Chapter 3 3

Lola spent the afternoon buried in paperwork, lost in a labyrinth of financial statements and legal documents. The sun dipped below the skyline outside the tall windows of her room, painting the sky in streaks of pink and violet. As the shadows lengthened across the polished floors, so did the weight on her shoulders.

She rubbed her temples, the numbers on the page blurring together. Every file Devon had given her painted a darker picture of her father-a man who gambled with millions, who borrowed money from dangerous people, who made promises he couldn't keep. But none of it felt real. None of it felt like the father who had held her hand when she was scared, who taught her to ride a bike, who whispered bedtime stories about brave girls who never gave up.

A soft knock broke her thoughts. Devon stepped inside without waiting for permission, his tall frame filling the doorway. He wore a charcoal suit, jacket open over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he smelled like soap and something darkly masculine.

"How's the reading?" he asked, voice deceptively casual.

She closed the folder with a snap. "Depressing."

He watched her carefully. "You still think he was innocent."

She lifted her chin. "I think you're too eager to believe the worst."

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Or maybe you're too eager to believe the best."

Their gazes locked, electricity crackling between them. She hated the way he made her feel-angry, alive, unsteady.

"I came to tell you dinner is ready," he said, breaking the silence. "You missed lunch."

She hesitated. "I'm not hungry."

His mouth tightened. "You need to eat."

She almost refused again, but the exhaustion in his eyes surprised her. She rose and followed him down the hall, matching his long strides.

The dining room was smaller than the grand hall where they'd had breakfast-a cozy space lined with dark paneling and a roaring fireplace. A single table was set for two. Silver candelabras flickered with soft light, the flames dancing in the polished silverware.

A server brought plates of seared steak, roasted vegetables, and a bottle of red wine. Devon poured her a glass, the rich burgundy liquid catching the candlelight.

They ate in near silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the clink of cutlery. Lola forced herself to swallow bite after bite, each mouthful tasting like dust. Her thoughts were a whirlpool of doubt and anger.

"Tell me about Paris," Devon said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence.

She looked up, surprised. "What?"

"You lived there for what-four years?" His voice was low, rough around the edges. "What did you do there?"

She set her fork down. "I worked. I painted. I tried to forget everything that happened here."

"Did it work?" he asked, eyes unreadable.

She met his gaze steadily. "No."

He nodded slowly, as if he'd expected the answer. "I tried to forget too," he said after a pause. "But hate is a stubborn thing. It burrows deep."

She studied him in the warm glow of the candles. For a moment, he looked less like the ruthless billionaire everyone feared and more like a man who carried wounds too deep for time to heal.

"And now?" she asked softly.

His jaw tightened. "Now I don't know what I want anymore."

They finished the meal in uneasy silence. When the plates were cleared, Devon rose and held out his hand. "Come with me."

She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong, sending a shiver up her spine. He led her through the darkened halls to a door at the end of a long corridor. Inside was a study smaller and older than the modern rooms elsewhere in the mansion. Books lined every wall, their spines cracked with age. A grand piano stood in the corner, its glossy surface reflecting the soft lamplight.

"This was my mother's sanctuary," Devon said quietly. "She came here when she needed peace."

Lola stepped inside, drawn to the piano. She ran her fingers over the smooth keys. "Did she play?"

He nodded. "Beautifully. She used to play for me when I couldn't sleep."

She pressed a single key, the note echoing sweet and sad in the hushed room. "You must miss her."

His eyes shuttered, but he didn't look away. "Every day."

She moved to a worn leather chair by the fireplace, sinking into its familiar comfort. Devon crossed to a side table and poured two glasses of whiskey, handing one to her before sinking into the chair opposite hers.

"For the first time," he said quietly, swirling the amber liquid, "I wonder if I've been wrong all these years."

She sucked in a breath. "What do you mean?"

He looked into the fire, the orange glow painting harsh lines across his face. "My father always told me your father was the cause of everything. That he betrayed us. But what if he was only part of a bigger game?"

She leaned forward. "What are you saying?"

He met her eyes, blue gaze dark with conflict. "I'm saying someone else might have orchestrated this. Someone who wanted both our families to fall."

The words stole her breath. "Who?"

"I don't know," he admitted, voice low. "But I'm going to find out."

