FAZER LOGIN[ Forbidden Love | Step-Siblings | Enemies to Lovers | Revenge | Family Secrets| Betrayal | Love Triangle| Secret Relationship | Contract Marriage | Hidden Identity ] Anna catches her boyfriend with her stepmother; Peter finds his girlfriend in his father’s bed. Bound by law, they discover their parents’ marriage is a ten-year corporate sham—and their lovers were paid pawns. “We destroy them together,” Peter growls, pinning Anna against the boathouse wall, his cold hands gripping her waist. “No feelings. Just revenge.” “Then touch me like you hate me,” Anna whispers, her pulse hammering as his mouth crushes hers. To destroy the empire, they pretend to be a happy family while waging war. But as revenge turns to dirty obsession, hate becomes the one forbidden love that will ruin them both.
Ver maisANNA POV“I’m Elena,” the woman says, standing up the second I open my office door. “Peter’s fiancée.”She’s tall, blonde, and wearing a tailored European-cut suit that screams old money. She holds a sleek leather clutch in her hand, smiling at me with a polite, razor-thin expression that doesn't reach her bright blue eyes.My chest tightens so hard I forget how to draw air into my lungs.“He didn't mention you were coming,” I say, holding the door handle tight to keep my fingers from trembling.“So you’re the sister,” Elena says, stepping forward and taking her time looking me up and down like I’m a piece of cheap furniture. “Peter mentioned you when Richard married your mother. Though he didn't mention you were still living under his roof.”The word sister hangs heavy in the quiet office, spoken with a sharp emphasis that feels like an intentional stake in the ground.“I’m his business partner,” I correct her, walking past her to slide into the chair behind my oak desk. “Is there so
ANNA POV“How long were you planning to hide out down here?” I ask, pushing the heavy wooden door of the boathouse open.Three full days of dead silence. Three days of Peter hiding behind back-to-back corporate meetings, late-night office hours, and closed bedroom doors. He’s been systematically avoiding me ever since he punched Jack at the hotel bar.He sits on an overturned wooden crate near the edge of the dock, staring down at a faded photograph in his hand. The dim moonlight reflects off the dark water beside him, cutting harsh shadows across his sharp jawline.“I’m not hiding,” Peter says, his voice flat, dead, and entirely drained of emotion.“You haven’t looked at me in seventy-two hours, Peter,” I say, stepping across the dusty wooden floorboards until I’m standing right in front of him. “What is that?”He doesn’t answer with words. He simply holds up the photo Victor Kane gave him at the gala.I take the glossy photo, tilting it toward the pale moonlight. I trace the red tim
ANNA POV“Put the camera pen in the left side of your purse,” Peter says, his voice flat and clinical as he leans over my shoulder.We’re sitting in the back of his black utility van, parked two blocks down from the high-end hotel bar where Jack drinks every Thursday night. The plan is mine. I’m meeting Jack under the guise of an emotional breakdown. I’m going to pretend I’m considering taking him back, play the heartbroken ex, and push him until he admits on tape that Richard paid him to target me from the very beginning.Peter reaches out, his cold fingers brushing against my collarbone as he adjusts the micro-microphone clipped to my dress lining. His touch sends a sharp shiver straight down my spine, but his grey eyes remain totally detached, like he’s fitting a wire on a total stranger.“If he touches you, give the signal,” Peter says, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second against my skin before he pulls back. “I’ll come in.”“You’ll blow our cover,” I say, taking a slow
ANNA POV“We aren't going to that gala,” Peter says, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and cutting through the quiet living room of his apartment.It's three in the morning. He sits behind his glass desk, papers and digital tablets spreading around him like a battle plan. He’s been digging into Victor Kane for six hours straight, his face pale and drained under the dim desk lamp. On the corner of his desk lies an old framed photo of him at seven years old—standing stiffly beside a smiling woman right before his mother disappeared from his life forever.“Victor knows something about my mother,” I say, stepping closer to his desk and folding my arms over my chest. “About why she really died five years ago.”“Your mother died in a car crash on Route 9,” Peter says, not even looking up from his laptop screen. “It’s a police record.”“So did Princess Diana,” I shoot back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Doesn’t mean it was an accident.”Peter slams his laptop shut with a sudden, sharp crac


















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