myself, I could log off and breathe.I leaned back in my chair, rubbing the tension from my neck, when sudden, pounding party music erupted from downstairs, shaking the entire beach house that was quiet before.“What the hell…?” I muttered, pushing myself up.As I looked down the railing, I froze. There was a party happening in the living room downstairs. And right in the center of it—was Maximilian Ashford.Max was shirtless, revealing all of his tattoos which were intricate designs that run across his sculpted chest and curled down his back, dark a

Veronica's POV:I woke up to the sound of chaos outside... overlapping voices, hurried footsteps, and the relentless clicking of cameras.At first, I thought I was dreaming. I buried my head under the pillow, too tired to care. But the sound only grew louder like something sharp, insistent, shouting. I just couldn't sleep after that.With a groan, I pushed myself out of bed and stumbled toward the window. And what I saw made the sleep drain out of me completely.A crowd of reporters was gathered outside the gates of the Ashford beach house, microphones raised, cameras flashing. They were swarming the housemaids at the entrance, shouting over one another.“Can you confirm what happened to Miss Whitmore last night?”“Was she assaulted by the intruder?”“Does the victim have any physical injuries?”What the actual hell…?The house staff looked completely overwhelmed. One of them, poor Clara, tried to keep her composure as she faced the chaos.“Miss Whitmore isn’t here. We don't know who s

Veronica's POV:Theo rubbed his temples lightly. “I feel like I’m getting a migraine,” he murmured. “I should probably go do my pranayama.”“Prana… what?” I blinked, tilting my head in curiosity.He smiled faintly. “Pranayama. It’s a form of yoga—breathing exercises. I’ve been doing it for years.” He hesitated, his tone softening. “Actually… I’ve been deeply involved in it for a long time. Since I was a teenager, really.”“I took my first Kundalini yoga class when I was sixteen. My father was… harsh, always pushing, always demanding perfection. Yoga was the only thing that helped me stay grounded. Helped me build everything I have today without losing myself.”Then he continued explaining the stuff he did in his yoga routine, and explanation of ther various postures he did, and the chakras he worked on.I found myself dissolving into nothing, listening to him. Theo's knowledge and his way of explaining was of other wordly... he was just too beautiful inside and out.“So…” he said light

Veronica's POV:“Hey, my baby brother,” Max said, raising his glass with a crooked grin. “What are the odds, huh? You always show up right when I’m busy wasting myself… every single time.”Theo sighed, the sound carrying more exhaustion than anger. His gaze then dropped to the table... where three neat white lines cut perfectly across the glass surface. “What the hell is this, Max?” His tone sharpened. “I thought we agreed on the no-drugs rule. Do you even realize you could die from this?”However, Max only chuckled, leaning back on the couch with mock amusement. “Relax... Saint... Theo,” he said, too slow and slurred. “Death’s not really my plan tonight. I’m just… surviving in style.”Theo’s jaw tightened. He leaned down and grabbed his brother’s arm firmly. “That’s it, Max... I’m done with this,” He commended. “Get up. We’re leaving. Now.”But Max didn’t move. He stared up at Theo with a half-smirk, testing him. “Funny thing, Theo... even with me being the older one, you’ve always be

Veronica's POV:Never in a million years did I assume that Maximilian Ashford, who flaunted the typical bad-boy image could have such a tragedy behind his heart.The picture of him in my mind shifted entirely. I could almost see it, the eleven-year-old boy he once was... trapped in a wreck of twisted metal and shattered glass, hearing his mother’s screams... and the smell of gasoline thick in the air.How small he must have felt. How powerless.He did really look very sweet in his childhood photo... but here he was, all grown, reckless... covering his body that was once innocent with tattoos.My eyes drifted before I realized it, tracing the faint lines across his torso.The tattoos that ran down his ribs weren’t random or decorative; they seemed to follow something... faint, jagged shapes that could only be healed wounds.Were they… cover-ups for his scars?I didn’t mean to stare at him, but my gaze lingered longer than it should have.I was studying the man who everyone called irresp