The clock struck midnight. Devon rose and offered her his hand again. She hesitated, but took it, letting him pull her to her feet. They stood close, the space between them charged with unspoken questions and dangerous answers.

"Goodnight, Lola," he murmured.

She lingered, heart hammering. "Goodnight, Devon."

She slipped from the study, his gaze burning into her back as she disappeared down the hall.

Sleep was impossible. She tossed and turned, replaying every word they'd shared, every look, every ghost of a touch. When dawn finally broke, pale light washing over the room, she rose and dressed quickly.

She found Devon already in the breakfast room, hair damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms. He looked up as she entered, surprise flickering in his eyes.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

She shook her head. "We need to talk."

He gestured to the chair across from him. She sat, hands clasped tightly. "You said last night you think someone else was involved," she began. "How do we find out who?"

He studied her, eyes sharp but not unkind. "We start with the paper trail."

He pulled a laptop from a leather briefcase and opened it, the screen lighting up with spreadsheets, emails, scanned contracts. He turned it toward her. "These are the financial records from both our families during the time everything fell apart."

She scanned the numbers, frustration bubbling. "It's all so complicated."

"Which is exactly how someone wanted it," he agreed grimly. "But if we find a transaction that links both accounts to a third party-someone neither family expected-that could prove everything."

They worked side by side for hours, scrolling through endless data, cross-referencing dates and names. Devon's shoulder brushed hers occasionally, the faint contact making her breath catch every time. By the time the sun was high in the sky, her eyes burned with exhaustion, but she refused to stop.

Suddenly, her finger froze over a line in a decades-old ledger. "Wait. Look at this."

Devon leaned in. "A wire transfer from your father's company... to an account belonging to Harlow Industries."

Her brow furrowed. "Who are they?"

He sat back, eyes darkening. "A shell company owned by Victor Cavanaugh."

"Victor Cavanaugh?" she repeated. "I've never heard of him."

"You wouldn't have," Devon said grimly. "He was one of my father's rivals. Ruthless. Manipulative. He'd have loved to see both our families destroyed."

She swallowed hard. "So he played them against each other?"

"Looks like it." He looked up, their eyes locking. "This could change everything."

They printed the document and pored over it at the dining room table. Devon explained how Victor Cavanaugh had spent years circling both their fathers, offering deals that seemed too good to be true. How he disappeared right around the time everything fell apart.

"It makes sense," Lola said, voice hushed. "My father always said someone tricked him, but he never told me who."

Devon's hand brushed hers, warm and solid. "We need more proof before we go public."

She nodded. "What do we do now?"

His eyes burned into hers, fierce and unyielding. "We do this together."

That night, they returned to the library, documents spread between them on the polished table. Devon ordered dinner brought up-steaming plates of pasta and crusty bread. They ate over spreadsheets and old letters, working late into the night.

As the clock neared midnight, Lola caught Devon watching her, his gaze softening in the candlelight. "What is it?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "You surprise me, Lola Gareth."

She arched a brow. "Why?"

"I expected a spoiled heiress," he admitted. "Not... this."

She blushed under his intense gaze. "Not what?"

He reached across the table, brushing her knuckles with his fingers. "Not a woman strong enough to face the truth."

They sat in silence, the air between them thick with things neither dared to say.

When he finally walked her to her room, they stood outside her door, the hallway hushed. Devon lifted a hand, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She leaned into his touch, heart thundering.

"I want you to stay," he murmured.

She looked up sharply. "Here?"

"With me," he clarified, voice hoarse. "In my room."

Her breath caught. "Devon..."

"I know it's wrong," he said, eyes dark with hunger. "But I don't care."

She hesitated, her pulse roaring in her ears. Every instinct screamed to say no, to protect herself. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw the same pain she carried-the same longing, the same desperate need to find something real in a world of lies.

She stepped forward, rising on her toes to brush her lips against his. "Then don't let me go."

He groaned, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her as his mouth claimed hers with searing intensity. She clung to him as he carried her down the hall, the world narrowing to the heat of his body, the taste of his kiss, the thunder of their hearts.

In his room, they shed their fears and clothes alike, exploring each other with a hunger that bordered on feral. His hands traced the curves of her body with reverence and need, his mouth finding every place that made her gasp and arch beneath him.

