Alle Kapitel von The Ice King's Fake Girlfriend: Kapitel 31 – Kapitel 40

The heavy oak door of the Ravencourt penthouse clicked shut behind them with a definitive, hollow echo. Tiffany dropped her canvas weekender bag onto the pristine white marble floor of the foyer, the dull thud sounding completely out of place in the cavernous, immaculate expanse. She crossed her arms, shivering slightly despite the aggressive, centralized climate control. "You didn't have to offer the entire guest wing, you know," Tiffany said, turning to face Julian as he shrugged out of his charcoal blazer, tossing it over the back of a minimalist leather armchair with practiced casualness. "A simple couch would have sufficed. Or, better yet, you could have just let me go back to my own apartment." Julian paused, his fingers resting on the top button of his crisp white dress shirt. He turned his head slowly, his icy blue eyes fixing on her with an unreadable intensity. "Your apartment is currently being staked out by two separate tabloid p

"If I wanted a prop, Everhart, I would have hired a mannequin from Fifth Avenue," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register so dangerously low it made the fine hairs on Tiffany's arms stand straight up. "They require far less attitude, and they certainly don't spill coffee on my custom carpets." "I spilled that coffee three weeks ago, and it was a single drop," Tiffany shot back, refusing to break eye contact even though the sheer proximity to him was scrambling her thoughts. "And for the record, a mannequin would show just as much warmth as this mausoleum you call a home." She swept an arm out, gesturing to the cavernous, aggressively minimalist living room that stretched out behind him. It was a space designed by an architect who apparently hated human comfort—all sharp angles, polished black steel, monochromatic gray upholstery, and an absence of any color brighter than a depressed shadow. Julian’s g

"Clause four pertains to commercial branding, Everhart, not unauthorized interior decoration," Julian said, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he packed the espresso grounds with clinical precision. "If I wake up tomorrow to find a velvet painting of a weeping clown hanging over the fireplace, the contract is null and void." "First of all, it's a vintage abstract print, and second of all, you're the one who dragged me into this golden cage," Tiffany snapped back, leaning her elbows on the cold marble island. "You wanted a living, breathing shield against the tabloids? Fine. But shields get to pick their own color palette, or else they mutiny." Before Julian could fire off a dry retort, the sharp, authoritative chime of the private elevator pierced the cavernous silence of the penthouse. Both of them froze. Julian glanced at his Rolex, his jaw tightening. "The board meeting isn't for another three hours. No one has clear

"Site visits require a seventy-two-hour advance notice, Victoria," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register so chillingly flat it made the air in the kitchen drop ten degrees. He didn't bother turning around from the espresso machine. "And trespassing on private residential floors is a violation of Ravencourt corporate bylaws. Are you resigning your seat, or simply displaying your illiteracy?" Victoria’s red-painted lips tightened into a razor-thin slash. She swept her gaze over the open-plan kitchen, her eyes lingering with overt disgust on Tiffany’s thrifted mustard-yellow mug sitting right next to Julian’s custom Baccarat crystal water tumbler. "We received an anonymous tip, Julian, that your judgment—and your assets—are being severely compromised by an unqualified transient squatting in your home," Victoria shot back, gesturing sharply to the two sweating board members behind her. "Mr. Vance and Mr. S

Mr. Vance cleared his throat, beads of nervous sweat glistening on his upper lip as he shrank back half a step under Julian’s glacial glare. "Er—the board is merely concerned with optics, Mr. Ravencourt. Nothing more. Purely fiduciary." "Fiduciary concern usually doesn't travel in packs after eight o'clock at night," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the private elevator foyer. The heavy atmosphere in the penthouse shifted instantly. Victoria’s triumphant smirk froze on her face. Even Julian straightened, his posture shifting from defensive CEO to something far more cautious. Stepping out of the elevator was an elderly man leaning heavily on a carved obsidian cane. Arthur Ravencourt wore a heavy wool overcoat, his white hair cropped military-short, and his sharp, hawklike eyes sweeping across the room with decades of absolute authority. "Grandfather," Julian said, his voice droppin