All Chapters of My Forbidden Brother : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

OLIVIA The Alps were as I had left them—beautiful, jagged, and mercilessly cold. As the private jet touched down on the Dawson estate’s secluded runway, the pristine white landscape felt less like a home and more like a high-altitude morgue. The air that rushed into the cabin when the door opened was thin and bit at my lungs, a stark contrast to the thick, neon-heavy humidity of Shanghai. Daniel was off the plane before the stairs were fully locked, his phone already pressed to his ear, barking orders at his European chief of staff. He looked aged, his shoulders hunched as if he were physically carrying the weight of the billions he had lost over the Pacific. "Straight to the house, Anastasia," he snapped without looking back. "I have a conference call with the Swiss regulators in twenty minutes. Do not leave your wing." "I wouldn't dream of it," I murmured, my voice lost in the whine of the engines. Escorted by the ever-silent Gunther, I was driven up the winding mountain road t

ADRIAN The air in the Alps didn’t just feel cold; it felt thin, like the life support of a dying man. I sat in the darkened interior of my mobile command center—a sleek, obsidian-black van parked five miles from the Dawson estate, hidden within the dense treeline of a neighboring peak. Outside, the blizzard was a chaotic swirl of white noise, but inside, the world was composed of silent, glowing blue screens and the rhythmic hum of high-frequency servers. We had arrived in the Alps twenty-four hours ago. My boots had hit the frozen ground of Switzerland not as a guest, but as a conqueror returning to the site of his exile. I ignored the financial tickers scrolling across the secondary monitors. The numbers didn't matter anymore. The Dawson Group was a hollowed-out husk, a ghost ship drifting toward a reef I had built myself. My eyes were fixed on the central screen—the only one that mattered. Through a grain of an intercepted security feed fro

ADRIAN The tires of the SUV hissed against the wet tarmac of the private airfield, a sound like a long, slow intake of breath. Outside, the alpine blizzard had begun to lose its teeth, the snow thinning into a soft, mocking veil that draped over the sleek, black fuselage of the Gulfstream waiting for us. I didn't move immediately. I sat in the darkness of the back seat, my arms still anchored around Olivia. She felt fragile, like a piece of porcelain that had been shattered and glued back together too many times. I could feel the tremors still rattling through her—small, rhythmic aftershocks of the trauma she’d endured in that house. "We’re here," I whispered, my lips brushing the temple of her head. I stepped out first, the mountain air biting at my skin, but I welcomed the sting. It grounded me. I reached back into the car, offering my hand. When her fingers slid into mine—small, cold, and trusting—the last of the cold rage that had fueled me for five years finally began to

OLIVIA The private road climbed higher, hugging the limestone cliffs until the airport was nothing more than a silver speck against a vast canvas of blue. The car turned sharply, passing through a massive, wrought-iron gate that bore no crest, no name, and no security brand. It was simply a towering wall of black steel that slid open silently, welcoming us into a paradise carved out of stone. When the villa finally came into view, my breath caught in my throat. It wasn't a house; it was a sanctuary of modernist architecture seamlessly integrated into the rugged terrain. Built from local white stone and sprawling sheets of reinforced glass, the villa cascaded down the cliffside in multi-level terraces, overlooking the endless expanse of the Mediterranean. Purple bougainvillea spilled over the stone balustrades, their vibrant colors stark against the pristine white walls. The air here didn't feel thin and sharp like the Alps, nor heavy and choked like Shanghai. It was pure salt, w

OLIVIA The silver dome lid was lifted with a flourish that felt entirely absurd given that I was sitting cross-legged in the center of a king-sized bed, wearing nothing but an oversized lavender robe and a pair of Adrian’s thickest wool socks. The scent that bloomed into the room was intoxicating—garlic roasted in dark olive oil, crushed San Marzano tomatoes, fresh basil that smelled of sun-baked earth, and the sharp, savory tang of shaved pecorino. Elena had not sent up a simple meal; she had sent up a feast. There was a massive bowl of handmade tagliolini tossed with fresh seafood, a platter of seared sea bass drizzled with lemon oil, and a loaf of crusty, warm ciabatta that looked like it had been pulled from an oven less than five minutes ago. Adrian sat across from me, his long legs stretched out beneath the duvet, the black sleeves of his sweater still pushed up to his elbows. He looked entirely out of place surrounded by ivory silk and plates of steaming pasta, yet he han