Todos los capítulos de Forbidden By Her Sister's Husband : Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

The flight back from London was a funeral procession at forty thousand feet.Aria sat in her seat, staring at the back of Damian’s head. He was working again, typing furiously, ignoring her existence. He hadn’t spoken to her since the car ride from the Savoy, where he had scrubbed her hand with a wet wipe like she was contaminated.She felt hollowed out. Used.He had dragged her across the ocean, locked her in a room, used her to unsettle a business rival, and now he was putting her back in the box until he needed her again. Between the long hours of cross-referencing files for him, she had managed to submit her final online exam on the jet’s Wi-Fi. Her degree was finished, her online classes finally over, but she felt no sense of victory. She was just tired.The plane descended. The skyline of New York rose up to meet them, shimmering in the thick, hazy heat.Home, Aria thought bitterly. Or what passes for it.The wheels touched down with a screech of rubber. The jet taxied to the pri

August in New York was a season of stifling, heavy heat. The city felt like it was simmering under a glass lid, the air thick with humidity and the smell of hot asphalt. For Aria Hale, the late summer didn't feel like a time for vacations or rest; it felt like a countdown to an execution.The date of the Vow Renewal was set for August 15th. Only days away.Every day was a fresh hell of logistics. Aria had become the unofficial wedding planner, the shadow secretary, the person who carried the binders and absorbed the stress so Cassandra could focus on “glowing.”Today was the venue walkthrough.Cassandra had rejected the idea of a garden party. “Too rustic,” she had declared. “I want God involved. It looks more expensive.”So they were at St. Jude’s Basilica.It was a cavernous, Gothic monstrosity of stone and stained glass in the Upper East Side. It was older than the city around it, a fortress of silence that smelled of beeswax, incense, and centuries of judgment.Aria walked ten pace

The suitcase on Aria’s bed was open, gaping like a hungry mouth waiting to be fed.“Pack something slutty,” Cassandra commanded from the doorway of Unit 40B. She was wearing oversized sunglasses indoors, holding a Starbucks cup like a scepter. “We’re going to Atlantic City. The Borgata. I booked the Chairman Suite.”Aria folded a thin sweater, her hands trembling slightly. “Atlantic City? Cassandra, the Vow Renewal is next week. Shouldn’t we be resting?”“Rest is for the dead,” Cassandra snapped. “This is my last hurrah before I re-commit to the prison of matrimony. I want tequila. I want blackjack. I want to dance on a table.”“I have work,” Aria tried, a desperate lie. “The Archives…”“Damian gave you the weekend off,” Cassandra said, smirking. “I asked him this morning. He didn’t look happy about it, but he agreed. Said something about ‘minimizing collateral damage’ if I went alone. So, you’re the chaperone. Pack.”Aria stared at the sweater. Chaperone. She wasn’t going as a sister.

The email arrived at 8:00 AM on a Tuesday, breaking the sterile silence of the corporate apartment like a stone thrown through a glass window.Aria sat at the dining table—a slab of cold, gray marble that looked more like a morgue slab than furniture staring at the screen of her personal laptop. The cursor blinked at her, a rhythmic pulse of white against the blue light.Subject: Interview Request - Assistant Editor Position. From: The Radical Review.Aria read the subject line three times. Her heart, which usually beat with a dull, anxious thud, suddenly kicked into a frantic rhythm.The Radical Review. It was a small, gritty literary journal based in a converted warehouse in Brooklyn. It published avant-garde poetry and essays on urban decay. It had absolutely nothing to do with Cross Industries. It had no board of directors, no stock price, and certainly no connection to Damian Cross.It was a lifeline.Aria closed the laptop slowly, her eyes instinctively darting to the smoke detec

The drill sat on the gray rug like a dead insect. Aria stared at it from the edge of the bed. Her hands were raw. The skin on her palms had blistered where she’d gripped the plastic handle too tight, forcing the metal bit into the heavy oak of the door. The industrial deadbolt was in place now. It was a block of brushed steel, thick and ugly, sitting right above the electronic lock that Damian controlled from his phone fifty floors up.He had sent the tools. He had told her to install it. Lock the door, he had said. If I come back down here tonight… I won’t be so merciful.Aria shifted, and a sharp spike of soreness shot through her hips. She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling the duvet tighter. The fabric was rough against her skin, but the cold air of the apartment was worse. The central air was humming, a low, mechanical drone that never stopped, pumping sterile, scentless air into her lungs.She felt used. Not in the way a woman feels used after a bad date, but in the way a tool feels