Todos los capítulos de One Night's Mistake With My Fiance's Brother: Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

Devon and Annabelle Lawson talked about everything and nothing. Her old college roommates. A movie she watched last week and couldn’t finish. The overpriced croissants from a new bakery she hated but kept buying from anyway. It was light and easy, like resurfacing after being underwater too long. After lunch, he drove her through Central Park, winding through familiar streets until they reached a quiet overlook. The car sat idle, the world outside slow and green. “Can't remember when last I got to feel free like this,” Annabelle said, her voice barely above a murmur. “Me too.” Devon replied. Annabelle then leaned her head against his shoulder. “Do you think,” she began, hesitating, “things could ever feel... good again?” Devon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her gently. “They will. It just takes time.” She turned toward him suddenly, her face close to his. In the quiet, it didn’t feel wrong. And when she leaned forward and kissed him, he didn’t pull away. Not immedia

Celeste stared at the screen longer than necessary, the cursor blinking like a taunt. Devon hadn’t responded to her last message—just the silent notification that it had been read. Nothing more. She’d expected this, but still, a part of her hoped for something. Anger. Fear. Anything. Her tiny apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glare of her laptop. The air smelled faintly of takeout and burnt coffee. Piles of unpaid bills cluttered the side table. The lease renewal had been denied two weeks ago—no surprise. She was two months behind. Three years ago, she’d made headlines across the country. Her exposé on Senator Crawley’s son had been her golden ticket—splashing across news sites, guest panel invites, interviews on daytime TV. For one strange, glittering moment, she mattered. Then came the fallout. The retraction. The lawsuits. Her name smeared. And the second article, rushed and sloppily sourced, had been the nail in the coffin. The Crawleys made sure of it. That one mistake

Annabelle lay in bed the next morning, staring up at the white ceiling of her bedroom. Sunlight crept past the curtains, dust motes dancing in the slanting beams. But none of it warmed her. The world outside continued, indifferent to the confusion unraveling inside her. She touched her lips. They still tingled, as though Devon’s kiss had etched itself into her skin. It wasn’t planned. It hadn’t even felt romantic. It had been brief—so brief—but it carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said since Damian’s death. Grief. Guilt. Loneliness. Maybe even longing. But not love. Not yet. Or maybe not at all. She then turned to her side and hugged a pillow tightly to her chest. Her heart was unsteady, her mind even more so. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. For days, she had clung to Devon like a lifeline, needing his presence just to stay afloat. He was the only one who seemed to see her grief, not tiptoe around it like it was something contagious. But now, everything had shifted.

The wind off the East River howled like a warning. Celeste Marlowe stood at the edge of Pier 19, her coat drawn tight around her frame, the hood casting shadows over her eyes. The dock stretched ahead like a graveyard of forgotten things—graffiti-stained concrete, rusted bollards, broken glass glittering faintly under the waning light. She pulled her phone from her pocket again, checking the time. It was 4:58 p.m now and Devon still wasn’t there. She had arrived early on purpose, not out of excitement but strategy rather. She wanted to watch the area, see who else showed up—that was if anyone did. The air smelled like salt and rust, and the occasional screech of seagulls overhead only made the place feel more desolate and abandoned. She turned slowly, scanning the length of the dock as she did. Beyond the fence behind her, a road curved back toward the city. There were no parked cars. No headlights. Nothing moved. Everything was just eerily still. Her nerves buzzed beneath the sur

Three days before the phone call that would end a life, Hugh Lawson sat alone in his study, firelight flickering across the hardwood floor like ghosts of decisions he hadn’t yet made. The storm outside was a whisper compared to the one inside him. He held his phone in one hand, unmoving, the name on the screen glowing like an omen: Brian Tellis. His troubleshooter. Brian had once worked inside a federal cybercrimes division before jumping ship to offer private services to men like Hugh—men who needed problems solved with discretion and finality. Hugh answered. "What have you found?" Brian’s voice was flat, clinical. "Her name is Celeste Marlowe. Independent journalist. Real name: Cecelia Marris. Changed her name in 2021 after a court settlement involving a politician in D.C. She has a history of manipulation. You could call her an opportunist. She gets close to powerful people looking for leaks. Studies them, then flips the story." "What about Damian?" "She saw them toget