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Author: DANIKA
last update Petsa ng paglalathala: 2026-07-27 06:08:05

The steam curls in thick, opaque ribbons around the marble vanity, fogging the mirror until my reflection is nothing but a pale, ghostly smear. I sink deeper into the oversized tub, the water hot enough to turn my skin pink, but it doesn’t touch the ice lodged in my chest. My hands shake as I drag a loofah over my arm, the rough scratch of the sponge against my skin doing little to scrub away the feeling of being sold. The soap smells like lilies and expensive chemicals—a scent that belongs t
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  • Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband    019

    Three sharp raps against the heavy wood of the door drag me out of a sleep so deep it feels like anesthesia. I groan, the sound vibrating in my chest, and blindly fumble for the phone on the nightstand. The screen blares 7:00 a.m. in harsh white light. "Who is it?" I croak, my voice thick and dry. "Mrs. Sinclair requested your presence downstairs for breakfast, Miss," a muffled voice calls from the hallway. The maid. I don't even know her name yet. "I'll be there," I manage to mumble before the silence returns. I push the duvet away and sit up, stretching my arms high above my head. My spine pops in three places, a satisfying chain reaction. I yawn, my jaw cracking, and run a hand through my hair—it’s a tangled, rough bird's nest on top of my head. God, this bed is ridiculous. The mattress swallows me whole, the Egyptian cotton sheets are softer than a cloud, and for the first time in months, I didn’t wake up with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. I slept like the dead. The

  • Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband    018

    I follow Valeria into the main hall, the maid scurrying behind us. The interior is even more stunning than the exterior—high ceilings, marble floors, expensive art covering the walls. I grasp the banister of the staircase, taking it all in. Valeria turns to the maid. "The room Anastasia is staying in needs to be prepared immediately. Arrange her things. Anything she wants, you get it." The maid nods vigorously. Valeria turns to me, "I will be upstairs in my room. My husband will be back soon. Make yourself at home." With that, she sweeps up the stairs. The maid looks at me expectantly. "Is there anything you need me to bring you, Miss?" I force a smile. "I'm fine for now. You can go." She nods and disappears down a corridor. Left alone in the massive living room, my mind drifts back to the mysterious man my mother is married to. I tried to look him up on the plane, but I fell asleep. Curiosity gets the better of me now. I pull out my phone, but the screen is black. "Dead

  • Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband    017

    A sharp, rhythmic tapping against her shoulder blade pulls Anastasia from the heavy, suffocating dark of sleep. Her head snaps up, neck cracking, the disorientation of the plane cabin swimming into focus. A flight attendant stands over her, smile practiced and bright, informing her they have landed in Italy. Anastasia blinks, the grit of sleep crusting her eyes. She doesn't even remember drifting off. The last thing she recalls is the low hum of the engines and her mother, Valeria, sitting across from her, lips parted to say something about Anna’s father—a subject usually forbidden—before a ringtone sliced through the tension. Valeria had excused herself, leaving Anna alone with the hum and her own spiraling thoughts. Now, she stumbles out of the private jet, the Italian sun blasting her face like a physical weight. It’s a harsh, intrusive brightness that forces her to squint. A staff member gestures for her to follow, reaching out to take her heavy designer bag. She complies mech

  • Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband    016

    The morning light slams through the curtains like a physical blow, piercing my eyelids and dragging me out of a dreamless sleep. My head throbs with a rhythm that matches the pounding in my skull, a nasty reminder of exactly how much alcohol I poured into my system last night. I shift, feeling the weight of another body pressing against mine. Lila. She must have crashed here after I stumbled in last night. She’s still fully dressed, her makeup smudged on the pillowcase, looking like she collapsed the moment she hit the mattress. Before I can even process the hangover splitting my skull in two, hands are on my shoulders, shaking me. "Anastasia," Lila’s voice cuts through the fog. "Wake up. You need to start dressing." I spring up, the room spinning violently for a second before settling. "What time is it?" "Seven a.m.," she says, already moving around the room, gathering scattered clothes. I groan, a long, raw sound dragging from my throat, and slam my head back onto the pi

  • Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband    015

    I look past her, following her gaze. Sitting at the table, a glass of white wine in front of her, is a woman dressed in a sharp black blazer and silk blouse. She looks older, but the makeup is expertly applied, hiding the wrinkles. Her hair is styled in expensive waves, cascading over her shoulders. My breath hitches in my throat. The room spins. Valeria. She looks up from her menu, her eyes locking onto mine. A small, knowing smile curves her red lips. "Hello, Anastasia," she says smoothly, her voice like polished glass. "Please, sit down. I've ordered the wine." My eyes dart to Lila, who looks apologetic, silently pleading with me not to make a scene. I don't say a word. I just turn and walk out, my boots echoing against the polished floor, the sound too loud in the quiet room. Lila follows, grabbing my arm. "Ana, please—" I yank my arm away, but she grabs me again, her fingers digging in. "Ana, please listen to me." I stop, turning my face away, staring at a poste

  • Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband    014

    Three months of silence rot in the air of my small room, thicker than the smell of stale beer and cheap vodka. I groan, the sound scraping against my dry throat, and crack one eye open. The sunlight tries to stab through the gaps in the heavy curtains, but I’ve blocked them out well. My head feels like it’s being split open by a rusted axe, the hangover a pulsing, throbbing beast behind my eyes. I push myself up, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. The floor is a disaster zone—a graveyard of empty green glass bottles, crumpled clothes stained with who knows what, and discarded takeout containers that have started to grow their own ecosystem. I kick a bottle aside; it rolls with a hollow clatter. I don't give a shit. I haven't given a shit since the day they lowered the casket. I fumble on the nightstand, my fingers knocking over an ashtray until they find the blister pack of pills. I dry-swallow two, chasing them with lukewarm water from a glass that’s seen better days. The taste

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