Romans & histoires Marcella Cortez

Then a hand went up. “It’s y equals mx plus b.” I turned toward the voice. The guy sitting next to me was Hispanic. Sharp jawline. Curly hair. Blue eyes. Arms like tree trunks. “That’s correct,” Mrs. Payne said. “And your name?” “Marcelo,” he replied. “My name is Marcelo.”

His arse was pointed towards the door, the position revealing both the beta’s balls clasped by a stretcher and cock ring, and that Reid had missed the main event, from the cum stains. “He can’t talk,” Marcella was dressed in a peacock blue satin kimono, untied, revealing that was all that she wore. She was fresh from the shower, her skin bare of makeup and carrying the scent of her soap. It had been a long time since Reid had seen Marcella without a wig, and seeing her dark hair slicked back to her skull brought back many memories of the past with Marcel.

But she wasn’t used to me. The door opened, and Marcella walked in, draped in a satin-red gown that hugged every curve like it had been sewn onto her skin. Her black hair spilled over her shoulders, lips painted the same crimson shade as her dress. I finally agreed to see her. She has no idea what's coming. “I’m glad you came,” she breathed, stepping inside. “God, I’ve missed you.” I leaned back in the chair, a knife in one hand, spinning it lazily by the handle. “You always this dramatic, Marsetti?”

It was a compromising situation and it could have happened to anyone, Maria concluded, kicking her shoes off. She had ordered a mini pizza on her way home, now she just had to sit and not overthink. She, however, failed. Maria had a trait of overly analyzing her every move and criticizing the things she did that can't be undone. Growing up with the mindset that all things had to fall in place, this trait of hers could be cut. It's been almost a week since her arrival in the USA and she had nothing to show for it. No broadway personalities, no auditions or casting calls...yet. It would be completely absurd to tell her employers at A.C.E about her wanting this, it would make her seem like she

"So, what information did you discover?" I asked the investigator while glancing behind me. Zephanie was talking to Patrizia again. And this time, she was also speaking with my mother. "Zerina Cortez, the owner of Cortez Cosmetics, has been hailed as the businesswoman of the year for consecutive times. Apart from running a successful business, she also founded a foundation that helps homeless people. However, some people allege she uses her foundation for good publicity. Zerina is married to Timotheo Buenaflor, the owner and CEO of Buenaflor Corporation, and together they have a daughter."

“How long was Estevez there?” “Five months,” Marco said. “Then, terminated. But not by Cortez.” “Then by who?” “He died,” Marco said flatly. “Two weeks before the Paris summit. Car crash. No autopsy was made public. Cortez’s studio paid for everything. No family statement. No funeral records. Sealed report.” Ximena’s stomach turned. Not in fear—**in fury**. “Someone erased him,” she whispered. “Someone didn’t want him talking,” Marco corrected. “Someone who knew what he saw inside your vault.”

Maricela regarded Carissa skeptically and added, "We aren't friends, and now we're on opposing sides. If we were to meet privately, it wouldn't end well." Carissa's smile softened. "Maricela, I'm not here in the capacity of the CEO's representative. I've come as an old friend." "Old friend?" Maricela chuckled, "I've already made it clear, we have no connection. Just because you've become the CEO of Perotone, what's so impressive about that? I'm an employee of Henderson Corp, are you trying to intimidate me? Not happening!" As Maricela was speaking, she was on the verge of leaving the garage. Retrieving her phone, she intended to contact her uncle. Why hadn't he showed up yet?

“You hear that, darling? He thinks I'm someone else.” Darling? My gaze fell on their interlocked arms before flickering to Curtis calm expression. He wasn't bothered by her touch, but how could she possibly be his wife? There was no damn way! She faced me, an amused expression on her face. “I'm afraid you've made a mistake. My name isn't Amber, but Marcella.” Marcella? How could she be Marcella when… It was impossible. Something wasn't right, or could there be someone that looked exactly like Amber? Could she have lost her memory?

I say. But Marcella doesn’t answer; she just rocks in her chair and returns to sobbing. I motion for the Alphas to step out of the room. “That’s Queen Marcella?” asks Mark in a whisper. I nod. “Apparently so.” I keep my voice down. “She seems to have some memory problems, and I haven’t been able to get her to tell me much more than her name. And she looks just like Gene, so it has to be her.”