Wanting His Father; Daddy Dom/ LG Forbidden Romance のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 7

IRISThe language of the marriage contract rises in my mind with merciless clarity, not as ink on paper but as something living, something with teeth. Fidelity – not merely of action, not limited to touch or sex or the crude mechanics of betrayal – but fidelity of response. Of attention. Of want. No entanglement, no flirtation, no acknowledgment (external or internal) of desire for any man other than my husband. Not even in passing, not even in imagination.Panic tightens my chest, as though something has cinched closed around my ribs. My pulse skitters, uneven and loud in my ears, and I have the disorienting sensation of having stepped onto unstable ground without realizing it. The thought arrives unbidden, cold and precise, and once it does I can't dislodge it:Is this a test?Thomas dominated the drafting of the marriage contract. He intimately understands its reach, its appetite, the way it was designed to close around me quietly and completely. He knows how it can be enforced, ho

EDWARDIt surprises me that I feel relief more than anything else, because I expected nerves, maybe even doubt. Instead there's only the quiet satisfaction of completion, of a job well done.What I don't feel is shame, not one iota of it. Yes, Iris is only twenty-four, and she's motivated by self-interest, as I am, but she also fully understands what this marriage is. The lawyers were clear, my father was brutal in hammering the point home. She doesn't pretend affection in private, and I don't demand it.But we're in public, and most critically, we're at our wedding, so the love charade is being carried out in full force and with great enthusiasm. She's clutching my hand as we walk down the aisle to the church doors, laughing and accepting congratulations. She looks like the happiest woman in the world, her green eyes sparkling as brightly as the massive diamond on her engagement ring, which she'll always wear with the more discreet gold band. One ring announces her marital status, th

HELENI know now that grief doesn't arrive the way that it's described in books and shown in movies. There's no dramatic collapse, no scream that tears itself from my chest. What comes instead is a narrowing, a sensation like the world has tilted slightly off its axis and everything is now sliding – quietly, relentlessly – toward an edge that I can't see yet. I stand in the hospital corridor and feel as though I've been misfiled, placed in the wrong life, the wrong hour, the wrong body.Edward is dead.The doctor's official words move through me without resistance, settling somewhere low and heavy. My son – my beautiful, careful boy, who did everything correctly, who followed the rules as though obedience itself might guarantee survival – has died on stone church stairs in borrowed sunlight. The unfairness of it is almost abstract, I can't touch the pain without dissolving into it.I don't allow myself to crumble; I watch instead.It turns out that hospitals are excellent places for w