All Chapters of My Forbidden Brother : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

OLIVIA The sleek black SUV returned in record time, the driver smoothly dropping off a massive bag of gourmet takeout from *La Grenier*. The food was neatly packaged in heavy parchment paper, still steaming and smelling beautifully of white truffle, fresh basil, and garlic. "This is honestly obscene," Freya muttered happily, unboxing a flawless truffle chicken panini that would have taken a normal customer forty-five minutes of waiting to secure. "I feel like a corporate queen." "Get used to it," I smiled, sipping a bottled water as I watched the two of them finally eat. For the rest of their lunch break, the conversation flowed with a beautiful, uninterrupted ease. We laughed until our sides ached, recounting old memories and filling in the massive gaps of the last five years. Sitting in that quiet, sun-drenched courtyard, surrounded by the laughter of the sisters who had known me before the world tore me apart, I felt a profound sense of healing. The shadow of Switzerland, the

ADRIANThe penthouse felt entirely too large the moment Olivia was gone.I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass of the living room, my fingers tracing the rim of my empty glass. Down below, the matte-gray sedan slipped into the flow of Manhattan traffic, completely indistinguishable from the thousands of other vehicles clogging the avenues. It was a phantom. A ghost cell I had designed specifically to keep her invisible when she demanded the illusion of normalcy.I didn't like her driving alone. I didn't like her stepping into a public studio in Soho without Mei establishing a five-meter perimeter. Five years of hunting through the dark, of turning my own blood into currency to buy her back from the Alps, had left me with a permanent, burning paranoia. But she wanted to build her own foundation. She wanted to be Olivia Dawson, the designer, not a protected asset of Vesper Holdings. And because she had survived a gilded cage for half a decade, I would give her the sky she asked for.But

OLIVIA The interview room was exactly as pristine as I had imaginedit to be. Julian Vance sat behind a long, minimalist steel table flanked by two senior design directors. The initial phase had been a rapid-fire interrogation of my technical knowledge. They asked about my understanding of fabric bias, my familiarity with sustainable supply chains, and the exact mathematical principles behind the structural draping in my evening wear layouts. I hadn’t blinked. Every question they threw at me was answered with a steady, calm precision that seemed to surprise Julian, his sharp eyes narrowing as he flipped through my charcoal sketches. But just as I thought I was about to walk out and wait for a callback, Julian closed my portfolio with a definitive, echoing snap. "Your theory is immaculate, Miss Dawson," Julian said, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers. A cold, challenging smile touched his lips. "But sketches on premium cardstock do not make a collection. In th

OLIVIA The moment I stepped into the backseat of the armored SUV, the heavy door clicked shut with a resounding, airtight thud, instantly sealing out the roaring cacophony of Soho. I sank into the plush leather cushions, a long, ragged exhale escaping my lips. My shoulders ached, my fingers felt stiff from hours of handling rigid structural wool, and my mind was buzzing from the pure, unadulterated high of victory. Mei slid into the front passenger seat, her eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror. "Mr. Vesper has ordered the driver to bypass the standard cross-town routes, Miss Dawson," Mei said, her professional tone carrying a subtle, rare warmth. "We will be back at the penthouse in eleven minutes." "Thank you, Mei," I smiled, leaning my head back against the headrest. I looked down at my hands. There was a faint smudge of blue drafting chalk on my thumb and a tiny, pale indentation on my index finger where a silver pin had scraped against my skin. They were marks of l

OLIVIA The steady, rhythmic click of my heels against the concrete floors of Vance & Co. no longer felt like a declaration of war; it felt like the pulse of my everyday life. Six months had bled into a year, and that year had gracefully stretched into two. The initial frantic chaos of being a junior assistant had smoothed out into a peaceful, deeply fulfilling routine. I had carved out a life for myself in Manhattan that was entirely my own. The mornings were still grounded in the absolute, fiercely protective luxury of Adrian’s embrace, but the days belonged to the fabric, the sketchbooks, and my own rising name. I had made friends on the floor, too. They weren't like Freya, Mira, or my high school circle—those bonds were forged in the innocence of our youth and could never be replaced—but women like Chloe and Elena from the textiles team had become my anchors during the high-stress seasons. We shared espresso shots during Paris Fashion Week rushes and laughed over corporate po