They came together like a storm breaking, fierce and unstoppable. When they collapsed against the sheets, tangled and breathless, it felt like a fragile truce had been forged between their warring hearts.

She lay with her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as the world outside faded away.

"I don't know where this ends," she whispered into the dark.

His fingers stroked her hair. "Then let's not worry about the end," he murmured. "Let's just stay here, for now."

---

Lola woke to the soft gray light of dawn seeping through the curtains of Devon's bedroom. For a fleeting moment, she thought she was back in Paris, in the small apartment she'd fought to keep when everything fell apart. But then she felt the heat of his body beside her, his arm draped protectively around her waist, and the events of the night before came flooding back in vivid detail.

She lay there, heart thudding, listening to his slow, steady breathing. His face in sleep was almost boyish, the hard lines of anger and control smoothed away. She traced the curve of his cheekbone with her eyes, wondering how a man so ruthless could look so vulnerable.

He stirred, his arm tightening as he pulled her closer. His eyes opened slowly, blue gaze softening when they landed on her. "Good morning," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

She swallowed. "Morning."

His hand slipped up her back, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades as he studied her face. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, her throat thick. "Are you?"

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "I should say no. I should regret this."

"But you don't," she whispered.

His eyes darkened. "No. I don't."

He pulled her into a slow, lingering kiss, their bodies molding together under the covers. The kiss deepened, his hand fisting in her hair, hers clutching his shoulders. When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard.

He pressed his forehead to hers. "We have a long day ahead."

She closed her eyes. "I know."

---

By the time they emerged from his room, the household was awake. The staff averted their eyes politely, but Lola felt the burn of curious stares as they walked side by side to the breakfast room. Devon seemed utterly unbothered, his hand brushing hers occasionally as if staking a silent claim.

They sat across from each other, the air humming with unspoken words. Devon scrolled through his phone while she picked at her toast. He glanced up, eyes sharp. "Victor Cavanaugh is in New York."

Her head snapped up. "What? How do you know?"

"One of my security team saw him last night, checking into the Langham." Devon's expression was all business now, the ruthless CEO reasserting itself. "If he's here, it's not a coincidence."

Her heart pounded. "What do we do?"

"We confront him." His eyes glittered with determination. "We get the truth out of him. And if he's responsible, we make sure he pays."

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. "We do it together."

He turned his hand, threading his fingers through hers. "Together."

---

The drive to the Langham felt surreal. Lola sat in the backseat of Devon's sleek black SUV, the city rushing past in a blur of steel and glass. Devon's hand rested on her knee, his thumb stroking slow, reassuring circles. She watched the hard set of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, and knew there was no turning back.

The SUV pulled up to the grand entrance. Devon's security team fanned out as he helped her out of the car, their movements quick and efficient. Inside, the lobby gleamed with marble floors and crystal chandeliers. They moved to the elevators with practiced ease, Devon's arm a solid weight around her shoulders.

They rode up in tense silence. At the top floor, Devon rapped sharply on the door of the penthouse suite. A moment later, it swung open to reveal a man in his late sixties with silver hair and piercing gray eyes. He wore a tailored suit, his expression sharp and cold.

"Devon Holyster," Victor Cavanaugh drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "And this must be the lost Gareth heiress. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know exactly why we're here," Devon said, voice like ice. He stepped forward, forcing Victor back into the suite. Lola followed, her pulse roaring in her ears.

The penthouse was a study in opulence-floor-to-ceiling windows with a sweeping view of Central Park, modern art on the walls, fresh orchids in tall crystal vases. But the air felt thick with danger, every surface gleaming like a blade.

Victor moved to the bar, pouring himself a drink with deliberate calm. "I suppose you're here to accuse me of something?"

Devon's jaw worked. "You manipulated our fathers. You orchestrated their downfall."

Victor sipped his scotch, eyes glittering. "Interesting theory."

Lola stepped forward, voice shaking but strong. "My father always said someone tricked him. And you profited the most from our families' collapse."

Victor's lips curled. "And what do you plan to do with your... theory?"

"Expose you," Devon said, voice lethal. "Destroy you."

Victor laughed, a low, chilling sound. "Oh, children. You really think the world cares about your sad little tragedy? Business is war. Your fathers lost. I won."

Lola's nails dug into her palms. "You ruined lives. You killed people."

