Beautiful Deception

By Celia Crown

"We have always been greedy."

 

All three of them are star-crossed lovers, tattered strings colored with tragic red yet with an unwavering bond.

 

Doctor Kian with grace and tailored malevolence. FBI agent, Remo, with corrupted honor and violence. One paved the way with dependency, and the other followed with a lock behind him.

 

The trust was ingrained into her mind, a smooth transition of memories into another, and Maya doesn't know when that memory happened.

 

One is crazy, the other isn't any less insane, and nobody knows the sins resting peacefully in their hearts.

 

Maya's efforts to live a normal life fail when an invitation lures her to a snow-capped villa, and she's stuck with two men who make her head dizzy and her instincts go haywire.

 

They pay a little too much attention to Maya and are unaffected by the chaotic aftermath of a guest mysteriously dying.

 

Keeping Maya was always the objective, and they didn't mind sharing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celia Crown
• Release date: Dec 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223733157

Book preview

Chapter One

__________

Maya

Doctor, I want you to be mine.

The man standing over his desk, fingers pausing mid-turn on my files, looks up to smile with a hint of exasperation at the corners of his lips. His gold-rimmed glasses glimmer when I lean back heavily on the plush armchair and fidget with the hem of my dress.

Dr. Kian’s office has an unsettling ambiance, with heavy curtains parted to allow strong daylight through the windows, casting a wispy white veil across the room.

Money doesn’t buy everything, Maya.

Another day, another long session with this man. I don’t care about spending an hour talking to someone with the qualification to speak to criminals claiming insanity. My parents are more than willing to pay extra to keep Dr. Kian from taking on other clients, just in case I have a sudden need to talk to him.

Why does everyone say that? I sigh, running my nails down the leather armchair as I watch the white lines fade.

Who does?

Junnie.

Ah, Dr. Kian’s deep voice rumbles, breaking the silence that cycles between us. Your friend, the one you told me about last month.

It took three months for me to say anything about myself and those around me. There’s no reason; I just don’t feel comfortable letting a stranger into my life, even if he’s there to help me.

She’s an intern at her dad’s law firm and claims a client called her a nepo baby before insulting everyone she knew, I say as a bird glides around the corner of the window.

Dr. Kian walks over to the empty chair in front of me, his towering figure both comforting and intimidating as he stands for a second too long, and that second opens a dam of restlessness in the pit of my stomach.

His gentle demeanor masks a hidden intensity that leaves me feeling strangely vulnerable.

I don’t know why she’s working when her parents pay for everything, I begin hesitantly, my eyes fixed on the intricate patterns of the carpet beneath my feet. Why would anyone take on the stress of dealing with people?

Is that why you don’t work? He bounces the question at me, and I expected it almost immediately.

My shoulders shrug and slump back down. My parents are fine with it, and I’m okay with it. So, why are people offended?

Dr. Kian leans on the armchair cushion, his large hands resting on the sharp slant of his jaw and the clipboard on his lap. His eyes, soft and understanding, study me with a kind of determination that sends shivers down my spine.

Do you flaunt it? he asks and adds quietly, Have you offended someone?

I take a deep breath, recounting last week’s family gathering with prodding distant cousins and boisterous relatives, breathing down my neck about the pride of being successful. The backhanded comments about me using my trauma to bring shame to the family business and how their children are making them proud.

If they couldn’t read the nonchalance on my face, then they surely couldn’t have read the disinterest in my parents’ critical scrutiny.

He jots down his last thoughts when I glance up before settling the same piercing gaze onto my body. His jaw tightens just a bit, but it’s there to confirm that he picked up the key point in my recounting rant of that awfully boring family gathering.

But he doesn’t press. Whenever you’re ready.

He’s the only therapist who hasn’t pressured me into revealing what happened four years ago.

What if I’m never ready?

The trauma has turned into nightmares now, playing out in my sleep—darkness, eerie whispers, and a choking stench of chemicals. As I sit in silence, I feel Dr. Kian’s gaze on me, a warmth that oddly contrasts with the hollowness of my dreams.

