Mag-log inđ đđThis book contains explicit sexual content and is intended for mature readers only. I traded my freedom for a last name. Now, I wear silence like perfume and lies like lipstick. To the world, Iâm the elegant wife of Mattio â wealthy, powerful, untouchable. Behind closed doors, Iâm his possession. A woman trapped in a gilded cage, drowning in a marriage built on control. Then came him. Maxwell. A stranger who touched me like I mattered â just once. A stolen night that made me feel alive again. But my brief escape shatters when I walk downstairs⌠and see him smiling in my living room. Heâs not a stranger anymore. Heâs Mattioâs long-lost stepbrother. Now Iâm caught between the man who owns me⌠And the man who awakened everything I thought Iâd lost. Secrets unravel. Desires ignite. And one wrong move could ruin us all. How do you forget the one man who made you feel human againâwhen heâs now part of your family?
view more(Maxwellâs POV)The heavy iron doors of my gym creaked open as I stepped inside, the scent of sweat and steel greeting me like an old friend. The place was already aliveâweights clanging, punching bags taking the brunt of frustrations, the low hum of men murmuring in corners.But this wasnât just a gym. Not really.To outsiders, it was my legitimate businessâstate-of-the-art equipment, exclusive memberships, clean records. To insiders, though? It was the perfect front. Half the men who âtrainedâ here were soldiers, the other halfâclients or shadows who owed me respect. Every wall, every locker, every bag hid secrets only I controlled.I moved through the space with ease, my presence enough to straighten backs and silence whispers. Respect was one thing, fear anotherâI demanded both.âBoss,â one of my lieutenants nodded from the ring, wrapping his hands. I gave him a brief chin lift. Not today. My mind wasnât here for them.No. My mind was on her.Liana.The name was enough to twist so
Lianaâs POVThe garden was quiet tonight. Too quiet.I curled up on the stone bench, my shawl pulled tight around my shoulders, a book open in my lap. My eyes skimmed line after line, but none of the words stuck. They blurred together, useless.All I could think about was the missing sketchbook.Iâd searched everywhereâbehind the sofa cushions, under the table, even along the hallways Iâd walked yesterday. Nothing. It was gone.And if it was gone⌠then someone had it.The thought made my stomach twist violently. Those drawings werenât just silly sketchesâthey were secrets. They were pieces of me Iâd never dared say out loud. Things I couldnât afford for anyone to see. Especially not Matteo.My throat went dry. I pressed my hands against my face, whispering into my palms, Please, God. Donât let it be him. Donât let it be Matteo.Footsteps crunched against gravel, and I froze.I looked upâand my heart skipped.Maxwell.He strolled into view with that dangerous kind of calm, hands shoved
(Maxwellâs POV)The house was silent.Too silent.Maxwell leaned against the polished doorframe of his room, staring into the yawning stretch of the dark hallway as if it were mocking him. The shadows seemed to breathe, reminding him of the promises he had made to himselfâthat he would not go searching for her. He would not chase the lingering trace of roses that clung to the air whenever she passed. He would not let his mind replay that stolen kiss, the one he had no right to take, the one that still burned against his mouth like a brand.But temptation was a disease, and it lived in these walls.Restless, he paced, shoulders taut, fists clenching and unclenching as though he could wring her ghost from his veins. Finally, unable to stand the suffocating silence, he decided to head downstairs for water. A distraction. Anything to steady himself.His footsteps echoed through the cavernous living room, bouncing against marble and glass. The chandelier above swayed faintly, its crystal a
(Lianaâs POV)Since that night, the walls of the house felt different. Tighter. Closer. Almost as if they knew what I had done, what I had allowed.Every corner I turned, I expected to see him. Every time a door creaked or boots clicked against the floor, my stomach twisted in panic and⌠something else. Something I refused to name.So, I did what I always did best. I hid.I buried myself in chores. From the moment I woke up, I kept my hands busy, even when the maids begged me to let them work instead. Scrubbing, dusting, rearranging, cookingâI did it all with frantic energy, as though cleaning the house could somehow wipe away the memory of his lips on mine.But it didnât.Every time I bent over the sink, I remembered his breath against my cheek. Every time my fingers brushed a plate, I remembered his hand gripping mine. And at night, when the house grew silent, the memory of his kiss came back with a vengeance, stealing into my thoughts until my chest ached and my body felt like it b












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