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Deception in love

Deception in love

Tamuz14

5.0
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9
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The skylight cast a watery hue over the chrome polished floor of the Loft Blanc Gallery, nestled in the heart of Jersey City's elite district. The gallery was an architectural marvel, a seamless fusion of industrial grit and avant-garde elegance steel beams curved overhead like ribs of an exposed heart, and sprawling white walls pulsed with the vibrant expressions of tortured genius. Tonight, the elite brushed shoulders in whispers. Art critics with balding crowns leaned into the curves of women with sharpened smiles. Cameras clicked, champagne flutes clinked, and beneath the polite chaos stood Fred Coleman-tall, perfectly dressed, with that thin-lipped smile that never quite reached his eyes. Fred wasn't here for the art. He never was. "Racheal Lopez has a new piece in Room C," whispered one of the curators, a red-haired assistant who tried not to stare too long at Fred's tailored midnight-blue suit. His heart pinched at the name. Racheal Lopez. She hadn't been seen in public for five years. Not since she vanished, leaving behind a trail of scandal and a ruined engagement. Fred had spent years burying the memory of her-the burn of her perfume, the tilt of her laughter, the things she knew. Things she wasn't supposed to know. He moved towards Room C. Each step echoed with ghosts. Not of art, but of buried lies. As he entered, the crowd hushed slightly. A towering oil painting loomed under a golden spotlight. It depicted a faceless man, his suit stained with red paint that ran like blood down the canvas. His eyes were smeared out, but the title screamed clarity. "The Collector." Fred froze. It was him. She had painted him. Not as he appeared in the polished world of finance and aesthetics, but as what he truly was-an orchestrator. A man who curated deception with the finesse of an artist. "She knows," whispered a voice behind him. He turned. It was Kelvin, the one-eyed Gulf War veteran turned assistant-his most trusted employee. Or so Fred had once thought. "She's back in Jersey," Kelvin continued, tugging at his collar. "I saw her." Fred's jaw clenched. "Why now?" Kelvin gave a half shrug. "Maybe she wants to finish what she started." Meanwhile, in the gallery's corner, Sophia Silas-his ever-efficient secretary-tapped away on her phone, pretending to answer emails while secretly recording faces. She wasn't just an assistant. She was a gatekeeper. And she knew too much. And then there was Albert Samuel, standing like an iron statue by the gallery's emergency exit. The kind of policeman who smiled only once at his own retirement party, fifteen years too early. He wasn't here for the art either. His eyes scanned the crowd for threats, suspects, or sins. "Fred Coleman," he said, his deep voice slicing through the velvet chatter as he stepped forward. "We need to talk. Now." Fred didn't flinch. "Can it wait until after the gallery closes?" That was Albert. A man who wrestled order into chaos with his bare hands. From a distance, Maria Terino watched. She had always envied Sophia her elegance, her charm, the way men looked at her like she was a Monet. But Maria knew Sophia's secrets. They shared more than friendship they shared guilt. And guilt was heavy currency in this city. At the gallery entrance, Forlan Rice adjusted his badge. He was the only officer on duty tonight who still believed in redemption. He held a soft spot for Fred. Maybe because he'd once seen him donate anonymously to a shelter. Or maybe because he saw a flicker of humanity still buried beneath the mask. He didn't know that Fred's masks had layers. Fred followed Albert Samuel into a narrow hallway behind the gallery. The silence screamed. "She's back," Albert said. "You know what that means." Fred met his eyes. "She's not a threat anymore." Albert laughed dryly. "She was never just a threat, Fred. She was a fuse. And you built your entire gallery on a powder keg." "She disappeared." Albert stepped closer. "Because you paid her to. But ghosts don't stay buried. Racheal's painting is a warning." Fred's jaw clenched. "I'll handle it." "You'd better," Albert said. "Before someone else does." Sophia felt the hairs on her arm rise. Someone was watching her. She turned. And there she was. Racheal Lopez. In a black dress, lips stained wine-dark, and eyes like silent daggers. "Long time, Sophia," Racheal said. Sophia swallowed hard. "I heard you left the country." "I did. But Jersey always pulls me back. Like a bad dream." They stood in tense silence. "I see you still work for him," Racheal added, glancing at the hallway Fred had vanished into. Sophia narrowed her eyes. "You don't get to come back and play ghost." Racheal smirked. "I'm not here to haunt. I'm here to remind him of what he tried to forget." "What do you want?" Racheal's voice turned cold. "The truth." In the shadows, Kelvin made a call. His hands shook slightly. He didn't owe Fred l

