Semua Bab HIS FORBIDDEN TEMPTATION : Bab 121 - Bab 130

I woke up to the delicious ache between my thighs, the soreness a slow, pulsing reminder of everything we did last night. Every deep thrust, every growl against my skin, every breathless whisper in my ear. My muscles protested slightly as I shifted under the sheets, my body still humming from the aftershocks of our night together. I blinked against the sunlight seeping through the half-closed curtains, then turned to the side. He wasn’t there. The space beside me was empty, the sheets slightly rumpled, still warm. My heart dropped. He left again? For a moment, disappointment curled inside me like a fist. I swallowed hard, trying to force it back, telling myself not to be stupid. Maybe he just went to the bathroom. Or to make a call. But that little voice inside me whispered otherwise. He’s always done this. He touches me like I’m everything, then disappears like I’m nothing. I sighed, pushing myself up slowly, wincing at the soreness in my hips. I bit my lip, remembering the wa

I sat in the silence of my office, my gaze was fixed on the phone lying on the mahogany desk, the screen still glowing faintly with George’s message: Call me. It’s urgent. For a long time, I didn’t move. My fingers twitched, hovering over the screen, wanting to call him back but paralyzed on what the call would bring back. George only called me concerning one thing. My wife. Amanda. My wife. Declared dead seven years ago. Buried in my mind like a ghost I’d tried to exorcise. But something about George’s message clawed at the edges of my sanity. I was no stranger to disappointment. Every lead I chased about Amanda’s disappearance ended in a dead end — a cold room, a broken promise, a fading hope. But this… this felt different. Like a spark in the dark, faint but undeniable. Still, I couldn’t let myself get carried away. Because every time I’d let hope bloom, it got trampled under the boots of reality. It was like that every single time. When it feels like I'm getting closer to f

I lit a cigarette I didn’t need.The flame danced briefly, catching against the cool breeze as I inhaled. The smoke scraped down my throat, bitter and warm, grounding me just enough to keep me from unraveling. My hands still trembled faintly. Not from the cold. From everything else.Amanda.Her name alone was enough to make my chest ache like a wound that had never closed.I took another drag, watching the tip glow like a dying star. I hadn’t smoked in years. Amanda hated it. Said it made me smell like a burnt campfire and taste like regret.She wasn’t wrong.The click of approaching shoes pulled me from the haze.“Mr De Vito.”The voice was smooth, familiar. I didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.“Mr Salvatore,” I said, exhaling slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on the parking lot lights beyond the curb. “What are you doing here?”“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, coming to stand beside me. His suit was sharp, dark as oil, and his expression unreadable. “Rough night?”I

I woke to the sound of him murmuring in the dark.At first, I thought I’d imagined it. The low, fractured whisper wasn’t much more than a breath against my shoulder. But then I heard it again—choked, desperate.“I’m sorry… Amanda… I’m so sorry…”My eyes snapped open.Mr De Vito was still beside me, his body tense against mine, one arm loosely wrapped around my waist. But something was wrong. His breathing was ragged, shallow. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the sheets. And his face—God, his face was twisted with pain. Not physical pain, but something deeper. Sharper. The kind that never really leaves you.His head twitched slightly, brow furrowed as if struggling against something only he could see.“No…” he muttered again, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—please…”I sat up slowly, brushing the hair from his forehead. His skin was clammy. His fists clenched around the blanket like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers.“Mr De Vito…” I whispered.No resp

The fabric felt like liquid fire against my skin—soft, seductive, and impossibly red. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the penthouse, adjusting the delicate straps of the gown that clung to me like a second skin. Every inch of it was tailored to perfection, from the subtle dip at the back to the modest—but devastating—plunge in the front. I didn’t need a tag to know it was designer. Mr De Vito. He hadn’t said a word when he left it on my desk. But I’d known instantly it was for tonight. For the De Vito Ball. For me. And now, dressed in it, I understood why. It wasn’t just a dress. It was a declaration. Subtle, but absolute. I finished pinning my hair into a loose twist at the nape of my neck, applied a final touch of crimson to my lips, and slipped into a pair of black stilettos. No jewelry. The dress didn’t need it. Neither did I. Just as I grabbed my small clutch and stepped into the living room, the intercom buzzed. Matteo. Right on time. I took a deep breat