Master of his heart (Brielle and Max)

“I’m curious, what exactly did Miss Tessa tell you? This whole ordeal with Dorsey International involves some really hush–hush corporate secrets. If I just let this slide, I’m the one who’s gonna have to shoulder the blame. Did it ever cross Miss Tessa’s mind what I, as the victim here, am supposed to do?”

Brielle’s tone was cool, the corners of her mouth twitching with a mocking smile. She had never met Tessa, but judging someone’s fate with a light phone call? That didn’t sound like the actions of a good Samaritan. Was this the type of woman Andrew fell for?

Andrew’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t a fool. He could read between the lines of Brielle’s insinuation. Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

“Brielle, I don’t know you, but I do know Max. He wouldn’t just leave so–called billion–dollar trade secrets in his jacket pocket. Sure, I believe Sophia hired someone to come after you, but the rest? Sounds like a tall tale to

me.”

“And what if it is a tall tale? If I hadn’t known how to protect myself, my face would have been ruined. You do know what looks mean to a woman, right?”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “What will it take for you not to pursue this?”

“Well, that depends on how far you’re willing to go for Tessa.”

“Brielle.” A chill passed through Andrew’s gaze. If Max wasn’t there, he might have already drawn his gun. “Don’t be so ungrateful.”

Brielle chuckled lightly, “I’m the only victim here, and my refusal to settle makes me ungrateful?”

Andrew had been outmaneuvered by Brielle before, and it made his blood boil. Turning to Max, he snapped, “Aren’t you going to do something about this?”

She was getting a bit too cocky. She was just a pampered pet, after all.

Max, fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his glass, felt Andrew’s stare and looked up slowly. “What would you do if someone tried to ruin Tessa’s face?”

“I’d annihilate them. Their whole family would pay for it.” The fierceness in Andrew’s eyes was unmistakable, and he frowned in disgust at his own reaction. “How can you compare Brielle to Tessa? Tessa is my fiancée, the woman I’m marrying. Brielle is just your fleeting fancy.”

In front of Brielle, Andrew spoke without a filter. It wasn’t a secret, after all. Brielle was aware, too. Max was just having his fun. She hadn’t bored him yet.

A sting of hurt flashed through Brielle’s heart, and her fingers clenched at her side. “Andrew, this has nothing to do with my place in Uncle Max’s heart. It’s a matter of a man’s pride.”

She couldn’t admit she was afraid to hear Max’s response, afraid it would fall short of her hopes, so she cleverly shifted the focus to a matter of dignity. It was better not to harbor too many hopes on certain people and things.

Their finite nature couldn’t bear the weight of such expectations. Best to let go.

Max looked up, his gaze falling on her, as if assessing her.

Brielle stiffened, forcing a casual smile. “If Uncle Max can’t even protect me, a pet of his, wouldn’t that tarnish his grand image?”

Andrew hadn’t expected such a response, his brows knitting together. “Brielle, what are you really after?”

Brielle looked down, pushing aside the discomfort, “I want Sophia and Emily to come and apologize to me, face to face. I’ve got questions for them. And that thug from the police station? He needs to be behind bars, or he’ll come after me again.”

Her demands were modest. She didn’t mention the so–called corporate secrets. A non–existent issue can’t

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withstand scrutiny. Besides, Andrew and Max had a good rapport. She couldn’t really blow things up irreparably.

Andrew lit a cigarette, his expression defiant. “Fine, I’ll make sure they come to you.”

He said more, but Brielle wasn’t really listening. Once he was gone, she turned to Max. He seemed unaffected by Andrew’s words, detached.

Brielle’s lips twitched in self–derision. To him, feelings must be too cheap to consider, cheap enough not to waste time pondering.

Whether it was a business opportunity or a life chance, to a prodigy like Max, only a thirty percent shot was worth taking for a big win; anything less was likely a loss. A fifty percent chance was a minor victory. And with an eighty percent certainty, the market was saturated. If you waited for a hundred percent certainty, you might never find such a deal in the world.

And in the game of chances, feelings might be less than the trash by the roadside. They held no sense of achievement when they were too easily won.