All Chapters of Forbidden Affairs : Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

The lakehouse was meant to be neutral ground, a place for final negotiations between two empires that had circled each other like wolves for years. My father insisted on being there early, to “set the tone,” and I was invited under the guise of being a mature presence, a promising heiress. It was hilarious. I wasn’t there to sip wine and smile through spreadsheets. I was there to end this. On my terms.I knew Vincent would come. And when I heard the purr of his car in the gravel driveway just past midnight, I stepped out onto the upstairs balcony in nothing but a silk robe and waited. I didn’t wave. I didn’t call his name. I just let him see me. Lit by moonlight. Skin bare beneath the fabric.He looked up, frozen at the edge of the steps, suitcase in hand. His eyes dragged across my legs, up to my throat, and finally to my face. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.I went inside.I didn’t hear him knock. Didn’t hear him come up the stairs. But suddenly, he was there, standing in the do

I didn’t expect to see her again so soon. But I wasn’t surprised either.Three days after the party, she walked into the yoga studio like she hadn’t just come on my fingers under the stars. Like she wasn’t the same woman who told me it never happened while her thighs were still shaking. She wore tight black leggings and a fitted top with no sleeves. Her hair was pulled up, her face bare, and she looked fucking perfect. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.I was already waiting inside, sitting cross-legged on the mat like some patient student. But every part of me was coiled tight.Celeste didn’t look at me as she walked past. Her voice was clipped, her posture straight, every movement precise.“You shouldn’t be here.”“You’re not my instructor.”“You’re not even a member.”“I am today.”She didn’t reply. She moved to the center of the room, placed her mat down with deliberate elegance, and began warming up. I stayed on mine, pretending to stretch, pretending I wasn’t watching the way her ass

I hadn’t seen Emilia since we ended things three months ago. The breakup was clean, if not cold. No screaming. No messy texts. Just the slow, silent death of a relationship that was more built on timing than compatibility. She wanted my ambition, but not the hours. I wanted her body, but not the pressure of being her perfect man. And so, it ended with one final dinner, a goodbye that left more silence between us than I was willing to admit.I didn’t expect to cross paths with her family again. But her father had always been a smooth-talking philanthropist, and his invite to the Bennett Foundation’s private fundraising night came through my firm. It was business. I wasn’t about to decline over a girl I no longer fucked. I put on a clean shirt, black slacks, and enough confidence to mask the itch under my skin. The estate was the same. Too white. Too grand. Too full of people who wore power like perfume. I walked through the front doors and instantly felt the weight of the room press ag

The hotel was modern, sleek, and polished to perfection. High glass windows overlooked the city skyline, casting shadows over the plush carpeted hallways and cold steel elevators. I arrived just after four, a single overnight bag slung over my shoulder and tension wrapped tight around my spine. The front desk clerk handed me a room key and smiled like he had no idea the reason I was here wasn’t business, but sin.The suite was on the sixteenth floor. Minimalist. Clean lines. Cream and gray, with a long wall of glass framing the horizon. I dropped the bag by the chair and checked my phone. Nothing from Lorelei. Not yet. But I already knew she was here. I could feel it, a pull in the air, like gravity bending between us.I showered. Changed into slacks and a black shirt. No tie. No jacket. I poured a drink from the minibar, something amber and strong, and stared out the window as the city shifted into night. I hadn’t seen her since the office. Since I came inside her while she moaned my

It started with a sentence. Something he said casually, in that low, unreadable tone he always used when discussing writing as if it were something separate from emotion, as if stories weren’t born from heat and instinct but structure and form. Naomi had been sitting across from him in his office, notebook in her lap, pen tapping against her knee, pretending to stay focused on her thesis while her eyes kept sliding to his mouth every time he spoke. She told herself it was admiration. Intellectual. Professional. But she knew better.Professor Marcus Vale wasn’t just brilliant. He was dangerous. The kind of man who could take a room and make it quieter without saying a word. He didn’t speak unless he meant it. He didn’t praise unless you earned it. And when he looked at you, it felt like he was peeling you open to read the parts of you you didn’t know how to hide.His office was dim, lit only by the desk lamp and the soft glow of his reading light near the window. Books lined the walls