All Chapters of Addicted to My Stepbrother : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

​I stared at the name on the report until my eyes burned. Arthur Pendelton was not just a museum assistant. Years ago, long before he ever worked at the Vance Institute, he worked for my late father. After my father passed away, Arthur went to work for his old business partner, Richard Sterling my father old rival.​My fingers pressed hard against the edge of the desk. The past was not just creeping back into my life. It was walking right through my studio door.​I grabbed my coat, locked the door behind me, and took a taxi straight to the Vance Institute. I did not call ahead. I did not ask for an appointment. I walked past the front lobby, skipped the main elevators, and took the back stairs up to the office floor.​Arthur was sitting at a glass desk outside Eleanor Vance's main office, typing on a keyboard. When the heavy stairwell door shut, his head snapped up. His face lost all its color the moment our eyes met.​"Miss John," Arthur said, standing up so fast his chair rolled bac

The white drop cloth lay on the floor like a dirty rag. I stared at the canvas, my eyes burning under the bright studio lamps.​Arthur's words kept repeating in my head. They didn't care about my portfolio. They didn't care about my sketches, my Geneva contract, or my old paintings. They only wanted this single piece.​I grabbed a small work light from my shelf, clicked it on, and stepped up to the easel. The bright beam shone across the dark blues and reds, showing every brushstroke and layer of wet paint.​What was in this painting?​It was raw, personal work. A woman stood in a cold room, her wrists tied in dark silk ribbons that pulled back into a shadow behind her. I had painted it over the past three weeks during long, sleepless nights. I hadn't even stopped to think about where the idea came from.​I leaned closer, bringing the light right up to the bottom corner where the dark ribbons disappeared into the background.​My breath caught in my throat.​Hidden beneath the thin lay

Sunlight poured through the dusty studio windows, hitting the white sheet draped over my easel. My coffee was already cold. Down on the street, traffic hummed three floors below. Charles Vance wanted this painting hidden. He wanted the iron gate beneath the dark silk ribbons kept in the dark, safe from the international press and Swiss archives. Fifteen years after my father's business collapsed at the Sterling Estate, he was still terrified the truth would come out.I set my cold mug down and grabbed my phone. I called Miller at Apex Security, the private transport company I hired after Arthur broke in."Apex Security, Miller speaking," a sharp voice said."Miller, it's Tamara," I said, leaning against the table. "I need to upgrade the shipping for Geneva next Tuesday. I want GPS tracking, a hard-shell climate case with dual fingerprint locks, and two armed guards from my loading dock straight to the terminal."There was a pause and the sound of typing. "We can do that, Miss John. It

​The glowing laptop screen cast a harsh blue light across my dark studio. I sat frozen in my chair, staring at ten years of digital files, payment records, and private notes that Charles Vance had built around my life.​A heavy, sick feeling settled deep in my stomach. Every big moment, every setback, and every sudden chance in my early career had not been luck. It had all been planned.​Six years ago, an unknown buyer bought my entire final collection at my art school graduation show. They paid double my asking price on the exact day I was about to get kicked out of my basement apartment. That was Charles Vance. Three years ago, a big gallery in Paris suddenly pulled my paintings from a major show right before people started bidding, leaving me with no buyers. That was Charles Vance, too.​He was not trying to ruin me back then. He was managing my career. He saw early on that my talent could attract big collectors and international attention. But he wanted total control over my growt

The padlock snapped open. I caught it before it hit the ground and shoved the key into my coat pocket. Five in the morning. Two hours before the Apex Security team was due back at my studio for the final crate loading. I pulled the door of Unit 412 upward, and it screeched across the metal tracks, the sound carrying through the empty gravel yard. I paused for a second, listening, but there was nothing except the wind coming off the harbor.Dust hung in the air, mixed with the smell of damp concrete and old paper. I switched on my heavy rubber flashlight and swept the beam across the storage unit. Wooden shipping crates were stacked along one wall, covered furniture sat beneath dusty sheets, and rows of gray steel filing cabinets filled the back of the room. I walked toward them, already feeling a strange tension in my chest.Four tall cabinets stood beneath a torn plastic tarp. I pulled it away, sending a cloud of dust onto the floor. The second cabinet had the same serpent emblem and