Intertwined のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

My Dearest Readers,Where do I even begin? [Pauses to dramatically clutch chest] Firstly, thank you SO much for joining me on this wild, emotional, and (hopefully) addictive journey through the Intertwined series. Whether you've been here since Chapter 1 or just stumbled upon this story today, know that every time you open this book, my heart does a little happy dance. 🥹✨ A confession: Lorenzo is practically my fictional husband (sorry not sorry! 😂❤️), but because I love you all somuch, I'm willing to share him... sometimes.😉 You've laughed with these characters, cried with them (let's be real—yelled at them too), and now... I'm THRILLED to give you this exclusive sneak peek into Mia and Matteo's dangerous past! Think of it as a thank-you gift—a little extra dose of drama, romance, and whatever delicious chaos these two are stirring up this time. 😉 ---🔥 INTERWOVEN SHADOWS 🔥 (A Forbidden Prelude to the Intertwined Series)MIA | Two Years AgoThe library door clicked shut be

RenzoI wake to the scent of vanilla and the soft, even sound of her breathing.For a long moment, I don’t move. I just exist in the strange, perfect reality of this bed, in this room, with this woman curled against me. The faint, predawn light seeps around the edges of the blinds, painting the room in shades of charcoal and silver. I can make out the curve of her shoulder, the dark spill of her hair across the pillow we ended up sharing.My arm is still around her, my hand splayed possessively over her stomach. She’s nestled back into me, her body fitting against mine as if the awkwardness of last night was just a prelude to this. To fitting.I’d slept. Actually slept. Not the fractured, anxious doze I’d managed in Tokyo hotel rooms, my mind churning with numbers and contractual loopholes. But a deep, profound, healing sleep. The kind that only comes when the thing you’ve been chasing is finally, impossibly, within reach.Our banter last night before we fell asleep flashes in my mind.

Renzo The Jaguar purred through the Chicago streets, a cocoon of soft leather and the intoxicating scent of her—vanilla, and the faint, green fragrance of the tiger tulips she held in her lap. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I wanted to memorize the way the city lights glided over her profile, the way she occasionally glanced at me, her amber eyes wide with a mixture of nerves and wonder.I had taken women to more expensive places, shown them more overt luxury. But it had never felt like this. This wasn’t a transaction. This was a ceremony. And she was the most sacred part of it.I pulled up to a discreet townhouse in the Gold Coast. No flashy sign, just a polished brass plaque beside a single black door: Le Coeur Silencieux – The Silent Heart.“A restaurant with a name like that is either terrible or incredible,” Violette murmured, a hint of her dry wit returning.“I suppose we’ll find out,” I said, getting out and opening her door. I offered her my hand, and the simple

Voilette The silence in the car was a living thing, thick and humming with unspoken energy. The city lights smeared past the windows, painting streaks of neon and gold across the sharp planes of his face. He drove with an effortless concentration, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting warm and heavy on my knee.“So, who’s Taylor?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended. “And why do they need so much hand-holding?”He didn’t look away from the road, but a faint smile touched his lips. “Taylor is my head of acquisitions. Very smart. Very capable. Usually.”“But not today?”“Today, she’s dealing with the fallout from a particularly hostile takeover,” Renzo said, his thumb drawing a slow, distracting circle on my leg. “She’s letting the personalities get to her. She needs to learn that in business, you don’t have to like someone to own them.”The statement was brutal, simple, and utterly him. It should have been chilling, but coming from him, it felt like a glimpse into a world

Voilette The bass from the speakers vibrated up through the floor, settling deep in my chest like a second, more frantic heartbeat. Our private booth was a plush leather island in a sea of neon-drenched chaos—strobes of purple, blue, and a relentless pulse of pink that swept across the room. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, spilled liquor, and the electric anticipation of a night trying too hard to be forgotten.Naturally, Aria was at the heart of it. She’d claimed the space in front of our booth as her personal stage, her red sequined dress catching every flash of light and scattering them like sparks across her skin. She threw her head back, laughing, her glossy hair whipping around her face as she dramatically lip-synced every word of Dua Lipa’s “Don’t Start Now,” one hand clutching her glass, the other raised to an adoring crowd of none.I allowed myself a small, fond smile. This was the new Aria, the one who’d returned from California and immediately plaster