บททั้งหมดของ Taming The Hart Brothers: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime—a sound far too polite for the jagged tension crackling in the air. I stepped out last, my scuffed heels clicking against the black marble floor like a warning. I felt like an intruder, a smudge of dirt on a pristine canvas. The penthouse was breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering sprawl of the city, but the luxury did nothing to warm the air. It was freezing. This wasn't a home; it was a stage set for four men who looked at me like I was a parasite draining their lifeblood. Lucien didn’t even give me a second to catch my breath. He tossed his suit jacket over a leather sofa and turned, his silver-gray eyes locking onto mine with the kind of clinical detachment that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope. "Rules," he said, about to repeat what he exactly said hours ago at the boardroom. His voice was clipped, mean, and carried the weight of a man who didn't just expect obedience, he commanded

I woke up with the kind of headache that felt like a tiny sledgehammer was rhythmicly pounding against the inside of my skull. For a fleeting, blissful second, I forgot where I was. Then, the scent of expensive linen and the oppressive silence of the room hit me. The Hart penthouse. The lion’s den. I bolted upright, checking the clock on the bedside table. 7:35 AM. "Shit," I hissed, scrambling out of the covers. Lucien had been crystal clear about his deadlines. I dove into the shower, the hot water doing little to wash away the memory of Damon’s gun pressed against my temple or the way Kai’s blue eyes looked at me like I was a virus in his clean code. I didn't have time for a full transformation. I threw on the only things I had left in my suitcase—a pair of faded jeans and a slightly oversized hoodie. It was a stark contrast to the black thrift-store gown I’d worn to the boardroom battle, but it was me. I brushed my hair with trembling fingers, styling it clumsily as I sprin

The mahogany boardroom table felt like a runway for an execution, and I was the only one without a blindfold.We had been trapped in this airless room for four hours. I sat in a stiff chair behind Lucien, my hand cramping into a permanent claw as I scribbled notes that felt less like business minutes and more like a record of a massacre.Lucien didn’t lead; he hunted. Every time a director dared to breathe, he cut them down with a single, icy look. He didn't want their respect; he wanted to remind them who owned the air they breathed. By the time the last director scurried out—looking like they were escaping a burning building—the sun had long since surrendered. The floor-to-ceiling windows now looked out over a city draped in bruised purples and heartless neon.I rubbed my sore wrist, my brain feeling like a tangled mess. Lucien stood up, adjusting his silver cufflinks with a terrifying calm, as if he hadn't dismantled his whole board. He didn't look tired. He looked fed."I’m stayin

The interior of the SUV was a stark contrast to the filth of the alleyway. It smelled of expensive leather, gun oil, and the lingering scent of Damon’s smoke. Outside the armored glass, the city blurred into streaks of neon, but inside, the silence was heavy enough to choke on.Damon sat beside me, his long legs stretched out, seemingly unaffected by the fact that he had just put a bullet through a man’s hand. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the back of the driver’s head, his expression unreadable."Thank you," I whispered, my voice still trembling. My fingers were curled into the fabric of the seat so tightly my knuckles were white. "If you hadn't shown up… I don’t even want to think about where I’d be right now."Damon finally turned his head. The shadows played across the sharp angles of his face, making him look more like a god than a man. He reached out, his hand tracing the line of my jaw in a way it made me almost go crazy. It wasn't a caress; it was a check of his n

Scarlett’s POV If Lucien was the ice and Damon was the shadow, Theo was the blinding, chaotic sun. I stood at the edge of the photography set, clutching a tray of expensive lattes like my life depended on it. Theo had sent me out twenty minutes ago with a list of "very specific" caffeine requirements, and as I maneuvered through the maze of cables and lighting rigs, I couldn't help but wonder if I had traded a life of dancing for a life as a glorified, live-in maid. Is this the Hart legacy? I thought bitterly. Boardrooms by night, barista by day? I was so busy staring at the back of Theo’s head, watching him bask in the sighs and fawning looks of a dozen female assistants—that I didn't see the figure stepping out from behind a black velvet curtain. I slammed into something solid. Hard. The tray tilted, and the cups went flying. A dark, scalding wave of espresso and milk erupted, drenching the front of the man’s pristine, limited-edition white tech-wear hoodie. The studio went s