Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Maybe I’m clutching at straws, looking for evidence to pursue her. Without a doubt, it’s become my personal fixation to follow her since she’s been haunting me ever since I found her lying on that wet grass in Central Park.
I search for her online. I look into everything I can find about her and her routine, which isn’t very much. I even messaged her the first night I saw her again, but she never replied. Not that I expected her to. I wouldn’t even know if she sees her messages.
If she wasn’t going to come to me, I’d figure out how to go to her and find out what the little vixen is up to and how she might be connected with this crime.
Coincidence is not something I overlook, and I always follow my gut feelings. And my gut is telling me that Hope Ivanov is far from the sweet, shy, and critically acclaimed artist she’s made out to be. Because surely, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, especially when it’s poisoned with sin.
CHAPTER 5
Hope
My first mistake is concentrating on balancing the sculpture in my hand and not looking where I’m going. I run into a hard body, knocking myself back a step. A hand grabs me, keeping me on my feet, but my heart stops as I watch in horror as the sculpture lands on the floor, shattering.
“Oh my God!” I drop to my knees in a panic, trying to scoop up all the pieces.
I stare in shock, my mind going momentarily blank.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I know I can’t save it because it’s in a million fucking pieces, but I will time to reverse.
Rage boils in my blood.
This is my space.
My sanctuary.
So who the fuck has the audacity to interrupt me?
I’m supposed to be alone, so who the fuck just ruined my piece? I look up then, pushing my glasses up my nose, and trail my gaze up from a pair of shiny black shoes, black pants, and a black t-shirt to the face I want to punch most.
Braxton Hero is standing in front of me, not seeming remorseful in the slightest that he caused to me break a piece of art that took me ages to complete.
“You should watch where you’re going,” he says. I bite my tongue and look away from his cocky grin as I start picking up the broken pieces at his feet. He makes no move to help me or even get out of my way. No, he stays exactly where he is, and I fucking hate the arrogance radiating off him.
When I don’t say anything, he drops down to a crouch. At first, I think he is going to help after all, like a normal person would. Instead, I feel his gaze boring into me through his black sunglasses, as if studying me like some kind of animal.
Why the fuck is he even here?
“Hope, look at me.” I don’t. I just keep picking up the pieces of broken clay. My mind’s in frantic overdrive. I’m too freaked out to even think about how mad he makes me because I need to remake this ASAP. This piece was paid for, and it wasn’t cheap. All my pieces sell for high prices; it’s one thing I love about what I do. I can earn money from something I love doing… and be left alone in my studio. Ordinarily.
“I don’t have time for your antics,” I hiss, cupping the broken pieces in my hand as I stand and then hurry back to the studio. I might’ve had liquid courage last time I saw Braxton, but then and now are entirely different situations, and I certainly don’t do well with someone coming into my space uninvited.
I quickly realize that he’s following me into my private space. His shoes squeak against the wooden floorboards, and I turn on him. I’m wearing a free-flowing dress and no shoes. I prefer to work barefoot; it makes me feel more grounded. But right now I’m wishing I was wearing heels, as he towers over me with that smug fucking smirk.
“This is private property,” I’m quick to inform him as I push the door open with my hip.
Nope, Braxton takes that as an invitation to follow me.
My studio space is my domain. It’s where I feel most safe and at peace. It’s filled with plants that flourish under the bright sunshine coming in through the skylights. Classical music plays softly in the background and a small water fountain bubbles in the middle of the room. We’re on the top floor of the building, and right now, I’m very tempted to push him out one of the windows when he starts touching my things.
I try not to let him distract me as I throw the pieces into the trash, but my eye twitches as his hands smooth over the face of one of my sculptures. And then he runs them over an eagle’s wings. I drag out some clay so I can prepare to start the sculpture over again. I know the concept by heart, but it took me months to make it. There’s no way I’m going to get it done in time.