Todos os capítulos de Sold to the Devil: His Ruthless Vow: Capítulo 51 - Capítulo 60

The Gulfstream G650 cut through the clouds at forty thousand feet.Inside the cabin, the air was pressurized and silent. There was no champagne this time. No celebrating.Julian sat across from me, a tablet in his hand. He hadn't slept since the phone call. He was reading files, memorizing names, analyzing stock portfolios."Listen to me closely," Julian said, not looking up from the screen. "Geneva is not New York. In New York, if someone has a problem with you, they send a hitman. In Geneva, they freeze your bank accounts, plant evidence on your laptop, and have you arrested for espionage before breakfast.""So how do we fight them?" I asked. I was clutching the armrest, watching the snow-capped Alps appear through the window."We don't fight," Julian said. "We negotiate. We are walking into a room with the five richest people on the planet. They think they summoned a thug. I need to show them they summoned a partner."He finally looked up. His eyes were hard."And you.""What about

Monte Carlo was a city built for sin, disguised as a paradise.The Hotel de Paris was an opulent palace of gold leaf and marble, overlooking the harbor where superyachts bobbed in the Mediterranean sun. The streets were already being barricaded for the Grand Prix; the smell of burning rubber and sea salt hung in the air.In our suite, the mood was far from relaxed.Julian was checking a small, suppressed pistol before tucking it into the waistband of his tuxedo trousers. He adjusted his cummerbund, hiding the weapon perfectly."Remember the rules," he said, catching my eye in the mirror. "Dante Moretti is paranoid. He won't talk business with a stranger. We have to make him come to us.""And how do we do that?" I asked, stepping out of the dressing room.I was wearing emerald green. The dress was silk, floor-length, with a slit that went dangerously high up my thigh and a neckline that plunged deep. It was a dress designed to distract. A dress designed to stop hearts.Julian stopped.

The Villa Diodati was silent when we returned, save for the hum of the servers in the basement.Julian didn't wait. He didn't even take off his tuxedo jacket. He marched straight into the secure command center, a windowless room reinforced with steel.I followed him, kicking off my heels at the door. The emerald dress felt heavy now, the adrenaline of the heist fading into a cold, gnawing anxiety."Connect it," Julian ordered, tossing the drive to his head of IT, a young genius named Bex who looked terrified to be awake at 3:00 AM.Bex plugged the drive into an isolated air-gapped laptop. Fingers flew across the keyboard."It's encrypted, boss. Military grade. 256-bit AES.""Crack it," Julian said, pacing behind the chair. "Use the brute force algorithm. I don't care if you melt the processor.""I don't need to brute force it," Bex muttered, typing a string of characters. "Moretti is arrogant. He used a variation of his own date of birth."Click.The screen flashed green. ACCESS GRANT

The incident at the Hotel Beau-Rivage was efficient, loud, and public.I had waited until the lobby was full of diplomats and tourists. I started by shouting at a waiter, accusing him of poisoning my water. Then I threw a Baccarat crystal vase at a mirror, shattering it. I screamed about "cameras in the walls" and "spiders under my skin."By the time the paramedics arrived, I was sobbing on the marble floor, shaking violently. Julian played his part perfectly—the devastated, overwhelmed husband who didn't know what to do with his fragile wife.The referral to Saint-Jude’s was signed within the hour.Now, we were driving up the winding mountain road in a black town car. The air grew thinner and colder as we climbed. The pristine beauty of Lake Geneva disappeared, replaced by jagged gray rock and mist that clung to the windshield."You can still back out," Julian said. His voice was tight. He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. "Say the word, Vivian. We turn

Seven o'clock.The common room had been rearranged. The plush armchairs were pushed back against the walls, replaced by a ring of hard plastic folding chairs in the center of the room.The "Guests" and the "Blanks" were mixed together. It was a grotesque seating chart. A weeping heiress sat next to a man who stared at his own knees like they were foreign objects.Dr. Sterling stood in the center of the circle. He wasn't wearing a lab coat. He was wearing a cashmere sweater and slacks, looking like a friendly university professor. But his eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses were shark-like. They didn't blink enough."Welcome, everyone," Sterling said, his voice a soothing baritone. "Tonight, we are going to talk about burden."He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the interior of the circle."We all carry burdens. Guilt. Fear. Secrets. They are heavy, aren't they? They drag us down. They break our minds."He stopped in front of Number 734. Me."Vivian," he said softly.