Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Wild Virgin (HER POV) : Kabanata 91 - Kabanata 100

Macy was getting better, slowly, steadily, beautifully. Every morning I watched a little more color return to her cheeks, a little more strength to her voice, and every night I felt another crack inside me seal. Her healing mirrored something fragile but real between Ram and me, something that had been broken, battered, pushed to its limit, yet refused to die.By the sixth week, the doctors finally told us we could go home.Home.A simple word, but after everything we’d endured, it felt like a warm hand pressed to my chest, steadying me. Not the sterile, suffocating halls of the hospital where every day felt like a battle we weren’t sure we’d win… but home.A week had passed since then, and Macy, my brave little warrior, had been glowing. She happily narrated her “surgery story” to Claire like she had just survived a battle and won. Watching the two of them made me feel a fullness in my chest I couldn’t quite name. Relief, love, gratitude… maybe all of it.I was happy too. Truly.Not

窗体顶端Jordan Residence- 8 years later…Dinner had barely begun when Ram leaned forward, his suit jacket shifting enough to reveal the sculpted lines of his shoulders, the kind of strength tailored fabric could never fully hide. The soft amber light of the dining room caught the crisp angles of his jaw, casting him in that effortless authority he carried everywhere, boardroom, private jet, or our own home.His voice brushed across the table, warm but threaded with command, like velvet hiding steel.“Please put down your phone, pumpkin. Don’t make the food wait.”Macy didn’t even bother to glance up. She only wrinkled her nose, thumbs tapping with the dramatic urgency only a fourteen-year-old could summon.“Ugh, again? Mom, please tell Dad to stop calling me that. And can I eat later? I’m not even hungry.”I hid a smile behind my wineglass. For all her indignation, she was still our little girl.“I don’t think your dad will ever stop,” I teased. “And honestly, I don’t blame him. You’ll a

My eyes fluttered open barely fifteen minutes before six, the room still wrapped in the muted gold of dawn. The air was cool, still, and heavy with that rare silence reserved only for the earliest hours. Beside me lay Ram, my husband, the man the world bowed to, sleeping with the unguarded peace of someone who conquered everything he touched. His low, steady snore rumbled from deep in his chest, a sound that would have annoyed anyone else, but to me it was grounding… a reminder that even titans rested.A soft smile tugged at my lips as I studied him. In the boardroom, he was a storm, calculated, commanding, relentless. But here, in our bed, with one powerful arm sprawled across my waist like I was something he owned, he was mine in a way no empire of his could match.Carefully, I slipped from his hold, though even in sleep his fingers tightened possessively for a heartbeat, as if his body refused to let me go. I finally eased out of bed, already thinking ahead to breakfast. We had sta

The moment we stepped into the kitchen, Ram didn’t even give me time to settle before he spoke, his voice cutting clean through the quiet like he owned the air itself.“Are you sure about letting Macy stay there?”There was no anger, just that low, steady pressure beneath his tone, the kind that always curled under my skin. A calm surface stretched over a simmering, territorial worry he didn’t bother hiding from me.I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I reached for my favorite glass from the cupboard, letting the cool weight of it anchor me as I filled it with hot black tea. The steam rose between us, softening the edges, giving me the few seconds I needed to gather the words that wouldn’t ignite him further. Without thinking, I tilted the glass toward him, habit, ritual, the domestic softness we slipped into between storms.He declined with a small shake of his head, jaw tightening in that way that told me my silence was gasoline on whatever was burning in him.I exhaled through my

I still don’t know how Ram managed it, but somewhere between the slow, deliberate torment of his teasing and that deceitful veneer of self-control he always wears, he had already stripped my underwear away without me even realizing. One moment I was fighting for breath beneath the oppressive heat of his presence, and the next, I was startlingly, achingly bare for him. My legs were parted wide, one hooked over the solid,while the other was pressed open by the firm, possessive command of his hand.The position alone felt like an invitation so sinful it made heat rush across my entire body, but it was the look in his eyes that truly undid me. That possessive, nearly feral hunger, like he was seeing me for the first time in his life. Like the raw, exposed sight of me wasn’t just desire, but sacrament. Devotion. Worship. In that heavy, primal stare, I wasn’t just his lover; I was his coveted, exclusive treasure, something he intended to savor one breath at a time.When his gaze finally lif