Master of his heart (Brielle and Max)

Choking on his words, Brielle shifted her gaze to the road ahead, swiftly changing the subject, “I’ve got plans later tonight, can you drop me off somewhere?”

Dustin, eyes closed, didn’t respond.

Only when the car came to a stop did Brielle realize they were at Dustin’s private villa, a retreat he used for entertaining his ladies.

She stood hesitantly at the spacious entrance, feeling a strong resistance to stepping inside. The peculiar chair placed amid the flower stands seemed to her like some kind of kinky accessory.

This guy had a reputation as questionable as Tiffanie’s. Brielle thought Tiffanie was outrageous, but Dustin was proving to be a whole new level of scandalous.

An array of exotic professional gadgets was on display, complete with a swing that seemed to cater to every conceivable fantasy.

Brielle’s expression grew more bizarre by the second, finally settling on a grand piano near the entrance that looked incredibly valuable.

She breathed a sigh of relief, deliberately avoiding the other gadgets and instead, her fingers couldn’t resist playing a key on the piano. “Is there some reason for the piano being here?”

“Of course.” Dustin answered seriously, then walked further inside to change his clothes.

Brielle figured the guy wasn’t completely unreliable.

Minutes later, Dustin emerged in a tailored suit, his demeanor instantly transformed to one of composed elegance.

The door opened to admit a flurry of people – a professional styling team had arrived.

“Go get changed.”

“Me?”

Brielle, thinking she was just a spur-of-the-moment interest for him, was now being instructed to change. It couldn’t possibly mean he was planning to take her to an auction. But she was indeed ushered into a dressing room by the entourage.

Stepping out in a flowing aquamarine gown, Dustin raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, you look much better than that philosopher.”

It seemed he was out of female company and had premeditatedly snatched her up for the occasion. Brielle was curious about the degree of trauma this so-called philosopher had inflicted on him.

She sat down as stylists swarmed her, closing her eyes to let them work on her face. Feeling the need to break the odd silence, she picked up on the earlier topic. “That piano, what’s the significance? I remember at Mr. Lynch’s eighteenth birthday gala, your family hired a handwriting expert to assess your script.”

That ceremony was a grand affair, with every young socialite from North America in attendance. Dustin’s handwriting fetched an astonishing five million at auction. Whether it was worth that sum was another matter entirely.

A smirk played on Dustin’s lips, amused that she knew even this. Clearly, she kept up with corporate news.

“I just find it quite intriguing to use the piano as a stage. Everyone’s body can play a different symphony. Sometimes, with a glass of wine in hand, watching the piano keys stained red, don’t you think it’s quite sophisticated?”

Brielle had never been so speechless in her life. Her breath grew heavier, and her face nearly cracked. Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

No wonder he was the most infamous playboy in the North American social circles. Taking a deep breath, she managed to maintain her composure with great effort.

“Mr. Lynch, you’re certainly blunt.”

Dustin turned to look at her and chuckled. He rarely enjoyed himself so much. Seeing her struggle to stay calm was entertaining.

Wisely, Brielle refrained from starting another conversation, fearful of what ‘sophisticated activity’ he might describe next.

The styling team quickly finished preparing the two of them. She looked down at the aquamarine dress, thinking anything Dustin had to offer was certainly not run-of-the-mill.

“Mr. Lynch, how much is this dress?”

“What, you think I’m short on cash?”

Just as Dustin finished his retort, his phone rang. Glancing at the flashing name on the screen, a sneer crossed his face. While gesturing for Brielle to head out, he answered the call. “I made it clear, I’m not

interested in Scott’s novels, Schubert’s ballads, Delacroix, or the rise of national romanticism. Stop calling me. I’ve already got a date for tonight. Sweetheart, we’re just not cut from the same cloth.”