Chapter 1 Brush strokes of fate

Chapter One

BrushStrokes of Fate

The gallery glittered beneath the golden glow of ceiling-mounted chandeliers. Nestled in the heart of New Jersey's elite art district, the space echoed with low murmurs and the clinking of crystal glasses. Along the whitewashed walls hung evocative portraits-each one more mesmerizing than the last, every brushstroke charged with emotion. This was no ordinary showing. Tonight, artists and collectors, critics and crooks alike mingled under a single roof in anticipation of the event's centerpiece: the auctioning of Rebecca Lopez's latest masterpiece.

Rebecca Lopez stood near the center, her raven-black hair swept into a chignon, soft tendrils escaping to frame her high cheekbones. Clad in a deep emerald satin dress that matched the fire in her eyes, she seemed carved from elegance. It was her night, her triumph, her rebirth. Her art had finally climbed from obscurity into prestige.

Fred Coleman noticed her long before she saw him. Tall, clean-cut, with charcoal eyes and a quiet authority, he moved through the crowd with a natural grace. His father's legacy the powerful Don Williams Coleman followed him like a scent, but Fred bore none of the older man's sinister charisma. He was fresh-faced, almost too ideal for the world around him.

Their eyes met when she turned to accept a compliment from a dealer. A flicker passed between them. In a room brimming with pretense, their glance was startlingly real.

Fred Coleman approached with the calm confidence of a man used to having doors open, but when he stopped before her, he softened. "You must be the creator of 'Crimson Silence.'"

Rebecca Lopez raised an eyebrow, amused. "And you must be a man who appreciates hidden pain."

Their laughter broke the invisible wall between them. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine. They walked slowly along the gallery, exchanging thoughts on art, childhood, and irony. There was no game. Just revelation.

Later that night, away from the crowded showroom, they found themselves in the private upstairs lounge-dimly lit and soundproofed by thick curtains. She leaned back against a velvet settee, and he sat opposite, sipping from a half-empty glass.

Fred coleman reached over, brushing a stray lock from her forehead. "Do you consistently portray heartbreak so well?" Rebecca smiled, her lips trembling slightly. "Only if it's true." The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation. He moved closer, and she didn't pull away. Their lips met with the kind of restraint that deepened the yearning. Moments blurred. Clothes were forgotten. They made love like people trying to forget the world existed. Her breath hitched in his ear. He murmured promises into her neck. The look in her eyes was one of surrender and warning, as though she already sensed that love and danger would walk hand in hand from this night onward.

Their faces glowed with warmth and exhaustion. Rebecca's lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but Fred silenced her with a kiss on her forehead.

In that hidden room, time bent for them.

Don Williams Coleman was a man of shadows wrapped in silk. Fred's father, now retired from the more illicit portions of his empire, maintained an illusion of legitimacy. His presence loomed in every corner of the art world, masked behind foundations and philanthropy, but those who knew whispered of blood, betrayal, and old debts. He sat at home that night in a study filled with cigar smoke and secrets, already knowing his son had met her.

Kelvin the snitch as he is popular called, has i his obedient to the Don, but oily employee, watched everyone and reported everything. He owed the Don everything, but feared him more than he loved him. For Kelvin, loyalty was a currency valuable only when it served him. He was already texting under the table, tipping off the Don about Rebecca's allure.

Sophia Silas, the Don's secretary, carried herself with clipped efficiency. She knew more than she let on, playing dumb when needed and sharp when not. Her loyalty to the Don was absolute but Maria Terino, her best friend, often warned her: "Don't let power kill your heart."

