Age is just a Number

Age is just a Number

Adera Bliss

5.0
Comment(s)
132
View
20
Chapters

Sophia Rivera has always relied on her own grit and determination to carve a name for herself in the cutthroat world of art. At 29, she's on the cusp of success, managing an exclusive New York City gallery. The last thing she needs is distractions-especially in the form of Alexander Pierce, a devastatingly handsome tech billionaire nearly two decades her senior. Reserved, enigmatic, and harboring scars from a bitter past, Alexander is everything Sophia shouldn't want but can't seem to resist. Drawn together by chance, their connection quickly ignites into something undeniable. But their budding romance is anything but simple. Whispers of their age gap and Alexander's reclusive reputation follow them everywhere, while his cunning COO, Victoria Lannister, has her own reasons to keep him single-and firmly under her control. When hidden agendas and secrets threaten to tear them apart, Sophia must decide if love is worth risking her independence, while Alexander faces the ultimate challenge: lowering his walls and trusting in a love that defies logic and societal expectations. In a world where age, power, and appearances matter more than the truth, can two souls find their way to a love that's worth fighting for?

Chapter 1 1

The rain slicked streets of Manhattan glistened under the muted glow of streetlights as Sophia Rivera tugged her coat tighter around her. The cold November wind bit at her cheeks, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was a whirl of thoughts as she hurried down Madison Avenue, her heels clicking against the pavement in a rhythmic cadence that matched the restless energy coursing through her veins.

She was late. Again.

The gallery's private opening was her chance to prove herself, to show the board of directors that she was more than just an idealistic curator with an eye for modern art. She had fought for tonight's exhibit, convinced them to take a chance on an up-and-coming artist no one had ever heard of. Failure was not an option.

Pushing through the heavy glass doors of the Rivera Gallery-her namesake, though only in coincidence, not ownership-Sophia was greeted by the low hum of polite conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the soft strains of a live cello. The scent of lilies and cedarwood lingered in the air, mixing with the faint hint of paint and varnish.

She smoothed her dress, a sleek black number she had snagged on sale, and quickly scanned the room. The exhibit's centerpiece, a breathtaking installation of suspended metallic sculptures that reflected light in mesmerizing patterns, hung in the center of the gallery. Guests circled it like moths to a flame.

"Late again, I see," came a familiar voice to her left.

Sophia turned, bracing herself. Marcella Bennett, the gallery's managing director, stood with her arms crossed, a glass of champagne in hand. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and sharp designer suit exuded authority, but it was the faint smirk on her lips that set Sophia on edge.

"Traffic," Sophia replied smoothly, offering her most practiced smile.

"Of course." Marcella's gaze flicked over her, assessing. "Your artist's work better impress tonight. The board is watching."

"They'll love it," Sophia said, though her stomach twisted into knots.

Marcella raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, moving to greet a group of patrons near the far wall.

Sophia exhaled and took a moment to collect herself before weaving through the crowd. She stopped occasionally to exchange pleasantries with guests, subtly steering conversations toward the exhibit's theme of industrial beauty and the resilience of human creativity. Her artist, Theo, stood near his installation, looking every bit the tortured genius in his worn leather jacket and perpetually tousled hair.

"You're doing great," she whispered as she approached him.

Theo shot her a nervous smile. "If by great you mean trying not to pass out, then yeah."

Sophia chuckled softly. "Just talk about your work. People love hearing about the inspiration behind the pieces."

Before Theo could respond, a sudden ripple of energy passed through the room. Heads turned, and the low murmur of conversation hushed.

That was when she saw him.

Alexander Pierce.

He entered the gallery with the kind of quiet authority that demanded attention without asking for it. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, he moved with an effortless confidence that made the room seem smaller. His sharp, chiseled features were framed by neatly combed dark hair streaked with hints of silver, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd with calculated precision.

Sophia's breath caught.

"Is that...?" Theo whispered, his voice tinged with awe.

"Yes," Sophia said, her voice barely audible. She had seen Alexander Pierce in magazines and television interviews, but in person, he was an entirely different force of nature.

Before she could think of a reason why he, of all people, was at her gallery, Marcella swooped in.

"Mr. Pierce, what a pleasure to have you here," Marcella said, her tone sugary sweet as she extended a hand.

Alexander's expression didn't change as he shook Marcella's hand briefly. "I heard good things about this exhibit," he said, his deep, velvety voice cutting through the room like a command.

Sophia felt an inexplicable pull toward him, as if the air around him crackled with an unseen energy. She didn't realize she was staring until his gaze shifted and locked onto hers.

Time seemed to slow.

"Sophia Rivera," Marcella said, her voice jolting Sophia back to reality. "She's the curator behind tonight's exhibit."

Alexander's eyes lingered on Sophia, a flicker of interest crossing his face. "Impressive work," he said simply, his words deliberate and measured.

Sophia felt her cheeks flush. "Thank you," she managed, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

Marcella stepped in, clearly eager to monopolize his attention, but Alexander didn't seem to notice. His focus remained on Sophia.

"I'd like to hear more about the artist," he said. "Perhaps you could show me around?"

Sophia blinked, caught off guard. "Of course," she said quickly, glancing at Marcella, whose polite smile had turned razor-sharp.

Alexander gestured for her to lead the way, and as they moved through the gallery, Sophia was acutely aware of his presence beside her.

"Is this your first time here?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"It is," he replied, his tone unreadable. "Though I've been meaning to visit. The Rivera Gallery has a reputation for bold choices."

Sophia couldn't tell if that was a compliment or a critique. "We aim to showcase work that challenges conventional perspectives," she said carefully.

He glanced at her, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. "And does that philosophy extend to the curator as well?"

Sophia's heart skipped a beat. Was he teasing her?

"I like to think so," she said, matching his tone.

As they stopped in front of Theo's installation, Alexander studied the piece in silence, his expression inscrutable. Sophia found herself watching him instead, drawn to the intensity in his eyes.

"It's remarkable," he said finally. "The way it captures both strength and fragility."

Sophia nodded, her voice soft. "That's exactly what Theo was aiming for. The resilience of human creativity, even in the face of adversity."

Alexander turned to her, his gaze penetrating. "You have an eye for more than just art, Ms. Rivera."

Sophia's breath hitched. There was something in his tone, something that hinted at a deeper meaning. But before she could respond, the moment was interrupted by Marcella's sharp voice.

"Mr. Pierce, I'd love to introduce you to some of our patrons."

Alexander hesitated, his eyes lingering on Sophia for a moment longer before he nodded. "Another time, then," he said, his words carrying a weight that sent a shiver down her spine.

As he walked away, Sophia couldn't shake the feeling that her life had just shifted in ways she couldn't yet comprehend.

Continue Reading

Other books by Adera Bliss

More

You'll also like

He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him

He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him

SHANA GRAY
4.5

The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

SHANA GRAY
4.3

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book