All Chapters of Filthy Vows: My Guardian’s Obsession: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The rain wouldn’t quit. It just kept battering the car as it climbed that final, miserable hill. Ivy watched the water streak sideways across the tinted glass. It looked like the window was crying for her, which was fine, because she didn't have anything left in her. She was just a hollow shell sitting in the backseat of a car she didn't own, headed toward a man she didn't know. The gate was overkill. Huge, black iron bars tipped with spikes. It opened without a sound, sliding back like a throat opening up to swallow them whole. The driveway was perfect. Too perfect. Clean white gravel that looked like it had never been insulted by a muddy footprint. She didn't remember the actual crash. She just remembered the silence afterward. The way the air smelled like burnt rubber and old pennies. Then came the vultures. Lawyers in cheap suits. Bankers with cold eyes. And finally, the name they whispered like a threat. Victor Maddox. The man who hadn't bothered to show up at the funeral. Th

The next morning didn’t bring sunlight. Only a pale, dull glow seeped through the tall windows, soft as a dying breath and offering no warmth. Silence clung to Ivy like a second skin as she woke. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that brought peace to a mind. Instead, it pressed against her ribs and whispered that nothing about her life was ever going back to normal. She hadn’t dreamed, or if she had, the memory of it dissolved the moment she opened her eyes to the sterile room. What remained was a strange soreness in places she had never considered: her inner thighs, the side of her neck, and a tension curled so tightly in her belly that it pulsed with every heartbeat. She could still feel exactly where he had touched her and, more importantly, exactly where he had not. Victor hadn’t come to her room again after that devastating kiss. He hadn’t laid a finger on her since the moment he left her kneeling and aching on the floor of the red room. But he had done something far worse than any p

The afternoon light through the tall windows cast pale, shifting patterns across the dark floor. Inside the training room, everything felt stiller and sharper, as if the walls themselves were waiting to witness what would unfold next. Ivy stood in the center of the space, naked but no longer trembling. Her skin still carried the sheen of sweat, the faint burn of discipline, and the echo of the vibrator’s merciless denial. Her breath was unsteady and her nipples were flushed and firm. Her legs felt weak from what had already been done to her body, and yet the worst part was not what had happened. The worst part was how deeply she had wanted it. Victor stood behind her. One hand rested gently on her lower back, his fingers curving like a man staking his claim on property that had just been surveyed, measured, and branded. “You stood through it,” he said. His voice was quiet and impossibly low. “You absorbed every edge of pain and didn’t fall. That shows promise, Ivy. But promise is no

Victor hadn’t come home in three days. The silence in the penthouse had become a living thing that felt less like peace and more like a slow, suffocating emptiness. It clung to the walls and pressed into the corners like invisible smoke, curling under the doors and settling deep in her lungs. Ivy sat curled on the edge of the living room chaise with a book open across her lap. The pages were tilted toward the light, but her eyes had long since stopped reading. The words no longer made any sense to her. They drifted in front of her as meaningless shapes and hollow dialogue. Every sound in the apartment seemed louder now. She heard the hum of the elevator shaft three floors down, the faint, persistent tick of the antique clock on the wall, and the occasional whisper of a breeze where the balcony door didn't quite seal. Even the silence between those sounds carried a physical weight. It pressed against her like a judgment she couldn't escape. She moved through the day as if she were sed

She didn’t know how long she sat there after the door shut behind him. The room still smelled heavily of sex and the lingering, metallic tang of his presence. Her body still pulsed with the vivid memory of his hands, his mouth, and the rough timber of his voice. The bed was a chaotic mess beneath her. The sheets had been torn from the mattress in his fury, her dress was wrinkled around her hips, and her thighs were still trembling from the violent aftershocks of him. But he was gone. There was no explanation, no apology, and not even a final look back to see if she was still breathing. She stared at the closed door, waiting for it to open again. She waited for the sound of his footsteps returning to finish what he had started or to offer some shred of comfort. She waited for something, anything, but nothing came. The silence wasn’t just a lack of noise; it was abandonment. It was the kind of silence that whispered in your ears and told you the brutal truth that you were not worth sta