The investigation into the White Cosmetics takeover intensified under Andreas's directive. Grumpy, with his characteristic efficiency, compiled a list of the eleven board members who had voted against Snow, their current whereabouts, and any public information available. Among them, two names stood out: Mr. Frank, a seemingly loyal senior board member, and Miss Cassandra, whose current location was a complete mystery.
Days turned into a meticulous search. Grumpy's team fanned out, employing discreet inquiries and leveraging their extensive network. After what felt like an eternity, Grumpy located Mr. Frank in a quiet, unassuming suburb of a far-off city. Frank, a man visibly aged beyond his years, agreed to a private, recorded interview.
What he revealed sent a shockwave through Andreas. Frank, who had been a pivotal vote in the takeover, confessed to a sinister coercion. Snow's stepmother, Queen Ravenna, had threatened to expose his deep secret: he was a serial philanderer, a truth that would destroy his marriage and incur the wrath of his wife's powerful and notoriously influential family, the very family responsible for his wealth and connections. Terrified, Frank had agreed to vote against Snow. Months later, Ravenna had twisted the knife, demanding his resignation or threatening to expose him anyway. He had no choice but to vanish, escaping a life built on a lie.
"Find Cassandra," Frank pleaded with Grumpy, his voice raspy with years of suppressed guilt. "She knows why the others voted. She had her own… entanglements." But Cassandra, it seemed, had disappeared without a trace.
Just as Grumpy was relaying this information to Andreas in his office, the door creaked open, and Alex's casual, mocking voice cut through the air. "So, dear brother, still playing detective? Or just trying to win the fair Snow White's heart?" Alex had clearly overheard enough to fuel his own twisted agenda. His eyes, devoid of warmth, fixed on Andreas with a malicious glee.
*****The Delicate Dance and the Echo of Despair*****
Snow, meanwhile, was experiencing a whirlwind of emotions. Andreas's protection, his unwavering presence, was a balm to her soul. She felt a lightness she hadn't known possible, a profound sense of relief that she wasn't battling the shadows alone. His kisses, now more frequent, were a revelation – tender, possessive, and deeply passionate, they shattered her carefully constructed composure, leaving her breathless and yearning.
One evening, after Andreas had escorted her home and lingered for a long, soul-searing kiss at her doorstep, Snow found herself back in her apartment, a delicious ache settling deep in her core. His scent, a mix of power and something uniquely him, clung to her, a constant reminder of his presence. She slipped into a silk robe, the soft fabric a sensual caress against her skin, still humming from his touch.
She moved through her apartment, her fingers tracing the worn spines of her tech books, the smooth glass of her lab equipment. This was her world, the one she had painstakingly built brick by painful brick. And now, Andreas, a force of nature, was irrevocably intertwined with it.
A sudden, sharp memory pierced through her euphoria. It was the night of the takeover, after the board had voted, after Ravenna's chilling smile. Snow, still naive, had tried to appeal to one of the older board members, Mr. Frank, a man she had considered a mentor. His eyes, usually kind, had been cold, devoid of sympathy. "It's just business, Snow," he'd said, his voice flat. "Nothing personal." That cold detachment, that casual cruelty, had wounded her more deeply than any financial loss. It was the crushing realization that people she respected, people she trusted, could be so easily bought, so readily discard their principles.
Another memory, equally painful, surfaced: Miss Cassandra, whom Snow had admired for her sharp mind and kindness, had avoided her gaze that day, her usual warmth replaced by a brittle facade. Snow had attributed it to the stress of the situation, but now, a cold suspicion coiled in her stomach.
A shiver ran through her, despite the warmth of the room. The memory brought with it a wave of nausea, the familiar taste of despair. She remembered lying in the hospital bed, the faint beeps of machines, the suffocating knowledge that her father's legacy, her own dreams, had been stolen, and by those she had foolishly believed to be allies. The fear was a cold, constricting band around her chest.
She went to her bedroom, the soft lamplight doing little to dispel the shadows creeping into her mind. She stripped off the robe, her movements slow, mechanical. As she stood before the mirror, her gaze fell on a faint, almost invisible scar on her left arm, a thin white line where the IV had been. A physical reminder of the poison, the betrayal, the coma.
Her fingers instinctively traced the scar, the ghost of a tremor running through her. She was beautiful, strong, resilient – Andreas told her so, showed her so, with every touch and every kiss. But beneath the surface, the wounds still festered. She had been so vulnerable, so utterly at the mercy of others.
The desire for Andreas was a burning ache, a powerful current pulling her under. His touch, his lips, promised a world of pleasure, of connection, of a passion that she instinctively knew would be all-consuming. But the thought of surrendering that much control, of exposing her deepest self to another person, especially a man from that world, terrified her. What if she lost herself again? What if his protection, however well-intentioned, became another form of captivity? What if he, too, was ultimately a man of power first, and everything else second?
She ran a hand through her hair, her breathing shallow. She wanted him, desperately. Her body hummed with a need that was both exquisite and frightening. But her mind, scarred by a past that refused to fade, whispered warnings. Could love truly exist in a world built on acquisition and ruthlessness? Could she trust Andreas, completely and utterly, to be her shield, not another potential sword?
The thought of his strong hands on her, pulling her close, igniting fires she hadn't known existed, was a powerful counterpoint to her fear. She could feel the ghost of his lips on hers, the possessive claim, the promise of something profound and life-altering. The choice was agonizing, the stakes immeasurably high. To give in to the overwhelming desire, to embrace the love he offered, meant confronting her deepest fears. To pull back meant a return to her isolated, protected world, a world suddenly rendered desolate without him.
She sank onto her bed, the silk sheets cool against her skin, her body aching for him. The battle between fear and yearning raged within her, a silent, exquisite torment. The spice was not just in their kisses, but in the raw, emotional risk of daring to love again, of shedding the layers of self-protection to reach for a happiness that felt both impossible and utterly essential.