Secrets Of The Phantom Heir

Episode 2

For a heartbeat, he watched as a storm of emotions played across her face—realization, shame,

anger, sorrow—all flashing in rapid succession. Without another word, she stalked out of the

room, around the corner, into a bathroom.

Damn him to hell for stirring up all these old emotions.

Elara remembered the day like it was yesterday: the Feds raiding their house, overturning

everything. The accusations of fraud, but worse—the viral s*x tapes of her father with

prostitutes. The empire had collapsed overnight; the Vaughns’ high social standing had been

destroyed. Years later, the drama had simmered down, especially in Monaco, her current home.

Yet even now, the slightest mention of her family made certain Europeans’ eyes widen in wary

judgment, as though she were the same person as her father.

How dare he judge her for something she had no part in?

Elara sniffled, furious with herself. She was a Vaughn—French and British aristocratic ancestry

ran in her veins. No one could make her lock herself in a bathroom and cry.

Nikolai looked up, and for a split second, regret flickered across his expression, though it did not

register in hers.

“Within these walls,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, “I am a competent curator with an

excellent artistic eye. I am an employee, and you—my employer. We will treat each other with

respect and professionalism.”

Fury suited her,he noted. Her skin glowed, and those enchanting green eyes blazed like emeralds

lit from within.

He walked toward her. She instinctively took a step back—again.

Yet in a second, he was closer, impossibly quick. His fingers wrapped around her arm, pulling

her forward, the intensity of his touch sending a thrill she couldn’t suppress.

“Excusez-moi, gardez vos mains pour vous,” she snapped, chin high, refusing to yield.

“You should speak French more often” Nikolai’s lips quirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. So

fiery… so infuriating…

“This is highly inappropriate, Mr Harrington-Vale”

“Indeed it is Miss Vaughn” He brushed at her cheek, the contact unexpectedly sizzling “You had

some tissue particles there”

The knock at the door startled him, snapping the taut pull between them. Nikolai released her

instantly, stepping back as if burned.

Marco stepped in, his smile fading the moment he saw her face.

“Bijoux… have you been crying?”

Elara smiled, smoothing her hair nervously “You know me. Passion de l’art and all that.”

Marco didn’t look convinced, but he continued, “Monsieur Zigré is here for the private tour.”

“Oh— I almost forgot about that.” She shifted her gaze to Nikolai, every trace of vulnerability

gone. “Are we done here?”

Whatever flicker she thought she’d seen in him earlier had vanished. His expression was carved

from ice again.

“You’re dismissed,” he said.

Elara gave a brisk nod and swept past him, her heels clicking sharply as she exited the room—

leaving the air behind her thick with everything unspoken.

Elara had been born with a love of art ingrained through her maternal bloodline, and by her teen

years, it was obvious she had also inherited her father’s knack for business. Art and business

merged on opening night, and so it made her blood pump.

The room was softly lit and gorgeously decorated, the million-dollar paintings strategically hung.

“Ellie!” She found herself in the beefy arms of Countess Abernathy, a short, stodgy woman with

unlimited funds. “MORT is mine.”

Elara laughed. No one knew what the painting truly meant, but they all had their theories. MORT

was a moody blend of charcoal and muted gold, its blurred forms suggesting not death, but a

beautiful, inevitable ending. It was the center of attraction.

Across the room, Nikolai watched her work the room. He’d been searching for something—

anything—that could justify firing her. But everything was picture-perfect.

Especially her.

The gown clung to her in all the right places, a river of deep emerald silk that caught the light

with every step. The off-shoulder neckline revealed just enough creamy skin, while a delicate slit

traced her leg with teasing elegance. When she leaned toward a painting, the light caught her

earrings, and Nikolai’s pulse skipped without warning.

She owned the room.

Guests murmured in French and English, champagne flutes clinking delicately as fingers traced

the edges of rare canvases. Lena Marchand,a statuesque America model was draped effortlessly

over Nik’s arm ,her red dress screaming “notice me”. And everyone did-except Nikolai,who

uncomfortably, felt his eyes constantly drifting towards Elara. He hated it.

Marco’s teasing words were still humming through her thoughts when someone stepped into her

peripheral vision —Nikolai.

She didn’t turn immediately. That presence was unmistakable—controlled, precise, like he

moved through the air with intent. Still, despite every warning in her body, something stubborn

and unspoken tugged her gaze toward him.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself “

“I am..Where’s your gorgeous accessory?” Ellie replied, sarcasm dripping from her tone.

“Lena?Ladies room”

Marco turned his attention from Briar to whisper something that made her laugh,a sound that

both irked him and drew him in.

Nikolai’s hands curled into fists at his sides as Marco whispered something else that sent Elara

smiling toward the sculpture display.

He forced his voice into something cool and neutral.

“Are you done entertaining the room?”

Elara didn’t even look at him. “I’m working.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She turned then, brow lifting. “And what word would you prefer, Mr. Harrington-Vale?”

He studied her for a beat too long.

She hated how unreadable he was.

He hated how unbothered she looked.

“Distracted,” he finally said.

“By?”

“You tell me,” he replied, irritation sharpening his tone. “Your focus seems scattered.”

Elara laughed under her breath. “I didn’t realize mingling with guests counted as misconduct.”

“It doesn’t,” he said, jaw tightening. “Unless it gets… excessive.”

She blinked slowly, realizing.

“Oh,” she said. “This is about Marco.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is,” she said with maddening calm. “You think he distracts me. He doesn’t.”

Nikolai’s stare darkened—not heated, but offended.

Possessive in a strict employer way, not a romantic one.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Good,” he snapped. “Because this is a professional setting.”

A beat passed.

Elara lifted her champagne flute.

“To professionalism then.”

He didn’t return the toast.

He just watched her, as if she were somehow misbehaving simply by existing in his line of sight.

Before either could speak again, a collector from the Musée des Arts Contemporains approached.

“Miss Vaughn, pardon—may we discuss the placement of MORT? Several guests are asking

about the symbolism.”

“Of course,” Elara said, giving Nikolai a pointedly polite nod. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She walked away, emerald gown rippling behind her.

Nikolai told himself he wasn’t watching.

He told himself her leaving didn’t bother him.

He told himself many things.

Most of them lies.