Lahat ng Kabanata ng His Darkest Temptation: Kabanata 41 - Kabanata 50

The train ride from Cornwall to London felt like it was trying to shake Isabella loose as if the rhythmic clatter beneath her seat might rid her of the weight of everything she had just left behind. She clutched the stolen drive in her coat pocket, fingers running over her mother’s locket like a talisman. Her mind was a blur of encrypted messages, new alliances, and whispered threats. She wasn’t sure if she was running away or merely searching for a moment of respite—somewhere to breathe without the suffocating weight of what had just unfolded.The streets of London greeted her like a harsh, unwelcoming canvas. The city’s lights were sharp, unnervingly bright, and her sense of familiarity was lost among the rain-soaked streets. It was almost as if the city were asking her a question she didn’t have an answer to: Can you still survive here, Isabella? Can you still find yourself in this world? The familiar buzz of taxis and pedestrians felt foreign now, after the damp, shadow-filled iso

The city slipped away behind her as she drove through the suburbs, the streets gradually losing their anonymity, replaced by rows of houses that hid their secrets beneath layers of time. Isabella’s childhood home sat nestled at the end of a quiet street, its once-bright brick facade now worn and faded. The car came to a stop in front of the house, the pavement cracked and uneven beneath her feet. It was late afternoon, and the chill of autumn was in the air, sharp, like an old wound that hadn't quite healed.Isabella hesitated at the garden gate, her fingers brushing against the rusted latch. It was the same gate she had slipped through as a girl, each time escaping from some invisible disaster, seeking solace in the small, quiet world of her home. Her mother’s voice seemed to linger in the air, faint but clear, sometimes gentle, sometimes strained, always striving to reach her, even as the darkness closed in.She stepped inside. The hallway smelled musty, the wallpaper peeling in pla

Mayfair at midnight was a different kind of darkness. The rain slicked the cobblestone streets, reflecting the neon lights that buzzed in muted hues. The rich of London wore their secrets like silk, their chauffeurs waiting patiently, velvet ropes swaying in the drizzle, shadows moving with purpose. Inside the members-only lounge, the atmosphere was thick with secrecy: polished mahogany, crystal decanters, and low, expensive laughter. The walls had seen more than enough—deals, sins, confessions too dangerous to utter aloud.Isabella walked in with her head high, a sharp edge to her steps, the weight of their last fight still lingering in her posture. She wore black—severe, simple—and the medallion her mother had once pressed into her hand hung beneath her blouse, a reminder of a battle that would not be fought with fists but with memory, nerve, and roles that might destroy her.Adrian was waiting for her in a corner booth, a shadow in the dim golden light. The table between them was c

The board chambers were the heart of the Society’s power, and as soon as Isabella stepped inside, she felt it. The pressure. It hung in the air like a weight in her chest, pressing down on her bones, making the space feel smaller, more suffocating. Marble gleamed under the winter light, and the vast glass table sat at the center like a cold altar. It was a circle of equality, an illusion. Power, she quickly noticed, settled on certain shoulders—Vance’s, Berringer’s, and a few others who held their titles like weapons.Today, Isabella was Verity Lane. Today, she walked the tightrope between blending in and standing out. Her hair was pulled back tight and sleek, and her suit even sharper, more severe than what she was used to. Everything about her was carefully constructed: from the glasses she didn’t need, perched just above her nose, to the immaculate credentials that lay in front of her, planted with perfect precision. The name “Verity Lane” had a certain detachment to it—one she was

Night descended quietly on the Society’s retreat, its elegant halls and manicured gardens now shrouded in an oppressive silence. The kind of darkness that pressed against the windows, turning everything into shadows, hiding every corner, every secret. Isabella moved through it like a ghost herself, unseen and unremembered. Each step was deliberate, every movement a practiced motion. The walls seemed to close in around her as if the very air knew what she was about to do.Her cover as “Verity Lane” had earned her privileges, but not invisibility. The archives, particularly the remote storage wing, were restricted. Only a few staff members had the clearance. Only someone desperate enough, driven by a truth too heavy to bear, would risk what Isabella was about to risk.The remote wing was carved into the oldest part of the estate. Stone walls were cool to the touch, and the air smelled of dust, coolant, and mildew. Here, files were rarely touched. These weren’t the daily patient logs or