I don’t remember anything, I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. At all. Everything is blank, like a badly cut movie.

Dr. Kian remains calm, but his eyes betray a hint of something I can’t quite place. His lips move, and his words flock to the low timbre buzzing in my ears.

I wonder if his other patients feel the same way—a mix of comfort and unease. Yet the strange pull toward him is undeniable. The doubts I had, the ones that fester and cover my soul, wipe off like water stains on a mirror. It’s only for a moment, but the effects are too impressive.

I feel safe with him, and I hate it. This giddy warmth in me feels disgustingly light. I don’t want to trust him; sometimes, he would give me moments of hair-raising chills, but most of the time, he’s the tender spring sunlight when my blood runs cold.

Dr. Kian, who is tolerant of my sudden phone calls but never too indulgent of my whims, is an important figure in my life when he willingly blurs the line of professionalism during volatile nightmares.

Do you want to remember?

As he slightly tilts his head, waiting for the answer that’s growing hooks on my tongue, I look toward the sound of his voice, finding it difficult to focus on the melted blend of toffee hues in his eyes.

Healing takes time, but the first step must be taken by you.

I grimace and tip my head back on the armchair. Can you pull me? Maybe a shove, too.

He shakes his head and chuckles, then writes something onto the paper.

I would be influencing you, he notes and taps the pen on the clipboard.

I’m paying you, I mutter, my breath catching in my throat as I try to force a smile. You’re supposed to help me.

Yes, and I am, he concurs with a light but stern stare. However, I value your mental health more than money.

A heartbeat rips apart, and the last half slams into the following beat with such force that my ears snap. Then the rest panics, turning into a flurry of snow rolling down an avalanche as my trembling fingers curl into my clammy palms.

I want to decide that for myself. I bite down on my tongue, and dull pain guides my thoughts through the fogginess.

I’m sorry, he drawls lowly, but I won’t allow you to hurt yourself.

It’s a childish thought, but it’s one that plagues my mind a lot. If I were to buy him, then he’d have no choice but to listen to everything I ask him to do. He probably has the experience to stop those nightmares, but he’d face legalities.

So, if he’s mine, then he doesn’t have to worry about ethics.

My answer is still the same, he says, and it’s scary how easily he reads me. I’m always here for you, but I’m not up for sale.

If, I needle absentmindedly as he slides the pen into the clipboard holder, if you only do brainwashing—

You wouldn’t know it. His charcoal gray button-up stretches across his chest as he stands from his chair and tightens around his biceps after he gathers the files neatly.

There’s a cord of tension between my fingers, a need to stroke the sharply defined vein down his tense forearm.

Words have power. Dr. Kian’s eyebrows draw together, and a snare of scathing bait drips into the sincerity of his eyes. Be mindful with them.

***

With a gentle thump, the heavy glass door closes behind me as I exit the building. The crisp air does little to ease the lingering tension from my therapy session with Dr. Kian. As the day draws to a close, the shadows grow.

A sleek black vehicle comes out of nowhere as I approach my car, colliding with mine in a violent crash. Metal twists and glass shatters, leaving a scene of chaos in front of me.

It happened in the blink of an eye, an astonishing speed that compressed time into a split second, and the thunderous boom slashed through the air, piercing my ears.

My heart pounds wildly within my chest as I stumble backward, physically unscathed but emotionally rattled to the core.

The wrecked black car’s door swings open, and a man steps out, dressed in a fitting black shirt and dark pants that accentuates the powerful muscles in his long legs. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and there's hazy caution in his gaze that sends a staggering jolt down my spine.

His arm shoots out, clamping his hand onto a bloodied man’s head, all without looking a moment out of breath. He stares at me from a distance, but I can feel my skin prickle and blood cower toward my heart.

Even when he directs his uncanny attention to the injured man whose knees have buckled, the tingling sensation persists.

Another black SUV pulls up, swerving next to both damaged cars, and two suited men cuff the fainted man.

The police, I think distractedly with a breath of relief.

I swallow the clump of nerves down my throat, clearing them under my breath, and try to ignore the wave of irritation when I watch my car’s