Maria, vibrant and disillusioned, found peace in chaos. She was the kind of woman who played with danger to see if it would still pay attention. She moved between social circles with ease, a friend to Rebecca, Sophia, and even Kelvin, though she trusted none of them.

Then there was Forlan Rice handsome, disarming, and too kind for the world he inhabited. Friends with all, but grounded by none, he would later prove to be more pivotal than any of them imagined.

And Albert Samuel. Rebecca's former flame. A protector in shadows. a man with steely fists and a heart broken by the loss of love. He had once destroyed men for touching her, and now he stalked the periphery, waiting for the moment she'd need saving again. Albert was justice on a leash but no one was sure how tight that leash was.

The after-party was held in a renovated loft overlooking the Hudson. Artworks that hadn't sold glowed beneath subdued lighting. Champagne flowed. So did secrets.

Rebecca stood on the balcony, trying to tame her spinning mind. Her body still hummed from Fred's touch, but her heart was knotted with something she couldn't name.

"Still attracted to dangerous men, I see."

The voice was familiar, rough, low. She turned to see Albert Samuel, dressed in black, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

"I don't need your judgment, Albert," she said.

"I'm not here to judge. Just to warn." He stepped closer. Avoid becoming involved with him. Fred Coleman might wear a clean suit, but his blood runs through the same veins as his father."

Rebecca's jaw tightened. "He's not like that."

"He doesn't have to be," Albert said. "That family pulls people down with it. You cancel your engagement to him while you still can."

She looked at Albert with something close to pity. "You never learned when to let go."

"And you never learned how to stay safe," he shot back. Then, with more softness than she expected: "I'm still watching your back. Whether you want me to or not."

He vanished back into the crowd, leaving her with a heart conflicted and a mind suddenly spinning with doubt.

Inside, Fred was laughing with Maria and Forlan, but his eyes darted often toward the balcony. He could sense something had shifted. He just didn't know what.

As the night deepened, the party grew quieter, conversations thick with implication. Kelvin passed by Don Williams's ear on his way out, whispering something that made the old man's eyes narrow.

"Keep him close," the Don said. "And keep her closer."

Sophia caught the exchange. So did Forlan, from a distance.

Rebecca returned inside, her expression unreadable, and locked eyes with Fred.

They smiled, but it didn't reach their eyes.

Love had already begun its descent into danger.

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Stina‘s Pen
4.9

COALESCENCE OF THE FIVE SERIES BOOK ONE: THE 5-TIME REJECTED GAMMA & THE LYCAN KING BOOK TWO: THE ROGUES WHO WENT ROGUE BOOK THREE: THE INDOMITABLE HUNTRESS & THE HARDENED DUKE *** BOOK ONE: After being rejected by 5 mates, Gamma Lucianne pleaded with the Moon Goddess to spare her from any further mate-bonds. To her dismay, she is being bonded for the sixth time. What’s worse is that her sixth-chance mate is the most powerful creature ruling over all werewolves and Lycans - the Lycan King himself. She is certain, dead certain, that a rejection would come sooner or later, though she hopes for it to be sooner. King Alexandar was ecstatic to meet his bonded mate, and couldn’t thank their Goddess enough for gifting him someone so perfect. However, he soon realizes that this gift is reluctant to accept him, and more than willing to sever their bond. He tries to connect with her but she seems so far away. He is desperate to get intimate with her but she seems reluctant to open up to him. He tries to tell her that he is willing to commit to her for the rest of his life but she doesn’t seem to believe him. He is pleading for a chance: a chance to get to know her; a chance to show her that he’s different; and a chance to love her. But when not-so-subtle crushes, jealous suitors, self-entitled Queen-wannabes, an old flame, a silent protector and a past wedding engagement threaten to jeopardize their relationship, will Lucianne and Xandar still choose to be together? Is their love strong enough to overcome everything and everyone? Or will Lucianne resort to enduring a sixth rejection from the one person she thought she could entrust her heart with?

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