Twisted Temptation のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 121 - チャプター 130

By Monday, Hayes had convinced himself he could be normal again. A clean slate. Fresh week. Pretend his office didn’t still smell faintly of her perfume. But pretending only worked until Emma walked in. She was early for her “check-up.” Jeans, a white blouse, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She smiled like they hadn’t crossed every line in existence. “Morning, Doctor,” she said lightly, dropping her purse on the chair. “How’s your weekend?” He didn’t answer. His pulse jumped just seeing her. “Close the door.” She did. Slowly. “You look tense.” “I asked you not to come back this week.” “And I ignored you,” she said, folding her arms. “Because you don’t mean it.” Hayes exhaled, leaning against the counter. “You think you know what I mean?” “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, eyes narrowing with that daring calm he’d come to crave. “You just don’t like that I get to choose when we see each other.” Something snapped in him then — a flash of jealousy, sharp and uninvit

The week began like any other—but nothing felt normal. Hayes kept glancing at the clock, anticipating her arrival, every nerve on edge. He tried to bury himself in work, reviewing charts, checking vitals, forcing himself to focus on patients who weren’t Emma. But her absence in his office, the silence where her laughter should have been, gnawed at him. When she finally appeared mid-morning, he caught his breath before he even realized it. Emma was casual, effortless, dangerous: ripped jeans, a soft sweater, sneakers instead of heels. Her hair fell loosely around her face, framing eyes that glinted with the same daring that always made his control shatter. “Doctor Hayes,” she said lightly, holding the door open with one hand. Her smile was small, almost careful, but still enough to make his pulse spike. “Emma,” he replied, voice taut. He forced himself to focus on professional tones, on patient charts, anything to keep the blood from rushing to places it shouldn’t. She stepped in

The house didn’t look like it needed a cook. White stone, glass walls, a front door that opened without a sound. The kind of place that usually smelled like air conditioning and money. But Lila had learned that people like Ethan Hale—quiet, collected men with a thousand little habits—always wanted something personal hidden behind their precision. Her heels clicked against the marble as she stepped in. Everything gleamed. No clutter. Not even a hint of life. “Mr. Hale?” Her voice carried softly through the space. A moment later, he appeared from a hallway—tall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the sort of man who didn’t bother announcing himself. His expression was polite, assessing. The kind of look that measured worth before deciding what to reveal. “You’re Lila Monroe,” he said, not asking. “I am,” she replied, setting her bag on the counter. “You’re the one who thinks ordering takeout three nights in a row counts as a balanced diet.” His mouth almost twitched. “My assistant tol

Ethan was already in the kitchen when she came down. He had traded his suit for a soft gray T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower. The sight of him like that—unarmored—made Lila pause for half a breath before she slipped into her usual rhythm.“Morning,” he said.“Barely,” she answered, pulling ingredients from the fridge. “You don’t sleep much, do you?”“Not lately.” He glanced at the window. “You?”“Only when I’m not thinking about recipes.”She said it lightly, but he caught the faint curl of a smile that followed. Something in the room shifted again, quieter this time. She cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking with brisk confidence. He poured himself coffee and watched the movement of her hands—efficient, certain, and unhurried.“You make everything look easy,” he said.“It isn’t,” she replied. “But I’ve learned how to make people believe it is.”He studied her. “You’re not just talking about cooking.”She met his gaze over her shoulder. “Neither are you.”Silence folded in around

Lila woke before her alarm, the house still tucked in its expensive silence. The Hale–Cross mansion looked softer in morning light — less like wealth posing, more like a man unguarded. She pulled her hair into a loose knot, the kind that said she was here to work, not tempt fate. And yet… temptation didn’t need help in this house; it breathed in the walls. She slid barefoot into the kitchen, her domain of knives and heat. The marble was cool, the copper pans gleaming like they had secrets polished into them. Coffee first. Ethan moved like he’d been trained for it — efficient, economical, precise. Lila moved like the opposite: fluid, intuitive, a little dangerous by nature rather than intention. She had just set the grind to bloom when she heard footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Confident in a way tied to bloodlines rather than habit. Damian Cross. He leaned against the doorframe as though the house had been built around him. Dark shirt, sleeves up, tie hanging loose as if he’d t