Secrets Of The Phantom Heir

1 Elara moved through the hallway, effortlessly striking in the tailored navy suit. Today was the end, she thought,when the gallery became about business and not the art. She had enjoyed a blissful month as Assistant Chief Curator of Gallerie Belle Étoile, but even getting hired, she’d known about their negotiations with Vale Corporation. “Chérie.” Briar kissed her first on the right cheek, then the left. They pushed open the doors to the conference room and stepped in. “The Phantom Heir is in the building.” Elara snorted. Everyone had been buzzing the entire week, excited at seeing the exclusive CEO of the top luxury conglomerate—wealth, secrecy, and scandal rolled into one man. “I would like to put my fists into his snobby—” Briar nudged her sharply as the door opened. The atmosphere changed instantly. Charged. Heavy. Even the press—with their expensive equipment and frantic clicks—fell strangely subdued. Elara took her time turning, and when she finally did, she found herself staring into the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen. He didn’t smile. Of course he wouldn’t, she thought. His face was like a statue’s: cold, hard, breathtaking. His suit looked custom-tailored in a way that only old money could pull off, the silver cufflinks glinting subtly—Vale Corporation originals, no doubt. Maurice Delacroix stepped forward with a bright smile. “Mr. Harrington Vale, this is Elara Vaughn. My extremely competent right hand.” It might have been her imagination, but Elara saw it—barely concealed fury tightening his jaw at the mention of her name. He spared her a single, sharp glance before heading to the dais as if the room itself deferred to him. “Who the hell does he think he is?” Elara fumed later that evening. She paced her apartment, still vibrating with annoyance. “Looking down his nose at me like some… some—ugh.” Once she finished her laundry, she settled onto the couch with a cup of coffee in one hand and the remote in the other. Every channel she flipped to was headlining the acquisition. She forced herself to admit the truth: without the Vale deal, Gallerie Belle Étoile would have closed. The phone rang, startling her. “Maman.” “Ma fille. Comment ça va?” “I’m fine… I miss you terribly.” “So you say, but you never check up on me. And your brother—oh, darling, he’s at it again. Have you seen?” Intrigued, Elara sifted through newspapers until she found Page 6. “Not yet, Maman.” Vivienne Vaughn was the perfect combination of style, poise, and drama. Descended from the French Monets, she had arrived at Oxford planning to have fun for a year before meeting Asher Vaughn, marrying him, and earning lifelong estrangement from her family when she failed to tell them—or break her previous engagement. “Ah, voilà.” She found the page. Elara stifled a laugh. Her brother, Theo Vaughn, was captured mid-gallop on a horse with the future Duchess clinging to him. “He was supposed to open the polo match with Catherine,” Vivienne lamented. “And he just scooped her off the horse and rode away. Mon Dieu.” Elara kicked off her slippers and mentally drafted her grocery list as Vivienne continued dramatizing. “MORT will be shipped over tomorrow night, in time for the auction. I’ll need someone to sign for it,” Elara said the next morning. “I’m available,” Marco replied. She smiled appreciatively and crossed it off her list. Caterers: tick. Decorations: tick. “Next order of business—” The door swung open with purposeful force. The Phantom Heir stepped in. And with him came that unsettling pull—the one that settled low in her stomach, uninvited. “Miss Vaughn and I need the room.” His voice was a low rumble, smooth and expensive, the kind that came from someone used to being obeyed. Every staff member scrambled out instantly. Briar squeezed her shoulder before leaving. Marco, in his naturally flirty way, kissed her cheeks. “Later, bijoux.” Nikolai moved with controlled precision as he took the seat directly opposite her. Even sitting, he radiated authority—and wealth. The watch on his wrist was a limited-edition Vale signature piece, the kind only billionaires and royalty managed to obtain. She hated that she noticed.She hated even more that it looked unfairly good on him. She was beautiful, he noted—he couldn’t deny it. Stunning green eyes, sculpted features that screamed aristocracy. And even beneath her silk slacks and button-down, he could see the outline of a body that was soft, supple, infuriatingly perfect. Focus, he warned himself. “I came here to see Maurice, and I was told you would be briefing me.” The way he said "you"was so belittling that the legendary French snotty look flickered across her face before she replaced it with cool professionalism. “Yes. Unfortunately Maurice was in an accident, and I’m taking over. Shall we begin?” As Elara updated him on the auction, she couldn’t shake it—the same sensation she felt at the press conference. Like he was angry at her. Personally. And yet his eyes followed her movements with a focus that made heat crawl up her spine. “You know what?” she said finally, slapping the folder shut. “I can’t do this anymore. What do you have---against me?” “Excuse me?”The only change in his expression was a sharply raised eyebrow—an elegant, infuriating motion. “Respectfully, sir,” she pressed, holding his gaze,“what is your problem with me?” “Do you really have no idea?” “I wouldn’t ask if I knew.” Nikolai contemplated, the corner of his mouth tightening ever so slightly. The story was known to only one other person in the world, and it was not something he was ready to share. He chose the simplest, sharpest reply: “Your surname… Vaughn. It carries quite a reputation.”