Alle Kapitel von The Anatomy of Wanting Him: Kapitel 21 – Kapitel 30

The gallery was a minimalist space in the Le Marais district, all polished concrete and harsh track lighting that seemed designed to expose every flaw. It was packed with the elite of Paris—critics in silk scarves, heiresses with bored eyes, and collectors looking for the next big thrill. As we walked in, the hum of conversation died down for a fraction of a second. I felt the weight of Victor’s arm around my waist, a heavy shackle that signaled to the room exactly who I belonged to. I scanned the crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs, until I saw him.Severino was standing near the back, looking entirely out of place in a structured black blazer that looked too tight for his broad shoulders. He held a glass of champagne like it was a weapon. When his eyes met mine, the guilt and the defiance there nearly knocked me over. He looked like a man who had sold his soul to buy back his life, but realized too late that the currency was counterfeit."Go on," Victor whispered into my ear,

The apartment felt like it was holding its breath. Severino was gone before the first hint of gray light touched the Parisian rooftops, leaving behind nothing but the scent of salt and the frantic, lingering heat of his skin. I stood in the shower for twenty minutes, the water scalding, trying to scrub the feeling of being "owned" off my body. But Seven’s marks weren’t just on the surface; they were etched into my marrow. I dressed for the clinic in a high-collared navy dress, the fabric stiff and unforgiving. As I packed Charity’s lunch, my hands wouldn't stop trembling. Every time she looked at me with those wide, innocent eyes—eyes that mirrored my own—I felt a wave of nausea. She was the one thing in this world I had kept pure, and now, Victor Sinquerra had his eyes on the mother, and Seven had turned the woman into a masterpiece for the highest bidder. "Mom, you’re daydreaming again," Charity chirped, tugging at my sleeve. "The toast is burning." I jumped, the acrid smell of c

The phone call had been a desperate gamble—a bridge burned and rebuilt in the span of thirty seconds. I stood on the riverbank, the cold Parisian wind biting into my cheeks, feeling the shift in my own gravity. For years, I had navigated life by reacting: to the needs of my patients, the demands of my daughter, and the insatiable hunger of the men who watched me through a lens.But Victor Sinquerra had finally pushed the needle too far. He thought he was the architect of my ruin, but he forgot that a dermatologist knows exactly how deep a needle has to go to hit a nerve.I didn't go to Severino that night. I couldn't. His passion was a luxury I could no longer afford while the floor was falling out from under me. Instead, I drove home, the silence of the car echoing the hollow space in my chest. When I entered the apartment, the air felt thick with the remnants of Seven’s scent—the ghost of our frantic encounter against the door. I walked past the living room, past the sofa where we h

The air at Victor’s estate on the outskirts of Paris didn’t carry the city’s frantic energy. Out here, the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of damp earth, expensive floor wax, and the cold, metallic bite of raw power. As I stepped out of the car, the black silk of my gown hissed against my legs—a soft, rhythmic warning I chose to ignore. The USB drive was tucked into my clutch, a tiny silver bullet meant for the heart of this empire. But as I looked up at the stone gargoyles perched on the eaves, their frozen snarls felt prophetic. I didn't feel like a hunter. I felt like a sacrifice walking willingly onto the altar.Victor was waiting in the grand library. The room was a tomb of leather-bound books that served as wallpaper rather than literature. He didn’t stand when I walked in. He remained draped across a wingback chair, swirling a glass of liquid so dark it looked like blood under the flickering firelight."You’re late, Patricia," he said. His voice was a low, resonant hum tha

The scandal didn't start with a whisper; it started with a scream.I was at the clinic the next morning, my skin still feeling crawled-over from Victor’s touch, when the silence of the waiting room was shattered. My secretary, Ann, didn't buzz me; she burst into my office, her face the color of parchment."Doc... you need to see this. Now."She turned on the television mounted on the wall. My heart stopped. It wasn't the camming. It was worse.A tabloid news cycle was playing a loop of blurry but unmistakable photos. It wasn't Victor. It was Severino. The photos showed us at the Seine, his hands under my shirt. Another showed him climbing through my apartment window at 4:00 AM. But the headline was the killing blow: "PARISIAN DERMATOLOGIST OR PREDATOR? DR. PATRICIA STA.ANA’S SECRET AFFAIR WITH 22-YEAR-OLD ARTIST PROTÉGÉ."The "consistency" of my life—the respected doctor, the devoted mother—shattered in a single frame. The news anchor was talking about "unethical power dynamics," "gr