"I did what I had to do," Victor snapped, mask of civility cracking. "Your fathers were weak. I saw an opportunity and I took it."

Devon lunged, slamming Victor against the wall. His face was inches from Victor's, eyes blazing with fury. "You're going to make this right."

Victor's composure returned instantly, a sneer twisting his lips. "And if I don't?"

Devon's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Then you'll find out exactly how far I'm willing to go."

---

Victor agreed to a settlement- hushed payment, documents proving his involvement, and a public statement clearing both their fathers of wrongdoing. Lola stood by Devon's side as Victor signed, her hands trembling but her resolve unbroken.

When it was done, they left the penthouse without a word. The elevator doors closed, sealing them in silence. Devon reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. His eyes were soft, but his voice was steel. "We did it."

She let out a shaky breath. "I can't believe it's over."

"It's not over," he said quietly. "But it's a start."

---

Back at the Holyster estate, the atmosphere was different-lighter somehow, as if a storm had passed. Devon led her into the library, closing the door behind them. He turned to face her, eyes dark with an emotion she couldn't name.

"You were incredible today," he said softly.

She swallowed. "So were you."

He stepped closer, hands rising to cup her face. "I meant what I said, Lola. I don't know where this goes. But I don't want to let you go."

She pressed her palms to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "Then don't."

He kissed her, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him as his mouth claimed hers. She moaned softly, opening for him, their tongues tangling as the world fell away.

He backed her toward the wall, pinning her gently as his hands roamed over her body, memorizing every curve. She arched into him, heat pooling low in her belly as his lips moved to her neck, sucking and biting until she was gasping.

"Devon," she breathed, hands fisting in his shirt. "I need you."

He groaned, lifting her easily. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the desk, sweeping papers aside before laying her down. His mouth crashed onto hers, hungry and desperate, as he tore at the buttons of her blouse.

She reached for his belt, fingers trembling with urgency. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest. She traced the lines of his muscles, marveling at the strength in him, the vulnerability in the way he looked at her.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, voice raw.

She shook her head, eyes blazing. "Never."

They came together like fire meeting gasoline, bodies moving with fierce need. Each kiss, each touch, stripped away the walls they'd built around their hearts. He whispered her name like a prayer as he buried himself in her, their cries echoing in the quiet library.

When they finally collapsed, tangled and spent, Devon pulled her against his chest, pressing soft kisses to her hair.

"I don't want this to end," he murmured.

She closed her eyes, heart aching with how much she wanted the same. "Neither do I."

---

They lay together in the afterglow, the fire in the hearth crackling softly. She traced circles on his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair, the silence between them warm and easy.

"What happens now?" she asked quietly.

He sighed. "Now we deal with the fallout. The board will want explanations. The press will start asking questions. And Cavanaugh will fight us, even after signing."

She lifted her head. "Then we face it together."

He cupped her cheek, eyes fierce. "Together."

A knock on the door shattered their peace. Devon swore under his breath, pulling on his shirt as a security guard stepped inside. "Sir, you need to see this."

He handed Devon a tablet. Lola rose, peering over his shoulder as he read. Her stomach dropped at the headline splashed across a major news site:

BREAKING: Billionaire Heir Devon Holyster Linked to Gareth Family Scandal - Sources Claim Secret Romance

A photo accompanied the article: a blurry shot of them leaving the Langham, his hand on her lower back, her face pale but determined.

Lola's heart sank. "They know."

Devon's jaw clenched. "This changes everything."

She grabbed his arm. "We can handle it."

His eyes burned into hers. "We have to. Because if we don't, they'll tear us apart."

He pulled her close, his lips finding hers in a searing kiss that tasted of defiance and desperation. She clung to him, knowing the fight had only just begun.

---

They spent the night in strategy meetings, calling lawyers, drafting statements. Devon's team worked like a well-oiled machine, but Lola felt the rising tide of panic in every whispered conversation, every urgent phone call.

As dawn approached, Devon found her alone in the library, staring out the window at the first light of day.

He stepped behind her, arms circling her waist. "We're stronger together," he murmured into her hair. "No matter what comes."

She leaned back against him, finding strength in his embrace. "I believe you."

And as the sun rose over the city, they stood united, ready to face whatever storm the world would throw at them - together.

---