Semua Bab Forbidden Desires: Falling For My Fiance's Brother: Bab 31 - Bab 40

As Devon walked off, his father Benjamin stayed behind, his gaze fixed on something far off. The boy had changed. Hardened. He recognized the look in Devon’s eyes. He’d worn it once, years ago—when betrayal had first taught him how to seal away everything soft. Back inside the manor, Devon slipped into the hallway off the main drawing room. A familiar voice caught his attention. “I was thinking of doing something,” Anabelle said. Annabelle was there, dressed in black with a string of pearls at her neck, hair swept into a neat chignon. Her smile was tired but gracious. When she saw him, something in her shoulders eased. She was seated on a velvet bench, speaking to one of the Lawson family’s aides. “Something to honor him. At the wake.” The woman offered a sympathetic nod. “Would you like to speak?” “No,” Anabelle said, voice tight. “But I think... maybe his music. Damian had old recordings. His piano pieces. He used to compose late at night. I’d fall asleep listening throug

"Devon Hamilton... A pleasure to finally meet you in person." Devon’s heart skipped, but not enough for anyone to notice, but enough for him to feel it. The voice was crisp, feminine and unfamiliar. Startled, Devon turned slowly, careful not to spill the lukewarm coffee in his hand. And as he did, he saw a woman standing beside his table, cool and composed with sharp cheekbones softened only by the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. She stood there in a camel trench coat, her auburn hair tucked beneath a slanted beret, sunglasses still on despite the indoor setting. She looked polished, but not overdressed. One may say a bit calculated. She didn’t wait for permission. She slid into the seat across from him, setting her leather purse gently on the table. “I was told you’re punctual. That part, at least, wasn’t exaggerated.” Devon blinked once, then twice. “And you are?” “Someone who’s taken a rather invested interest in you,” she said, crossing one leg over the other.

Devon stared at the screen, his finger hovering over the trackpad. The subject line of the email was simple. “Your girl Celeste – initial findings.” He clicked. The message unfolded quickly. Bullet points. A link. An attachment. Michael didn’t waste time on fluff. > Celeste Renee Marlowe. Real name. No aliases. Freelance journalist. Currently unaffiliated. Has written for several mid-level publications. Mostly politics and human interest. Last big story? Three years ago. A state senator’s son caught in a corruption scheme. Connection to the Lawsons unclear. But she’s been asking around since Damian’s death. Quietly. And here’s the kicker: she’s been digging into you. By name. Since the funeral. Devon leaned back in his chair, a slow exhale escaping. His fingers tightened around the glass of scotch. She’d called him by name before he’d introduced himself. Of course she had. This wasn’t random. She’d known him—targeted him. The email continued, with a short note at

It had been six days since the funeral. Six days since they lowered her brother into the ground. Six days since she’d stood between two men—her father on one side, Devon on the other—and felt like neither of them could truly reach her. Not anymore. Annabelle just sat curled up on the edge of the cream velvet sofa in her living room, a half-drunk cup of tea growing cold in her hands. The silence in the house was different now. Not peaceful or comforting—just heavy, stretched thin over every inch of air, as if the walls themselves were waiting for someone to speak and break it. But no one ever did. Devon hadn’t called for a while now. She had checked several times. She had waited, but... she still hadn't received a single text from him. And her father? Hugh Lawson had been more ghost than human lately. He came and went without much of a word, retreating into his study for hours, sometimes entire nights. The clinking of glass against glass had become the new lullaby outside her do

Devon straightened the collar of his crisp, navy button-down, pausing in front of the mirror to inspect the fit. It was one of the few shirts he hadn’t associated with boardrooms or funerals lately, which made it the best choice for today. He wanted casual, but presentable. Not too cheerful, but not weighed down by grief either. Devon stood before the mirror in his bedroom, fastening the last button on his navy shirt. And as he did, the morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting long streaks of gold across the hardwood floor. He hadn't shaved, leaving the faintest shadow across his jaw—a nod to the fatigue that had clung to him since the funeral. Days has past since Damian’s burial, and Devon had barely slept through a single night. He reached for his phone on the dresser, the screen lighting up as he tapped Annabelle's name. For a brief moment, his finger hovered, uncertain. He hadn’t spoken to her much since that day. Guilt gnawed steadily at his insides, the kind th