The Sin Etched in Her Soul

I rushed through the crowded street, my feet pounding against the pavement with every hurried step. I wiped the sweat dripping off my forehead from the back of my hand as I took a glance at my watch. “Late,” I muttered under my breath, making my legs move even faster—if that was even possible. My sweatshirt clung to my back, drenched with the humidity of the unbearing heat. My jeans felt too tight, the air felt suffocating, beads of sweat dripping on my nose. But I didn't care. None of that mattered. Because I was Jaxon Black's wife. And that thought alone… a huge smile popped on my face. The Jaxon Black. Sinfully handsome and devastatingly powerful. And all mine. At least that's what I kept telling myself. Finally, I spotted the beautiful white mansion, standing as tall and sturdy as its owner. I reached the front of the mansion and flung open the door. I stepped into the marbled silence of the grand hallway, my heels clicking too loudly in a house that felt as empty as I

Genevieve’s POV: I was seventeen the day my life stopped being mine. The scent of burnt coffee and old furniture filled our living room as I sat on the edge of the couch, my hands folded neatly in my lap. My mother paced. My father sat in his favorite chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His face was unreadable—a mixture of tension and resignation. The tension in the room felt like an invisible string being pulled tighter and tighter with every breath. They spoke in hushed tones until the knock came. And everything changed. The door opened and in walked Mr. Black—tall, stiff, perfectly tailored. His presence made the room feel smaller. Sharper. It was like he brought with him a draft that extinguished every warm feeling in the space. I stood automatically, like I’d been taught. “Good afternoon, sir.” He didn’t smile. He barely acknowledged me, his dark eyes moving past me like I wasn’t there at all. “Let’s get started,” he said, sitting across from my father. What followed

Genevieve’s POV The whirl of images spinning through my head nearly made me sick. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it only made them stronger. Clearer. Me in my white gown, sitting with nervous hands folded in my lap. Dad’s comforting grip on my shoulder. Jaxon in his black tuxedo, barely sparing me a glance. His crushing hold during the vows. No kiss. No warmth. Just silence. He left me—alone—in our new house on our wedding night. The images looped like a broken record. The last one made me whimper. Stop. It’s over. That night is over. I forced myself off the cold wooden floor, legs still trembling from the fall. Steadying myself against the nearest wall, I took a shaky breath. I would make him breakfast. It was something. Something I could do right. Something that would make him stay. I scrubbed the floors, dusted every surface, and peeked into the bedroom now and then—just to see his face. Just to admire him while he slept. It was the only time he looked peaceful. Or reac