บททั้งหมดของ Married To The Son Of Sin : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

The cathedral doors parted to a flood of golden sunlight, the scent of orange blossoms and salt air swirling through the arched nave. My father's arm trembled beneath my grip as we took that first fateful step, his prison-bleached suit hanging loose on his gaunt frame. "Forgive me, mija," he whispered, his calloused thumb brushing my knuckles where they clutched his elbow. The weight of his guilt pressed between us heavier than the ten-carat diamond tiara Eve had fastened to my upswept hair. At the altar, Adam stood haloed in the stained-glass light, his black tuxedo tailored to lethal perfection. The way his gaze tracked my approach—like a wolf watching prey walk willingly into its jaws—sent heat coiling low in my belly despite myself. Behind me, Cara adjusted the endless train of my ivory gown, her maid-of-honor dress the exact shade of the Pacific at dawn. The bruises around her wrists from Lancaster security's "persuasion" had been artfully concealed beneath lace gloves. -

The penthouse doors hissed shut behind me with the finality of a tomb sealing. The silence was deafening - not the peaceful quiet of an empty home, but the heavy stillness of a battlefield after the massacre. My reflection in the gilded hallway mirror looked like a stranger: hair half-fallen from its elegant updo, mascara smeared beneath hollow eyes, the emerald choker around my throat gleaming like a noose in the dim light.I reached up with trembling fingers, fumbling with the clasp of the damned necklace. The mechanism resisted, biting into my skin until blood welled beneath my nails. With a final twist, it came free, clattering to the marble floor with a sound like breaking bones."stupid damn choker"I hissed.Three hours later found me in Adam's private study, surrounded by the shattered remains of his prized bourbon collection. Crystal shards glittered like diamonds across the Persian rug, the sharp tang of alcohol mixing with the metallic scent of blood from my torn fingertips

The meeting unfolded like a scene from some grotesque play, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite. Below on the pool terrace, crystal glasses caught the moonlight as they clinked together, the sound carrying up to me like broken wind chimes. I pressed my palms against the cool glass, watching the surreal tableau. Papa—who had arrived barely an hour ago bleeding and broken—now stood laughing with the infamous Black Mamba, their arms slung over each other's shoulders like frat brothers after a bender. The bloodstains on his chauffeur's uniform were the only evidence that the earlier horror hadn't been some fever dream. Adam and George sat slightly apart from the revelry, their postures rigid even in the plush lounge chairs. Adam's fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against his whiskey glass, while George's scarred eyebrow remained permanently arched in skepticism. What game are they playing now?The question burned through me as I traced the condensation o

I sat stiffly in the back of the Rolls-Royce, watching rain streak the tinted windows as we wound up the serpentine driveway. My body still hummed with residual poison, every nerve ending raw. The doctors had pumped me full of enough activated charcoal to turn my tongue black, but the real toxin—Eve’s whispered words about Mama—still coursed through my veins. Adam’s thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space, his body angled as if to shield me from invisible threats. His fingers flexed against his knee, the same hand that had held the syringe that saved me now looking strangely vulnerable. “You’re shaking,” he muttered. I clenched my fists to stop the tremors. “I’m fine.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. He reached into the mini-fridge embedded in the seat console and pulled out a bottle of water. “Drink.” The condensation dripped onto my hospital-issued sweatpants as I took it. Adam watched me swallow with an intensity that should’ve made the water boil in my throat. “Sl

The neon sign of Club Nine Hundred flickered erratically, its violet glow staining the rain-slicked pavement like a fresh bruise. Adam Lancaster leaned against the alley wall, letting the icy drizzle numb his face. He'd lost count of how many nights he'd spent staring at this same buzzing sign, seeking refuge in the only place where the Lancaster name meant less than the thickness of his wallet. With a final drag of his cigarette, he crushed it beneath his Oxfords and stepped into the chaos. ---Inside the VIP roomThe private lounge hovered above the dance floor like a predator's nest, its one-way glass offering a perfect view of the writhing masses below. Dante Moretti was already pouring four fingers of Macallan M into a tumbler when Adam entered, the bottle's £25,000 price tag glinting in the low light. "Christ," Dante muttered, taking in Adam's disheveled appearance—the undone collar, the shadowed eyes, the barely contained fury vibrating through his frame. "Eve's been busy