บททั้งหมดของ Signed to Be His Sin: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

The first thing Seraphina Vale noticed about the room was the silence.Not the comfortable kind—the kind that pressed against her skin, heavy and deliberate, as though the walls themselves were listening. The Blackwood Holdings executive floor sat fifty-seven stories above Manhattan, wrapped in glass and power. Every surface gleamed. Every object looked expensive enough to be untouchable.Including the man standing by the window.Lucien Blackwood did not turn when she entered. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the city as if he owned it—which, she suspected, he nearly did. The skyline reflected against the dark glass, turning him into a shadow carved from steel.“You’re late,” he said calmly.Seraphina stiffened. “Your assistant rescheduled the meeting twice.”He turned then.The movement was unhurried, controlled. His eyes—cool, assessing, dangerously unreadable—settled on her with a weight that made her spine straighten instinctively. He wore a charcoal

Morning arrived without softness.Seraphina woke to pale light slipping through sheer curtains and the distant hum of the city below. For a few seconds, she forgot where she was—until the unfamiliar weight of silence pressed in and reality settled back into place.The penthouse.The contract.Lucien Blackwood.She sat up slowly, pushing the covers aside. Her room was immaculate, untouched, as if she were a guest in a luxury hotel rather than a wife—contractual or otherwise. The memory of Lucien standing in her doorway the night before returned with unsettling clarity. The tension in his voice. The restraint. The way his eyes had lingered as though he were fighting something he refused to name.Lock your door. Every night.She glanced at the lock now, still turned.A strange mix of relief and disappointment settled in her chest.After a quick shower, she dressed in one of the outfits prepared for her—a tailored cream dress that fit her as if it had been designed with her measurements i

The morning light came harsh and relentless, cutting through the penthouse like judgment. Seraphina had barely slept. Her mind raced, replaying every encounter with Lucien the day before—the way his gaze lingered too long, the subtle heat of his touch, the unspoken acknowledgment that even in restraint, he exerted control.She rose, showered quickly, and dressed in another one of the curated outfits Helena had laid out for her. Today was a day of appearances: Lucien had insisted on a charity gala, a black-tie affair where every gesture, every smile, every word would be scrutinized.She stepped into the hallway and froze. Lucien stood by the elevator, reviewing documents, his tie loosened slightly, sleeves rolled, a casual precision in his posture that made her pulse accelerate despite herself.“Good morning,” she said, voice steady, though her hands were clammy.He looked up, meeting her eyes with that piercing focus she had come to recognize. “Morning,” he said flatly, but something

The next morning arrived too calmly.Sunlight poured through the glass walls of the penthouse, soft and deceptive, as though the storm of the night before had never happened. No thunder. No darkness. No charged silence heavy with things left unsaid.And yet, Seraphina woke with her heart still racing.She lay still in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the power outage—the brush of her fingers against Lucien’s chest, the way his voice had dropped, the warning in his eyes that felt less like control and more like struggle.Do not mistake my restraint for indifference.The words echoed, unsettling and intimate.She pushed herself out of bed before her thoughts could spiral further and dressed quickly. Today was the board luncheon. Today, she would step into Lucien Blackwood’s world fully exposed.When she entered the dining area, Lucien was already there.He stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, phone pressed to his ear, his posture rigid with focus. For a moment,

Lucien woke before dawn, already tense.Sleep had been shallow, restless—broken by fragments of yesterday’s confrontation replaying in his mind. Seraphina’s refusal on the sidewalk. The way she’d looked at him when she said she didn’t belong to him.She was right.And that was the problem.He dressed mechanically, the familiar routine offering little comfort. Control had always come easily to him—over markets, over people, over outcomes. But Seraphina disrupted that balance in ways he hadn’t anticipated.She didn’t bend.She questioned.And worse, she made him hesitate.By the time he stepped out of his study later that morning, the penthouse was already awake. Sunlight spilled across the floor, catching on glass and steel, turning the space deceptively warm.Seraphina sat at the dining table, scrolling through something on her phone, hair pulled back loosely. She wore a fitted dress this time—simple, professional, understated.It suited her.The thought arrived uninvited, and he shut