Master of his heart (Brielle and Max)

The somber mood that had enveloped the office dissipated in an instant, replaced by a warmth akin to an early spring day in March.

Max looked up, catching the gaze of the senior executive who had just walked in. The HR Director started to detail the tasks ahead with businesslike precision. Once the official matters were wrapped up, he complimented the scarf again. The compliment lingered in the air as he left, leaving behind an ambiance as balmy as a spring breeze.

Patrick had been standing right beside Max the whole time, silently taking mental notes of the cunning the old fox wielded. It was no wonder this man had managed to keep his seat as Director for so long. Even at an age where most were considering retirement, Max hadn’t suggested he step down.

Beyond his evident skill, the man was truly a master of diplomacy and charm.

Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. Regardless of the events, Max was in good spirits now, and the morning’s oppressive atmosphere, which had nearly crushed him, had lifted. He had been on the verge of calling Brielle for backup, but remembering Max’s directive to keep this issue from her, he decided against it. Little did he know, Brielle’s former colleague had already filled her in on the situation.

At the moment, Brielle was feeling anything but cheerful as she drove to the neighborhood where John had lived. She made her way down the alley and up to John’s residence.

The crew was already hard at work, but Aubree was nowhere to be seen. She quickly sought out John to inquire about Aubree’s whereabouts

“Aubree’s not scheduled on set today, so I told her to rest up at the hotel,” John explained. “We’ve just got back, and the place needs a good clean. She hasn’t been feeling well lately, and I didn’t want to

force her to stay here. Seems like she comes from a well–off family. She booked a room at the hotel. Ricardo’s looking after her now.”

Neither of the lead actors were needed on set that day. Aubree had intended to come and observe, but memories of that horrible night in Beaconsfield had resurfaced unbidden, leaving her pale and nauseous all morning.

John had been on the verge of calling an ambulance when Ricardo intervened, insisting he’d take Aubree to the hotel to rest.

John, a seasoned director, knew the entertainment industry was a tumultuous sea, but Ricardo seemed too pristine, hardly the type to take advantage of someone vulnerable. Given that Aubree appeared comfortable with Ricardo, John didn’t press the issue and let them be with a wave of his hand.

Brielle hurriedly dialed Ricardo, but his phone lay on the table in the hotel bathroom, vibrating silently alongside Aubree’s phone. Aubree retched over the sink.

Aubree, maybe I should call a therapist for you,” Ricardo suggested with a frown.

“No!” Aubree protested, her face ashen, her stomach in knots. She had tried to forget that night, but it was impossible. Returning to Beaconsfield had made her unwell, and she struggled against the waves of nausea.

Both Ricardo and Aubree’s phones were unanswered, leaving Brielle worried. Even thought she was confident that Aubree would be safe with Ricardo by her side, she couldn’t help but fret about Andrew, that mad dog on the lookout for Aubree. If he learned where Aubree was staying, chaos would undoubtedly ensue.

In a dark wish, Brielle hoped Andrew’s wounds would become infected, leaving him too weak to cause any trouble.

Back in the hotel room, Aubree sat slumped on the edge of the bathtub, her face a pallid. mask of discomfort. Ricardo squatted before her, his gaze intense and earnest. Suddenly, he made an unexpected offer. “Aubree, should I take care of Tessa for you?” he asked seriously. Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

Aubree thought he was joking and chuckled weakly.

But Ricardo was dead serious, his usual fee for such a task forgotten. “Do you want me to, Aubree?”

His clean–cut demeanor made his casual mention of murder all the more jarring, yet somehow not out of place. He was reminiscent of a figure from Greek mythology, the youth who died clutching a narcissus flower, destined to be radiant yet tainted by shadows.

This mythological character was well–liked because his innocence was genuine, as was his ruthlessness. He could be anyone in the world but could never truly be himself.

Aubree closed her eyes, the acid sting of tears eased by his unsettling proposition. She had booked a suite in the hotel, a spacious sanctuary from her turmoil. Clutching her stomach, she moved to the couch and collapsed into it, her face as white as linen.

Ricardo pondered for a moment before digging out some antacids and fetching a glass of water, setting them beside her.

Aubree didn’t particularly enjoy Ricardo’s company, especially after he and Brielle had accidentally witnessed her in that compromising situation. His presence was too pristine. The cleaner he seemed, the dirtier she felt about herself. Her shame seeped into her bones, a stain no amount of scrubbing could remove.

Her eyes reddened, and she covered them with her hand.

Ricardo called for some takeout. “Have some soup. It’ll help settle your stomach,” he said as he busied himself with the curtains, letting the sunlight flood the room. He sat near the window, absently twirling a fruit knife between his fingers, his silhouette framed by the light.

Aubree’s face was still an unhealthy shade of white. She watched the glinting blade dance through his nimble movements and couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the incongruous sight.