All Chapters of Married To The Son Of Sin : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The cool cloth on my forehead felt like a lie. A tiny island of relief in an ocean of poison and betrayal. Adam’s demand – "Tell me exactly what they gave you"– still vibrated in the air, heavy with the promise of violence I couldn't summon the energy to care about. Retribution? What good was revenge when my own body felt like enemy territory? I turned my head away from the water glass he offered, the movement sending fresh shards of pain through my skull. My throat was raw sandpaper. Talking was agony. Thinking was a minefield. Words were landmines primed to detonate memories I couldn’t face. He hovered, a tense silhouette against the late afternoon light slanting through the window. His earlier gentleness had evaporated, replaced by a frustrated helplessness that radiated off him like heat. He’d carried basins, wiped sweat, held back my hair. Now, faced with the fortress of my silence, he was adrift. "Lucia," he tried again, his voice strained. "You need to drink. You need streng

The slam of the door wasn’t just sound. It was the final seal on the tomb. Papa was gone. Called back to Eve. Back to the driver’s seat of the life that had run me over. The uniform, the cap clutched in his hand, the fleeting look of sorrow drowned by obedience – it was the last snapshot before the door closed, cutting off the light, cutting off hope.He left. He alwaysleft. Left Mama. Left me. Left me to the Lancasters. Left me broken on a cold, polished floor because Eve Lancaster summoned her chauffeur.Adam stood frozen. A statue carved from guilt and helplessness. I felt his stare, heavy as the Thorazine fog still clinging to the edges of my mind, but I couldn’t lift my head. My forehead pressed against my knees, the rough denim of Adam’s borrowed sweatpants the only real texture. The world was reduced to the hammering of my own heart against my ribs, the phantom taste of bile, and the suffocating scent of salt air that suddenly smelled like St. Mary’s antiseptic.What did you ex

Sleep was a traitor. The comfortable exhaustion from the beach walk, the surprisingly good pasta, the easy silence – it had all evaporated. Now, moonlight painted silver stripes across my ceiling, and the rhythmic crash of the waves felt less like a lullaby and more like the insistent ticking of a clock I couldn’t stop. Adam Lancaster. His name echoed in the quiet room, tangled with the scent of salt and olives that still lingered faintly. The image of him, sleeves rolled up, focused on chopping garlic, the almost-shy smile when he caught me watching… it had replaced, momentarily, the ghosts of St. Mary’s and Papa’s uniform. And that was the problem. I wasn’t supposed to see him like that. Not the competent cook, the quiet companion on the beach, the man who knew where to find the greenest sea glass. I was supposed to see the Lancaster heir. The product of poison. The reason for my cage. Catching glimpses of someone else… someone who made a surprisingly good puttanesca and whose

The borrowed days had settled into a rhythm, a fragile, sun-dappled cadence of Scrabble wars, shared silences over bad movies, and the quiet intimacy of drying dishes beside Adam Lancaster. I’d almost stopped counting them, lulled by the deceptive peace. My birthday, a date etched in hospital charts and bureaucratic files, felt like something belonging to another Lucia, a Lucia before cages and Lancaster deals. I certainly hadn’t mentioned it.So, when I emerged from my room late that afternoon, drawn by the unusual scent of something richer than coffee drifting through the villa, I stopped dead. The living room, usually stark and vast, was transformed. Dozens of flickering tea lights lined the windowsills and coffee table, their warm glow reflecting off polished surfaces and casting dancing shadows on the walls. Soft, unfamiliar jazz played low. The dining table by the window overlooking the darkening sea was set for two crisp white linen, gleaming silverware, crystal glasses catchi

The fragile peace after the nightmare felt like thin ice over a dark chasm. Adam’s quiet presence, his hand covering mine at the sink, had been a lifeline. But in the days that followed, a new tension coiled around him, visible only in the tightness of his jaw, the way his gaze would linger on me with an unsettling intensity before flickering away, shadowed. The easy rhythm of Scrabble and shared silences was gone, replaced by a brooding stillness that vibrated with something unspoken.He’d been distant, lost in thought, pacing the terrace at night long after I’d retreated to my room. I’d watch his silhouette against the moonlit sea, a dark, restless figure wrestling with demons I couldn’t name. The warmth from the birthday night, the safety of his arms after the nightmare, felt like illusions now, receding under the weight of this new, grim silence.Then, one brittle morning, he announced it abruptly, not meeting my eyes. "Get dressed. We're going for a drive."No explanation. Just a