Fucked Into Forever [Forbidden Collection] のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 111 - チャプター 120

Sophia couldn’t sleep. The guest room felt too quiet, the sheets too soft, the silence too full of everything she wasn’t supposed to feel. At 1:17 a.m. she gave up, pulled on the one-piece swimsuit she’d left in her bag, and slipped downstairs to the indoor pool. The estate was dark except for the underwater lights glowing soft blue. She dropped her towel on a lounger and slid into the water without a splash. The cool shock hit her skin like a reset button. She swam slow laps, arms cutting through the silence, trying to wash away the memory of jerking Tristan off behind the birthday tent while their son cut cake ten yards away. The water muted everything—her anger, the ache between her legs that never quite went away anymore, the terrifying little voice that whispered she was starting to look forward to these nights. She was on her fifth lap when the door clicked open. Tristan stood at the edge in nothing but black swim trunks, hair messy like he’d been running his hands thro

Theo’s fever stayed gone through the next day. By noon he was up, demanding toast and cartoons and “the big fort in the living room.” Sophia made the toast. Tristan dragged every cushion in the east wing into a pile and draped blankets over the coffee table like he’d done it a hundred times. They spent the afternoon inside the fort, Theo between them, narrating a war between plastic dinosaurs and a stuffed shark. Sophia laughed when Tristan let the shark win on purpose. The sound surprised her—real, easy, nothing forced. When Theo finally crashed for a nap on the cushions, they stayed inside the blanket cave like two guilty kids hiding from the world. Sunlight filtered through the seams, striping their faces. Tristan lay on his back, one arm behind his head. Sophia sat cross-legged, knees brushing his ribs. “You look different when you’re not fighting me,” he said. She traced a finger along a seam in the blanket. “You look different when you’re not winning.” He turned his h

Theo started asking about “before” on a Tuesday that felt ordinary until it didn’t. He was drawing at the kitchen island after school, crayons scattered like colorful shrapnel, while Sophia chopped vegetables for dinner and Tristan leaned against the counter pretending to read emails. The boy held up a picture of three stick figures—one small, one with long hair, one tall with a crooked tie. “That’s us,” Theo said. “But why didn’t we always live here? Did I have another house with just you, Mom?” Sophia’s knife paused mid-carrot. Tristan’s phone screen went dark. “You were little,” she said carefully. “We lived in a smaller place. Then Uncle Tristan brought you home so you could have the tree house and the pool.” Theo nodded like that made perfect sense, but his next question landed heavier. “Did my real dad live there too? The one before Uncle Tristan?” The kitchen went still. Tristan’s jaw flexed. Sophia set the knife down and crouched beside Theo’s stool, brushing a dark cu

Tristan couldn’t sleep. Theo had gone to bed early after the school play, still buzzing about his cardboard crown, and Sophia had stayed—another night that wasn’t part of the original bargain, just something they both stopped naming. He left her curled in his bed and walked barefoot down the long hallway to the study, needing air that didn’t smell like her skin and his sheets. The top drawer of his desk was still slightly open from earlier. He meant to close it. Instead he pulled out the old black phone he hadn’t powered on in six years. The battery was dead. He plugged it in on instinct, telling himself it was nothing. The screen lit up after a minute. One unread text still sat at the top of the thread, timestamped the day she’d shown up at the gate. ‘I’m pregnant. It’s yours. Please call me.’ He stared at it until the letters blurred. Then he scrolled up. The messages before it were all from her—short, desperate, then silent after the gate. He had never answered. Had blocked

The Musk family estate dining room felt smaller with the truth sitting at the table like an uninvited guest. Eleanor had insisted on a “quiet family supper” the moment Tristan called. Candles flickered. Silver clinked. Theo had already been fed and tucked in upstairs by the nanny, none the wiser. Sophia sat beside Tristan in the same navy dress from the school play, back straight, hands folded so tightly her knuckles ached. Richard spoke first, voice low and measured. “You’re telling us the boy isn’t Ethan’s.” “He’s mine,” Tristan said. Flat. Final. “DNA would confirm it, but I don’t need the test. Sophia told me last night.” Eleanor’s wineglass stopped halfway to her lips. Her face went through a dozen emotions in three seconds—shock, fury, something that looked almost like grief. “You slept with your brother’s bride the night she ran from the altar. While he was dying on the roadside looking for her.” “Yes,” Tristan answered. Richard’s hand tightened around his knife. “And y