Todos los capítulos de The Stranger Hidden in My Sketchbook: Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

Lyra sat stiffly on her worn fabric sofa, holding her smartphone at a deliberate angle. Her thumb swiped lazily across the screen, mimicking the motion of a person idly scrolling through social media. In reality, her heart was hammering against her ribs, and her index finger was tapping the silent shutter button in a feverish, covert rhythm. Click. Click. Click. Her private collection expanded exponentially with every passing second. Through her lens, she mapped the impossible: Arsen Vale maneuvering the noisy vacuum cleaner across her living room rug, his long arms flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Click. Arsen walking out onto her sunlit balcony, effortlessly lifting the heavy wet sheets and securing them on the clothesline with Wooden pegs. Click. The afternoon sun catching the rich chocolate tones of his hair, casting a golden halo around his broad shoulders. It felt like a fever dream—a surreal, high-definition fantasy unfolding right in front of her eyes. Having finish

The sun began to dip low, bathing the landscape outside the car window in golden hues. Arsen drove with one hand on the steering wheel of the Ferrari, while the fingers of his other hand rested on Lyra’s thigh. A small portion of the clothes they had bought at Maison Vaneau was neatly piled in the back seat, while the rest had already been arranged by Arsen’s team to be delivered straight to his apartment. It was a long drive, leaving the hustle and bustle of Bellevaux far behind. Lyra, still exhausted from a passionate night and a turbulent day of emotions, finally gave in to sleep. She fell fast asleep in the passenger seat, never once questioning where Arsen was taking her. For Lyra, wherever Arsen went, her obsession and her heart would follow without hesitation. Faintly, the rhythmic sound of crashing waves began to pierce through her sleep. Lyra stirred softly, her eyelids slowly fluttering open. The sound of the ocean swells grew clearer, mingling with the scent of salt a

Night claimed the cliffside villa completely, wrapping the estate in an impenetrable stillness broken only by the continuous crash of waves far below. Inside the master suite's open-concept bathroom, the expansive stone bathtub had already been filled with steamy, scented water. The tub was custom-built—massive enough to easily accommodate Arsen’s towering, broad frame. While the morning’s accidental exposure had left Lyra flushing with embarrassment, the darkness of the evening brought a wild, uninhibited hunger. Arsen stood behind her, his lips pressed tightly against her neck in a continuous, possessive kiss that made her knees weak. His long, calloused fingers worked with exquisite patience, slowly unfastening and dropping her clothes piece by piece until she stood before him entirely bare. Without a word, Arsen gathered her up into his arms, lifting her effortlessly against his chest before stepping over the edge to set her down into the warm, soothing water. Turning away for

Lyra stared at the glowing banking notification on her screen, her fingers frozen over the keyboard. A thousand dollars—just so she could buy herself lunch. Taking a quiet breath, she slipped away from the chatter of the wrapping-up conference room and walked down the glass corridor toward her private design office. Once inside, she shut the door, leaned against the dark wood, and typed out a quick message to Arsen. Lyra: Arsen... what is this $1,000 transfer for? That's way too much for lunch! Please tell me you made a mistake on your banking app. She set her phone down on her glass desk, expecting him to be tied up in his 21st-floor executive meeting. But within seconds, her phone vibrated with a double chime. Arsen: There are no mistakes when it comes to you, Lyra. Arsen: Consider it your lunch budget for the week. Order whatever your heart desires from the finest place in the city. Better yet, have Clara order it for you so you don't have to lift a finger. Lyra couldn't help

The ride across the city was quiet and smooth. Arsen’s private Maybach glided through the bustling evening traffic, driven by a sharp, taciturn chauffeur who navigated the streets with silent precision. Sitting in the back, Lyra watched the neon lights of Bellevaux streak across the tinted windows. Her heart beat in a steady, expectant rhythm, her nerves buzzing with a mixture of anticipation and quiet surrender. The car descended into the underground private garage of The Pinnacle—the most exclusive residential tower in the financial district. Without needing to show a keycard, the chauffeur escorted Lyra directly to a private, mirror-sheened elevator. The doors slid shut, and the elevator surged upward in silence, passing fifty-eight floors in a matter of seconds before coming to a smooth stop. The doors parted directly into Arsen’s executive penthouse. Lyra stepped out onto dark, polished marble floors. The space was immense—a masterclass in minimalist luxury featuring double-h