Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 51 - Chapitre 60

The five-minute break is a lie. I don't move from the chair, I can't. I just drape there like a discarded costume, my skin humming with the aftershocks of what she’s done. I watch Diane through the blur of my own sweat. She moves with a cold, terrifying efficiency, adjusting the standing lights until they are focused directly on the wall of mirrors. The glare is blinding, turning the studio into a bright, clinical cage."Get up, Jade," she says. It isn't an invitation. It is a cue, a cue to get to work. "The third act is about the eyes. A great actress doesn't just feel, she witnesses herself feeling. She detaches. She watches her own corruption like a hawk."I push myself off the chair, my legs feeling like they are made of cooling wax. I walk toward the mirrors, every step a struggle against the gravity of my own shame. I stop a foot away from the glass. The lights are so bright I can see every mark she has left on me, the red blossoming on my chest, the dampness on my thighs, and t

The iron gates of the Thorne estate open, they retreat, sliding back like the teeth of a giant trap. I grip the steering wheel of my sedan, my knuckles white against the black leather. Everything about this place is designed to make a person feel small. The drive up to the main house is lined with ancient oaks that block out the afternoon sun, casting the world into a permanent, expensive shadow.I am not here for a social visit. Two weeks ago, Julian came home and collapsed into his leather armchair, smelling of gin and failure. A series of bad investments and a sudden market shift have wiped us out. Our home is being foreclosed. The cars are being repossessed. Worst of all is the look in Julian’s eyes, a hollow, vacant stare that tells me he has no plan. He is a man who has been broken by the world, and he is looking to me to fix it. He is my husband, and I am loyal, but I am tired of being the only one with a spine.That is why I am here. I am going to see Dominic, Julian’s father.

The silk sheets feel like ice against my bare back, but the man hovering over me is a solid and hot. Dominic doesn’t just lie on top of me, he settles his entire weight with a deliberate, crushing force that makes me gasp.I can feel all of him. His hard cock, pressing between my thighs. His hard plain chest of muscles.His chest is a wall of solid, hot muscle, and as he pins my wrists above my head with one hand, I feel the sheer, terrifying scale of him. My hands feel tiny in his grip, my bones brittle against his strength.He doesn't move to satisfy himself immediately, like I expected. He just looks at me. His eyes are dark, scanning my face, my throat, and the way my breasts rise and fall with my panicked breathing."You’re shaking, Sarah," he murmurs. His voice is a low vibration I feel deep in my chest. "Is it the cold, or is it the fact that you know I can do whatever I want with you?""I... I don't know," I manage to whisper.He leans down, his face inches from mine. He smell

The library is a tomb of silence, the air smelling of old paper and the lingering scent of Dominic’s cigar. I stand by the massive wide desk, my skin prickling. Following his order has been the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I have ever done. Walking through the halls, passing the silent staff, knowing that I am bare beneath my silk skirt, makes every step feel like an act of defiance against my own morality.The door behind me opens. I don't turn. I don't need to. The heavy, measured thud of his footsteps tells me exactly who it was."Turn around, Sarah," Dominic commands.I turn. He is looking at me with that same cold, auditing gaze. He walks to the center of the room and sits in his oversized leather chair. He doesn't look tired. He looks energized by what he is unfolding."Did you follow my instruction?" he asks, his eyes dropping to the hem of my skirt."Yes, Sir," I whisper. To prove it, I reach down and bunch the fabric of my skirt in my hands, lifting it just enough.

The air in the gallery is thick with the smell of dust and old oil. I hold the grimoire in my hands, its leather cover cold and cracked against my palms. My flashlight flickers, casting long, shaky shadows over the rows of faces staring at me from their frames. They are all my ancestors, but only one of them matters.I stop in front of the largest portrait. Duke Julian. He stands in a field of dark velvet, his eyes so sharp they seem to cut through the canvas. He is beautiful in a way that feels dangerous. His lips are pulled into a slight, arrogant smirk, and his hand rests on the hilt of a sword as if he’s just waiting for a reason to draw it. The legends say he was a monster of a man, a hedonist who broke every law of God and nature. Looking at him now, my skin prickles. I’ve spent my life reading about men like him, trapped in a modern world that feels too clean, too quiet.I want to feel something real. Even if it ruins me.I open the book to the page marked with a black ribbon.