She begged.
The more I know about this tiny woman, the more I want to unravel her. Holding her hand tighter in mine, I feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, the slight tremor she tries to suppress.
Eight years in this sinking ship of a company.
Eight years clawing her way up under a boss who spent more time stroking his own ego than running a business. James Cavanaugh. A silver-tongued dreamer who mistook charm for power. He thought high-profile listings and overpriced networking events were enough to keep the lights on. Thought schmoozing with the elite mattered more than balance sheets.
I’ve seen his kind before—men who believe money is infinite, that success is something you talk into existence rather than build. He burned through cash faster than he could earn it, funding renovations no one needed, throwing six-figure dinners to impress clients who would’ve signed either way. And when the market turned, his empire collapsed.
At first, the damage was manageable—late invoices, delayed payroll, a few missed payments. Then the cracks widened. Marketing budgets disappeared, property staging became impossible, and even basic operations started bleeding. And yet James refused to admit what Bella already knew.
That Elite Properties was dying.
He wasn’t cruel, just weak. Too sentimental to cut his losses, too hopeful to make the hard choices. He wanted to save the company, but wanting isn’t enough.
And now, Elite Properties is mine.
Not the company, of course. That was just an excuse to own her.
“Emmm… Excuse me.”
The voice grates—high-pitched, calculated, the kind of tone designed to command attention but does nothing except annoy the fuck out of me.
Sandra.
I don’t turn immediately. I already know what I’ll see—her standing just a little too close, trying to assert control before she loses it completely. She’s polished, plastic, and painfully predictable. The kind of woman who thrives on manufactured importance built entirely on the assumption that no one is paying close enough attention to notice the cracks.
I’ve read her file. The real one—not the one she submits to keep up appearances.
She’s been running side deals under the table, using the company’s name to pad her own pockets. Pocketing commissions, taking bribes, making sales that never officially exist. Cavanaugh was too incompetent to catch it, and even if he had, I doubt he would have done a damn thing about it.
She was banking on that same incompetence to keep her safe.
Too bad for her—I’m not incompetent.
I shift my weight slightly, still holding Bella’s hand in mine. I don’t miss the flicker of something sharp in Sandra’s expression when she notices, the way her gaze lingers just a little too long before snapping back up to my face.
Jealousy.
Interesting.
I don’t acknowledge Sandra.
Not a glance. Not a twitch of recognition.
She clears her throat like that’s supposed to summon my attention, but I stay focused on Isabella, still holding her hand in mine, watching the way her breath hitches. I can feel the tension rolling off her—uncertainty, maybe, or something else entirely.
Sandra shifts her weight, stepping closer, her perfume a choking mix of Chanel and desperation.
“Excuse me, but I don’t know who the hell you think you are, walking in here like you own the place—”
Arseny, standing just a few feet away, exhales sharply. He’s been quiet until now, observing because that’s what he does. But the second Sandra starts running her mouth, he steps forward.
“Ms. Rivera,” he announces, his tone crisp, professional—except for the faint edge of boredom that makes it clear he doesn’t think she’s worth the air she’s taking up. “Elite Properties has been officially acquired by Belov Global Holdings.”
Sandra lets out a short laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”
Arseny barely blinks. “The sale was finalized this morning. Mr. Cavanaugh no longer has any legal ownership over this company. As of today, it is under the direct control of Konstantin Belov.”
