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Suspect
Last Updated:
2026-02-02 23:05:32
Latest chapter
Loving my Father’s Wife The unwanted wife
The finality in his voice was crushing.Julian let go of her chin, but he didn’t step back. He stayed exactly where he was, close enough that Mary could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that there was no air left between them. The space he occupied felt deliberate, calculated an invisible cage built from proximity alone.Her throat burned from holding back sobs. Her legs trembled, though she forced herself to stay upright, to not fold in front of him. He watched her closely, his gaze cold and analytical, as if he were cataloging her weaknesses for later use."Starting tonight," Julian said, his eyes scanning her pale face with clinical indifference, "you move out of the master suite."Mary’s breath hitched."You will sleep in the small room at the end of the north wing," he continued. "The servant’s wing. You will eat when I tell you. You will speak when I tell you."Each sentence landed like a sentence passed in court.Mary shook her head, tears finally spilling ov
Loving my Father’s Wife Rumors
The news of the "Son’s" arrival had turned the mansion into a graveyard waiting for a resurrection. For two days, Mary had been locked in her room—not by a physical key this time, but by the sheer weight of the fear that radiated from the rest of the house. The servants moved like shadows, and the constant, rhythmic beep-beep-beep of Arthur’s life support in the distant wing seemed to grow louder in the silence. Then, the summons came. It wasn't a polite knock. It was Elena, her face paler than usual, standing in the doorway with a tray of tea that had gone cold. "He wants you," she whispered. Her voice lacked its usual sharp authority. It sounded brittle. "Who?" Mary asked, though her heart already knew the answer. "Mr. Julian. He is in his father's private library. He told me to tell you that if you are not there in three minutes, he will come and drag you out himself." Mary’s blood turned to ice. She stood up, her knees shaking. She was wearing a simple, high-necked grey dress—
Loving my Father’s Wife The son
The Sterling Mansion had always been a fortress, but with the arrival of the son, it felt like a tomb being sealed from the inside.Mary stood behind the heavy velvet curtains of her bedroom, barely daring to breathe. The fabric was thick beneath her fingers, soft and expensive, yet it did nothing to steady the violent hammering of her heart against her ribs. Outside, on the stark white gravel of the circular drive, a black motorcycle rested like a predatory insect—low, sleek, and lethal. It did not belong among the polished luxury cars that usually lined the estate. It looked like it had come for blood.She had heard it before she saw it.The roar of the engine had sliced through the quiet of the house, sharp and aggressive, sending a ripple of panic through the servants. It had not slowed as it approached the gates. It had demanded entry, and the gates had obeyed.The man who had arrived didn’t walk into the house.He took it over.Even from the second floor, Mary felt the shift. Th
Loving my Father’s Wife Coma
The night dissolved into a chaotic blur of blue and red lights, the smell of ozone from the defibrillator, and the heavy, accusing silence of the household staff. Mary sat on a hard velvet bench in the hallway, wrapped in a thick wool blanket that someone—perhaps a maid with a shred of pity—had thrown over her shoulders. Beneath the wool, she was still wearing the lace slip she was meant to bleed in.Doctors in white coats moved with frantic urgency in and out of the master suite. The bodyguards, men with faces like granite, stood at the ends of the hallway, their eyes never leaving her. They didn't see a grieving bride; they saw a girl who had broken their master."Miss—I mean, Mrs. Sterling?"Mary looked up. A police detective stood over her. He was a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a notebook that looked like it had seen too much of the city’s darkness."I need to know exactly what happened," he said. His voice wasn't unkind, but it was firm.Mary’s teeth chattered. "He... he w
Loving my Father’s Wife Suspect
Arthur loomed over her, his weight pressing the mattress down until it dipped beneath Mary’s back. The canopy above them swayed slightly, shadows shuddering along the velvet drapes as if the room itself were breathing. His hands were rough and impatient as they reached for the thin straps of her slip, fingers fumbling with clumsy urgency. The fabric trembled against her skin as much from fear as from his touch.His face was flushed a deep, angry red, sweat glistening along his hairline. His breathing came in ragged, wet gasps, each one louder than the last, filling the room with a sound that made Mary’s stomach twist. He looked frustrated—angered by resistance, by delay—his brow furrowed with the effort of forcing control back into his hands.Mary thrashed beneath him, panic giving her strength she didn’t know she had. Her nails scraped uselessly against his arms, her heel catching him hard in the chest as she tried to shove him away. The bed creaked beneath them, protesting the strug
Loving my Father’s Wife Wedding night
The master bedroom was not a place of comfort; it was a monument to Arthur Sterling’s ego. The walls were draped in heavy, dark crimson silk that looked like dried blood in the dim light of the flickering candles. The furniture was made of ancient, blackened oak, carved with sharp edges that seemed designed to bruise. But it was the bed that drew Mary’s eyes—a massive, elevated platform with four thick posts and velvet curtains that could be pulled shut to swallow whoever lay within.Mary stood in the center of the Persian rug, her wedding dress feeling like a suit of lead armor. The silence of the mansion was different from the silence of her father’s house. Her father’s house was empty; this house felt full. It felt like the walls were leaning in, listening to her heart hammer against her ribs.She looked for a lock on the door. There was one, but it was on the outside. She was a guest in name only; in reality, she was a prisoner brought here for a specific purpose.Her hands moved
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