The Rich And Bold

Bravados

CHAPTER TWO

SCARLETT

"Congratulations," exclaimed Dr. Varsha after removing my retainers. "Now you have perfect teeth," he added. "You have perfect and pearly white teeth."

I responded with a toothless smile, eager to leave the clinic. As I hopped off the chair, I couldn't help but wonder if Dr. Varsha would ever stop repeating himself.

"Thank you, Doctor," Cole smiled.

"It's been a pleasure. A real pleasure," Dr. Varsha replied. "Come back in two weeks and let's see how your teeth are doing, okay?"

I nodded, resisting the urge to roll my eyes, and we made our way out of the clinic.

"Smile for me," Cole requested as he closed the door behind him.

Turning toward him, I grinned, and he immediately snapped a picture.
"Wonderful," he said. "Now I can finally get a gun to ward off predators."

"Ouch," I laughed.

"You were still beautiful with the retainers on," he added as we walked to his car. "You just look much more stunning now."

"I know," I replied arrogantly, sliding into the passenger seat and fastening my seatbelt.

"Whatever," Cole muttered, mimicking my actions.

His good mood was obvious—he must have secured the contract. Cole had dreamed of becoming an architect since he was six, and anytime he succeeded at work, he turned childishly giddy. When he was appointed CEO of his adoptive father's architecture firm and other business holdings, he'd partied so hard, claiming he almost partied to death. I knew that was an exaggeration, but somehow, he managed to avoid media scrutiny.

In addition to his architectural ventures, Cole served as CEO of his father's real estate company, kitchenware factories, and shopping malls across the globe. He took the role immediately after graduating from Oxford, becoming a subject of media fascination for his youth and polish. While magazines and talk shows questioned his readiness, Cole wasn't bothered. His father had prepared him thoroughly from the moment he was adopted.

Cole's adoption from America was public knowledge. What few people knew—including only a handful of family friends—was that I was his biological sister. When I visited him in the UK, we spun the story that I was a distant cousin from his adoptive mother's American family. Mrs. Walsh came from a low-income background, which made her uninteresting to the press. She preferred it that way, and we all ran with it.

After he moved to America at twenty to officially be my guardian, the paparazzi sometimes caught us together. Cole would tell them I was a cousin he was mentoring in business, just like his father did for him. It was a convenient way to keep the media from digging too deeply. We were both cautious about the secrets buried in our past—ones the government had already sealed.

We had the same green eyes, but everything else about us—our hair color, stature, and personalities—made it plausible that we were cousins through adoption.

"Should we eat out to celebrate?" Cole asked.

"Eating out with just me hardly qualifies as a celebration, but I know you missed me today, so why not? Just don't talk about architecture," I teased.

"But that's exactly what we're celebrating! I want to walk you through the entire meeting—start to finish. It was phenomenal. Your brother is amazing," he gloated.
"Besides, that's how I take care of you. I cover your chauffeur, hair appointments, designer clothes... that Centurion card you keep swiping? Yeah, that's me."