Page 4 of The Next Door Billionaire's Deception

A soft voice whispers. I move away from the white L-shaped sofa and drift further, heading right toward the owner of the voice. I smile and sip from my glass of tart wine. It's Celine Wood, the only person I can comfortably call my friend.

“Never seen this around. Just added it to your collection?”

She asks, turning toward me. The rays of the giant fluorescent chandelier above illuminate her oval-shaped face. Celine is all shades of beauty. Her wide signature smile spreads across her face as her cerulean-blue eyes take in the artwork before her in keen admiration. She cocks her head and slightly brushes the stray strands of her chestnut-brown Italian bob to the side.

“You like it?” I ask, dropping my hand on the part of her shoulder left bare by her sleek blue off-the-shoulder dress.

Slowly, she swings her whiskey-filled margarita glass to the left and grabs my hand in a fairly tight squeeze. It’s warm and tender.

“Like it? I love it!” she says, raising her glass to her lips.

“I knew you would,” I say, turning to the artwork again. “You’ve always had an eye for beauty.”

“Art is beauty, and beauty is art,” she says in a wistful voice. “That’s what my dad used to say.”

We both study the crayon-esque painting. The fragrance of her jasmine-scented perfume brushes through my nose instantly. It’s a familiar scent that I never get fed up with, a scent that strikes a memory and clouds my heart with the thoughts of how important Celine is to my lonely world. She’s been a constant in my life, despite the many changes – and challenges – I’ve gone through. Celine’s always been there: firm and unyielding, like a rock.

We admire the artwork together in deadpan silence, and it reminds me of the days we were two dreamy schoolgirls stunned at the splendor of a perfectly designed Barbie doll in a toy store. At the art gallery the day before moving to Brooklyn Heights, I was engrossed in a thorough search for the perfect artwork to adorn my new apartment. I needed a masterpiece. There, I spotted several masterpieces that would leave the hearts of art lovers pounding. But none were as striking as the painting hung on the wall of my new apartment.

The gallery guide called itHer Pride.It’s a perfect realistic painting of a white-skinned amazon, bare from the tip of her cornrows down to her slender midsection. She has narrow thick-browed eyes as blue as the sky in spring and skin as smooth as fine water-washed pebbles from the bank of a river. Fire burns in her eyes. There’s something about the painting, something I can’t place a finger on.

“She has gorgeous eyes, doesn’t she?” Celine whispers as if afraid of breaking the silence.

She’s always been very keen on art.

“I knew you’d see it too.” I caress the edge of the artwork. “Since this is a new place, I felt it'd be nice to spice it up with something new, something beautiful, just like Her Pride.”

“And you always know what to choose,” she responds, taking another sip from her glass. “This whole place is fantastic. I miss your old apartment, though.”

Me too.

I stare into the depths of my glass, sighing. I didn’t want to move, but I’ve learned sacrifices are a necessary evil.

“Are the neighbors nice?”

My thoughts drift to the man next door. Richard Burnes.

“As nice as an average neighbor.”

Celine drops on the nearest couch and grins at me. “Maybe you’ll meet a cute guy.”

I bite my lips. She doesn’t know. Hiding the truth from her is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Getting her involved is far too dangerous.

I roll my eyes and join her on the couch.

‘They aren’t my type.”

“Not even the guy next door?”

I jerk my head up. “What do you know about him?”

Celine smirks. “Ah. Look who has a crush.”

“I don’t –”

She raises her hands. “Okay. Okay. I know the drill. You’re too busy,” she makes air quotes, “to be involved with a man. Ugh. I’m sick of hearing it. You should meet my aunt Margaret.”

I raise a brow. “What?”

---