Semua Bab Forbidden Desires: Falling For My Fiance's Brother: Bab 51 - Bab 60

Annabelle leaned back against the plush cushions of the living room sofa, a steaming mug of chamomile tea resting between her hands. She hadn’t planned to call her father, but the silence between them had stretched too long. Ever since Damian’s funeral, Hugh Lawson had retreated into a fortress of his own making—distant, unreachable. Maybe he was grieving in his own way, but it unsettled her. Something about it felt... wrong. Her thumb hovered over the phone screen before she finally tapped on his contact. One ring. Two. Three. Voicemail. She frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. She called again. Still nothing. A third attempt went straight to voicemail. Her fingers gripped the phone a little tighter. Hugh Lawson wasn’t fond of texting, sure—but he always answered her calls. Even on the worst of days. This wasn’t like him. With a tight breath, she dialed the office line. It rang twice before a familiar voice came through—calm and professional. "Hi, this is Rita spea

Annabelle didn’t feel the floor beneath her feet. Infact, she didn’t feel anything at all. She just stood there, eyes fixed on the doctor as his words kept repeating in her mind, as though he hadn't said them just once but a thousand times. Her father was gone now. Just... just like that. That strong, intimidating, infuriating man who had always loomed like an iron-clad pillar in her life had fallen. Fallen without warning. Without any goodbyes. As she kept thinking about all these, the edges of her vision blurred. Her knees buckled slightly, and she had to reach for the wall to steady herself. Cold sweat clung to her back like a baby did to it's mother. The doctor's voice droned on, something about time of death and cardiac complications, but Annabelle couldn't follow up. She barely nodded. Words felt useless useless now, and reality? Unbearable. She made her way to the waiting bench just outside the corridor and sat down, trembling fingers clasped tightly in her lap. Her ches

The tires hummed quietly beneath him as the city rolled by—gray, blurred buildings smeared across the windshield like watercolor. Devon’s hands gripped the steering wheel with more tension than he realized, veins stiff beneath the skin. The AC whispered, faint against the low throb in his temples. It was just past noon, and the sunlight barely pierced through the muted clouds. Manhattan never quite stopped moving, but in this moment, Devon felt curiously still, like he was suspended above his life, watching it unfold from the outside. It had been a week since Hugh Lawson's funeral. The weight of it hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had settled into the marrow of things. Not just the funeral—everything. Damian’s death. The accident. The way his name still echoed in Devon’s mind, soaked in guilt and silence. The PI’s report on Celeste. The blackmail. The lies. The damned ring he’d picked up from the warehouse, now buried in a hollow space in his study drawer, wedged between meaningless

Devon's phone screen lit up with a name he hadn’t seen in weeks. Micheal. Devon’s brows pulled together. He stared at the notification for a full five seconds before his thumb moved. > Hey, I’ve been off the grid for a while... Just reaching out to let you know. There’s so many things you must know. Talk when I can. That was it. Devon read it again. Then a third time, as if reading it one more time might force more information out of it. He tapped the number—no saved contact photo, just digits—but when he tried to call, a crisp female voice came through the speaker. “The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.” He frowned, lowered the phone, and dialed again. Same thing. Third time, just to be sure. Still nothing. Dead line. The kind of line that had never really been alive in the first place. Devon sat forward, staring at the screen like it owed him answers. It didn’t make sense. Micheal had disappeared without a trace weeks ago—right after the funeral, righ

The restaurant was high above the city—fifty-six floors to be exact. Floor-to-ceiling glass surrounded their table, giving them a panoramic view of Manhattan as twilight melted into night. Cars below looked like scattered fireflies, and the buildings across the skyline gleamed like steel and glass titans standing in judgment. Annabelle looked radiant. A deep green dress hugged her just right, her hair pulled back into something soft and effortless. Devon had changed too—black shirt, blazer, clean lines. For once, he didn’t feel like he was performing. Not for the board. Not for his father. Just… here, having dinner with his contracted wife-to-be. Everything was just perfect. Their waiter was attentive, moving with the kind of choreography that only places like this demanded. While the menu on the other hand, was handwritten and changed daily. Hell, Devon didn’t even recognize half the dishes, but it didn’t matter. They both ordered wine. Steak for him. A Truffle risotto for her. “So