Lahat ng Kabanata ng Forbidden By Her Sister's Husband : Kabanata 291 - Kabanata 300

Damian looked down at her crying at his feet. For a fraction of a second, the violent, explosive rage in his face seemed to fracture, giving way to a devastating, completely broken agony."Is this revenge?" Damian asked, his voice dropping into a raw, trembling rasp. The heartbreak bled heavily through the words. "Did you hate me that much for how I treated you in the beginning? Did you play the long game just to ruin me?""No! Never!" she wept, gripping his legs tighter. "I fell in love with you! You are my whole world!"Damian’s jaw tightened. The brief, agonizing window of vulnerability slammed permanently shut. He reached down, his massive hands grabbing her shoulders. With one violent, merciless jerk, he ripped her off his legs and threw her backward onto the floor."Get off me," he sneered, looking at her with absolute, freezing contempt.Desperation clawed at her raw throat. She was losing him. The digital footprint had entirely blinded him. She frantically looked around the de

Desmond Hale.Her father. The man who had publicly cut all ties with her, announcing to the world that she was dead to him. The man who had looked away while Cassandra abused her for years. He was a cold, calculating, selfish man, but he was her blood. He was the only family she had left in the world. Surely, if his pregnant, penniless daughter showed up at his doorstep freezing to death in the middle of the night, he wouldn't let her stay on the street.Aria forced herself to stand. Her legs were incredibly weak, trembling beneath her weight, but she forced them to move.She walked for another agonizing hour. The miles stretched endlessly, her boots dragging heavily against the pavement. By the time she finally reached the exclusive, heavily guarded neighborhood where her father’s sprawling estate was located, she was completely exhausted. Her vision was spotting with dark edges, her stomach cramping lightly from the physical exertion and the lack of food

A fresh wave of horror and grief washed over her, but she aggressively forced it down. She refused to break down again. She walked over to the edge of the mattress and sat down, the springs groaning loudly beneath her weight. She felt completely, utterly broken. Her head throbbed with a vicious migraine, and her bones ached with a deep, settling exhaustion.She slowly unbuttoned her heavy wool coat, letting it fall open but keeping it on for warmth as the room's radiator weakly clanked to life. She reached into her pocket, pulling out the remaining cash, and spread it out on the faded bedspread.Two hundred and forty-five dollars left.Aria stared at the bills, her exhausted mind trying to run the calculations. If she stayed in this cheap motel, paying sixty dollars a night, and ate only the cheapest food she could find at a corner bodega, this money would last her exactly four days. Maybe a week if she pushed it and skipped meals.And then what?

The private, soundproofed back room of the underground cigar lounge was completely draped in shadows. The only light came from the dim, amber glow of a single brass lamp resting on a heavy mahogany desk, illuminating the thick clouds of expensive tobacco smoke hanging stagnant in the air. Marcus, the formidable head of corporate security for Cross Industries, stood stiffly in the center of the Persian rug. He was still wearing his tailored charcoal suit, his posture rigidly professional, though a heavy bead of nervous sweat gleamed near his temple. He was staring directly at the high-backed leather chair turned toward the unlit fireplace, listening to the slow, methodical clinking of ice against crystal. "I must admit, Marcus," a smooth, cultured voice drifted from the depths of the leather chair, echoing softly in the quiet room. "When you first proposed this specific angle of attack, I had my reservations. Damian Cross is not a man who is easily fooled. His paranoia is legendary.

The private elevator of the penthouse slid open with a sharp, mechanical ping.Alfred Cross, the imposing, silver-haired patriarch of Cross Industries, stepped out into the foyer. He was dressed impeccably in a bespoke navy suit, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane. His sharp, calculating eyes immediately narrowed as the heavy, putrid stench of the apartment hit him like a physical wall.It smelled of rotting organic matter, stale air, and enough high-proof alcohol to kill a horse."Good god," Alfred muttered, pulling a crisp linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressing it over his nose.He walked slowly out of the shadows of the entryway and into the massive living space, his cane clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.He stopped dead in his tracks.The penthouse looked exactly like a war zone that had been abandoned for a month. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows were completely sealed with blackout curtains. The heavy glass coffee table was shattered into th