All Chapters of The Stranger Hidden in My Sketchbook: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

The moment several executives, investors, celebrities, and business owners realized Arsen Vale was standing in one place for longer than usual, the crowd began to form. It started with one person. Then three. Then ten. Within minutes, Arsen, his parents, and Lyra found themselves surrounded. People wanted introductions. Partnerships. Investments. Future collaborations. Photos. Meetings. Anything connected to the Vale name. Lyra suddenly understood why Arsen rarely smiled during public events. Half the people surrounding him were trying to sell something. The other half were trying to gain something. A luxury cosmetics CEO approached first. "We would love to discuss a limited collection with Vale Media." A film producer stepped forward. "Our company is expanding internationally." Another executive joined. "Mr. Vale, perhaps we could arrange a meeting next month." The requests never stopped. Meanwhile, several people recognized Lyra. And suddenly she was trapped t

Listening. "When I started my company, things were difficult." A small smile appeared. "I was making practical clothes." "Canvas." "Travel bags." "Functional jackets." "Anything people would buy." Amelia nodded. She remembered those days. The tiny studio. The endless overtime. The sleepless nights. The fear of failure. Lyra continued. "Then Vale Group helped me." Her voice softened. "At first I didn't even know who was behind it." "I only knew someone believed in my work." Amelia's expression slowly changed. Becoming more serious. "I remember." Lyra smiled faintly. "You remember how happy I was when the investment was approved?" "You cried." "I did." "You ugly cried." Lyra laughed. "So did you." "That's not the point." They both smiled. The memories felt warm. Comfortable. Safe. Then Lyra's gaze lowered. "The first time I learned who was responsible..." Her fingers tightened around the wine glass. "It was during

The elevator ride felt endless. Lyra leaned weakly against the wall, her breathing uneven. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Her skin felt unbearably warm, as though heat was trapped beneath it. Even the cool air from the car's air conditioning had done little to help. Instead, it had only made her more aware of the strange discomfort spreading through her body. Arsen had noticed immediately. The moment she began swaying slightly in her seat, his attention had shifted entirely toward her. "Lyra." His voice was calm but firm. "Look at me." Lyra slowly lifted her gaze. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes looked unfocused. "Are you feeling dizzy?" "A little." "You should let me take you to a hospital." Lyra shook her head. "No." "Lyra." "I just want to go home." Arsen frowned. His hand tightened slightly on the steering wheel. For several seconds, neither spoke. Then Lyra unexpectedly reached out and touched his hand. The gesture lasted only a moment. Yet it complet

A slick, natural warmth coated his tongue, a clear signal to Arsen that her body was fully responsive and ready for him. He pulled back for a brief moment to strip away the remainder of his clothing, casting the garments onto the floor. Lyra let out a sharp, breathless gasp. Seeing him completely bare took her breath away—his physique was a masterpiece of raw power, defined muscles, and sculpted lines. A stray, chaotic thought flickered through her fever-dazed mind: if she had her phone in her hand right now, she would take a thousand photographs of him, capturing every line of his face, his chest, and every inch of his form to keep forever. Arsen leaned back over her, locking his dark, golden-brown eyes onto hers as he captured her lips in another deep kiss. His breath was heavy against her cheek. "Lyra... I don't think I can hold back anymore," he growled softly, his voice a low, rough baritone filled with dangerous restraint. Lyra tightened her grip on his shoulders, her ga

Arsen’s fingers moved across his phone screen with rapid, practiced precision, sending off a series of swift instructions to an undisclosed recipient. He looked entirely absorbed in his work, yet there was a calm, unhurried air to his movements that filled the quiet space of the small kitchen. On the dining table sat an unexpectedly elaborate breakfast spread: a steaming bowl of creamy macaroni pasta, a vibrant plate of freshly cut fruits, a dish of seasoned sautéed broccoli, and a tall glass of cold milk. Lyra stared at the array of food, finding the sight almost absurd. Her typical morning routine was a chaos of hurried preparations. Breakfast usually consisted of whatever quick bite her assistant, Clara, managed to grab on their way to the studio—usually a sleeve of cold French fries or a greasy corner-deli sandwich, swallowed down with a cup of scalding black coffee. Seeing a balanced, carefully curated meal sitting on her own modest table felt like stepping into an alternate re