All Chapters of Forbidden Affairs : Chapter 331 - Chapter 340

The elevator in Voss Tower was private, mirrored on all four walls, and rose so smoothly it felt like falling in reverse. Cameron stepped in at 7:42 p.m. on a rain-slick Monday, suit jacket slung over one arm, tie loosened, another sixteen-hour day bleeding out behind him. He hit 68—his new executive floor—and leaned against the brass rail, watching the lobby shrink to a postage stamp below.The doors were three inches from closing when a manicured hand slid between them.Serena Voss stepped inside wearing a belted trench the color of wet sand and nothing else he could detect. The belt was knotted loosely; the coat gaped at the throat, revealing the inward curve of both breasts and the shadowed line between them. Her hair was twisted up carelessly, a few damp platinum strands clinging to her neck. She smelled like rain and something darker—jasmine absolute and the faint copper of anticipation.She didn’t speak. She reached past him, long coat brushing his thigh, and pressed the red st

The risks stopped feeling like risks and started feeling like oxygen.Monday board meeting. Victor at the head of the table dissecting quarterly numbers while Cameron sat three seats down, tie perfectly knotted, voice steady. Under the mahogany Serena’s bare foot slid up Cameron’s calf, toes tracing the seam of his trousers, then higher. She wore a charcoal skirt suit cut like armor and no panties—he’d watched her dress that morning in the penthouse mirror while Victor showered ten feet away.By the time the CFO reached slide forty-seven, her toes were curled around the ridge of his cock through wool. Cameron kept his face neutral, signed the proxy vote, and came silently in his boxers while Victor praised his “focus under pressure.”He spent the rest of the meeting hard again, the wet spot cooling against his thigh.They got worse.Serena began appearing in the executive corridor after 9 p.m. wearing one of Victor’s overcoats and nothing else. She’d wait in Cameron’s office, legs spr

Isabella stepped out of the cab on West 57th Street and felt the November wind slice through her coat like a warning. She should have turned back then. Instead she paid the driver in cash, pulled the black silk half-mask over her eyes, and walked toward the private elevator that waited beneath the unmarked awning. The invitation in her clutch was a forgery, printed on heavy cream stock she had stolen from the gallery’s back room and aged with cold tea. The gold-embossed crest looked perfect under dim light. It had to.Inside the elevator, mirrors on every wall reflected a woman she barely recognized: auburn hair twisted into a low knot, lips painted the color of fresh blood, body wrapped in a backless emerald silk gown that cost more than three months of her salary. The dress had come from a consignment shop in Brooklyn; the debt collectors would have laughed if they knew what she was wearing to try to save herself.Fifty-three floors later the doors slid open onto a penthouse bathed

The warehouse sat beneath the Manhattan Bridge like a forgotten cathedral, its brick walls sweating decades of river damp. Inside, strobe lights carved the darkness into violent shards of red and violet. Bass throbbed through the concrete floor and up into Isabella’s bare feet as Viktor led her down a freight elevator that smelled of rust and sex.She wore only a thin black silk robe, belted loosely, nothing beneath. A new collar circled her throat: matte black leather with a single silver ring at the front. Viktor held the leash attached to it loosely in one hand. The other rested possessively on the small of her back.On the third night he had told her what the syndicate required.“One public claiming,” he had said, tracing the fresh bruises on her inner thighs. “They need to see you break for me completely. After that, no one will ever doubt you are mine to protect.”She had not slept since.The elevator doors groaned open onto controlled chaos. Hundreds of bodies moved under the f

She was halfway down the gravel drive when the headlights pinned her in place.The black Maybach rolled to a silent stop ten feet away. Viktor stepped out alone, no driver, no Luka, no guards. Just him in a charcoal overcoat, collar turned up against the wind whipping off the ocean. The moon hung low and bloated over the water, turning the world silver and merciless.Isabella did not run. She stood barefoot on the cold stones, wearing nothing but his shirt and the marks he had put on her skin, duffel bag slung over one shoulder like a refugee.Viktor looked at the bag, then at her face.“You are leaving in that?” His voice carried the same calm authority it always did, but something underneath it cracked.“I kept my part,” she said. “Seven nights. You kept yours until you didn’t. We’re done.”He took one step closer. “I burned the Kozlov file an hour ago. Every copy. The sale is dead.”She laughed, sharp and ugly. “Forgive me if I don’t trust the man who photographed me unconscious an