Semua Bab PAINTED IN SIN: Bab 71 - Bab 80

They stayed joined for several long minutes. Quentin’s forehead rested against Verity’s. His breathing was still uneven. One of his hands moved slowly up and down her back in a steady rhythm that felt almost soothing after everything he had just done to her body. Verity’s legs remained wrapped loosely around him. She could feel him still hard inside her, as if he had no intention of leaving her body just yet. When he finally pulled out, she made a soft sound of loss. Quentin looked down at the space between them — at the evidence of what they had just shared. Something dark and satisfied moved through his eyes. He reached for a clean cloth from the nearby shelf and gently cleaned her thighs. The care in his touch contrasted sharply with how roughly he had taken her only moments earlier. Then he lifted her off the table. Verity’s legs felt weak. She steadied herself against his chest. Quentin did not give her time to fully recover. He turned her around so she faced the large glass

Verity woke the next morning to the faint sound of movement inside the bedroom. For a moment, she remained beneath the covers with her eyes closed, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. Then she heard the quiet slide of a zipper and opened her eyes. Quentin stood near the luggage stand, already dressed. The sight immediately told her something had changed. His dark trousers and crisp shirt were nothing like what he usually wore during their relaxed mornings in Malibu. His overnight bag sat open beside him, and his phone rested on the dresser while he folded another shirt into the case. Verity pushed herself upright. “You’re packing?” Quentin turned. There was hesitation in his expression, and she knew before he spoke that she was not going to like whatever came next. “I need to return to New York.” Her sleepiness disappeared. “Today?” “This morning.” Verity stared at him. “I thought we were staying here.” “So did I.” He walked toward the bed and sat beside her. “I r

Near the evening time, the locked room had become impossible for Verity to ignore. She spent almost an hour in her studio, telling herself that painting would clear her head. Instead, she stood before a blank canvas with a brush in her hand and accomplished nothing. Every few minutes, her attention drifted toward the hallway outside. Another locked room. Malibu had one. New York had one. And according to the housekeeper, Quentin had kept this particular room private for almost six years. Verity finally placed the brush down. “This is ridiculous.” She knew what the sensible thing would be. It would be, “wait for Quentin.” To ask him. To let her husband explain whatever he was keeping from her. But sensible thoughts were becoming difficult to hold onto when everything else about the day felt wrong. Quentin still had not called. Verity checked her phone again, and nothing. There were no messages, no missed calls. She stared at the screen longer than necessary before dr

Chapter 77: The Confession Quentin returned to the triplex penthouse a little after two in the morning. The situation at Eclipse had taken longer than expected, but at least it was under control for now. He stepped out of the private elevator already thinking about Verity. He knew she would probably be asleep, but that did not stop him from wanting to see her. After the way they parted earlier, he spent most of the evening wondering what was going through her mind. Something was wrong when he left. He knew his wife well enough to recognize when she was hiding behind silence. Quentin loosened his tie as he crossed the living room, but the moment he reached the upper floor, he stopped. The hallway light was on. So was the light inside a room that should have been locked. His entire body went still. For several seconds, Quentin stared at the open door. No one entered that room. Not the housekeepers. Not his private staff without permission. Not even Theodore knew everything h

Verity spent most of the morning staring at the framed portrait resting against the wall of her studio. She painted it weeks ago. Long before she entered Quentin’s secret gallery. Long before she discovered seven years of paintings, sketches, and memories carefully hidden behind a locked door. At the time, she did not fully understand why she kept returning to the canvas whenever Quentin was away. She only knew that she wanted to paint him. Not the Quentin Langford the public knew. Not the billionaire chairman dressed in perfectly tailored suits with an expression capable of making an entire boardroom uncomfortable. She painted the man she saw when no one else was watching. Quentin sat casually beside a large window, one arm resting across the chair while sunlight touched the side of his face. His collar was open, his expression relaxed, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. Verity captured him the way she remembered him looking at her one quiet evening when