I Surrender to Them のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 141 - チャプター 150

OLIVIERPAST — 9 YEARS AGOPARIS, FRANCE — OLIVIER'S HOUSEFinally healed. The scars still ache, but they're only physical marks—inside, the wound still burns like fire. Pyotr thought he would destroy me by attacking my family, but he underestimated my will to survive. And now, while the world believes I'm dead or disappeared, I work in the shadows, letting Henri take command of my business. He's the only one I trust, my right hand, my brother in all but blood.The room is dark, only the dim light of a lamp illuminating the documents scattered across the table. I study every move, every transaction, every loose thread that might lead me to Pyotr. And then, the door opens. Henri enters, his face serious, his eyes carrying something that isn't just duty—it's discovery."Olivier, I have something important."He doesn't need to say more. His tone already tells me things are about to change."Speak."Henri places a dossier in front of me, opening it to reveal photographs and reports."Pyot

PIERREThe weekend evaporated too quickly.Monday arrives without mercy.I'm standing in the underground parking lot of the Ritz, after spending nearly three hours trapped in a meeting room surrounded by gold walls and burgundy velvet curtains. The air conditioning had turned the space into a cold chamber, but nothing was enough to erase the memory of the heat of her body against mine.I can still taste the skin of her neck.The low sound that escaped her lips when my teeth found that spot between her shoulder and neck still echoes in my head.Beside me, Antoine talks nonstop.His fingers drum on the red briefcase he received from his sister years ago, while he lists numbers, schedules, and strategies."If we delay production in Milan by two weeks, we can reallocate the budget to the digital campaign without sacrificing the Tokyo launch."His voice carries the same precision as always. The same he had at Harvard, when we spent nights planning how to turn the Maison into something bigg

The glass of my office window is cold beneath my fingers.For the fifth time in less than ten minutes, I check the clock.9:47.Elizabeth is late.For anyone else, that would go unnoticed. For her, no. Punctuality was never just a detail; it was part of who she was.The coffee I'm holding has already gone cold.A double espresso with a pinch of cinnamon.I discovered this habit during the mornings in my apartment, when she would make her own coffee, still sleepy, hair messy, movements slow, as if the world hadn't fully woken up yet.Then she appears.She emerges between two black BMWs, walking quickly toward the Maison entrance.The cobalt blue Dior dress follows every step without hiding the elegance. The side slit reveals a glimpse of her legs before disappearing again. Her loose hair sways in the wind, exactly how I like it.My heart races.Ridiculous.Before I can think better of it, I'm already out of the office, glass in hand.The coffee has become just an excuse.I want to see

PRESENTPARIS, FRANCEMy body still carries the weight of the weekend like a war medal. Saturday exhausted me in every way imaginable. The marble bathtub where he led me for a bath remains in my memory; I relaxed so much that I collapsed from exhaustion. The hot water and his fingers pulling the last breath out of me are still etched into my skin.Sunday was a soft contrast: silk sheets, his lazy lips tracing my contours, a French film he insisted was "essential" playing as background noise while I dozed against his chest.He can't be Olivier, the man who gives me the best orgasms, who planned a weekend like that to be with me. He can't be the man I'm destined to kill.The one who, little by little, no matter how much I deny it, is gaining a place in my heart.Today, we woke up early — too early for my taste — and he dropped me off at the studio with a kiss that promised things no boss should promise an employee. I had to push him out before my team arrived, his dark eyes laughing at

PRESENTPARIS, FRANCEThe night wind still howls in my ears as I cross the threshold of the apartment. My footsteps echo on the cold marble, each heel strike marking the accelerated rhythm of my heart. The smell of blood and river still clings to my clothes — a physical reminder of what I just did.They're already waiting.Yakov sits on the arm of the sofa, his elbow resting on his knee, restless fingers drumming against his own thigh. Vasily, as always, stands — a sentinel in dark clothes, impeccable, with steel eyes. The silence between them is heavy, charged."Where were you?" Yakov's voice is low and dark, too rough to hide the concern seeping through the corners of his eyes.My hands tremble as I pull my hair back."I was with Michael." The words come out like a confession, heavy and bitter on my tongue.The air in the apartment seems to solidify. Vasily lets out a hoarse "fuck," his hands clenching into fists so tight his knuckles turn white."Is that blood on your clothes his or