All Chapters of SINFUL SALVATION : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The party was small, just a handful of people who had become family over the long, hard years.Marcus Bellamy came, his silver hair shining in the afternoon sun. Clara, the retired botanist, arrived with a massive bouquet of wildflowers. The nanny, Marie, brought her husband and their two young children. A few of Drake’s loyal men—the ones who had stood by him through the war—filled out the garden with their broad shoulders and quiet presence.The garden was alive.Leo ran through the roses, his laughter a bright, golden sound. He was chasing Marcus’s tie, which the old lawyer had undone and was swinging like a lure. Elara sat in the grass, her tiny hands filled with petals, stuffing them into her mouth until I gently pulled them away.“No, little star. We don’t eat the flowers.”She laughed, her gums gleaming.Drake stood by the grill, flipping burgers, a beer in his hand. He was wearing a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his forearms dusted with flour and charcoal. He look

Drake came home at 6 PM.I was in the living room, Elara on my lap, Leo building a spaceship out of blocks. The evening light filtered through the curtains, casting long, golden shadows across the floor.Drake walked in, his face a little pale, his jaw a little tight. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, even though it was warm.“Hi,” he said, his voice carefully casual.“Hi,” I said, frowning. “Why are you wearing a long-sleeved shirt in June?”He hesitated. Then, he said, “I have something to show you.”He walked over, sat down on the coffee table in front of me, and slowly rolled up his left sleeve.There, on the inside of his forearm, was a fresh tattoo.It was small. Simple. Elegant. Just a single word, written in a clean, graceful script.Mason.“I got it this afternoon,” he said, his voice quiet. “I wanted something that would never fade. Something that would always remind me of you, even if the worst happened. Even if I lost my memory. Even if I lost everything.”I stared at t

The nightmare came at 2:47 AM.I woke to the sound of Drake’s breath catching—a sharp, jagged gasp that cut through the silence of the bedroom. I turned, my hand reaching for him, and I found him rigid, his eyes closed, his body trembling.“Drake,” I said softly. “Drake, wake up. You’re safe.”But he wasn’t thrashing. He wasn’t screaming.He was crying.Tears streamed from beneath his closed lids, sliding silently down his temples. His lips moved, shaping words I couldn’t hear.I shook him gently.“Drake. Wake up.”His eyes flew open.They were not wild. Not panicked. They were wide—awestruck, glowing, filled with a light I had never seen before.“Mason,” he breathed. His voice was a rasp, but it was peaceful. “Mason, I saw her.”“Saw who?”“My mother.”I froze. “You saw her?”He nodded slowly, his tears still falling.“She was sitting in a garden,” he said. “A garden of roses. She was young, Mason. So young. And she was smiling. She looked at me, and she said—she said—“His voice bro

Drake’s birthday fell on a Tuesday.He didn’t make a fuss about it. He never did. He had spent most of his life ignoring his own birthday—it was just another day, another reminder of the childhood he had lost. But this year, I was determined to change that.I had spent weeks preparing.I had gathered photographs—old ones, new ones, forgotten ones. I had written letters, printed quotes, and glued them onto thick, cream-colored pages. I had tied the whole thing together with a soft leather binding, embossed with the words: Our Sanctuary.It was a scrapbook. A chronicle of everything we had been through, from the very beginning to the very now.At 7 PM, after the kids were asleep, I led Drake to the living room.“Sit,” I said, pointing to the sofa.He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to torture me?”“Worse,” I said. “I’m going to make you cry.”I handed him the scrapbook.He looked at it. His breath caught.“What is this?”“Open it.”He opened the first page.It was a photograph of the

The kids fell asleep early.Leo had run himself ragged in the garden, chasing fireflies until his tiny legs gave out. Elara had fallen asleep in Drake’s arms during her bedtime bottle, her soft breath warm against his chest. We tucked them in, kissed their foreheads, and closed their doors.The house fell silent.I walked to the porch, two glasses of lemonade in my hands. Drake was already there, sitting on the swing, his grey eyes fixed on the stars.I handed him a glass. He took it, his fingers brushing mine.“Thank you,” he said.I sat beside him, the swing creaking softly. We sipped our lemonade in silence, the night air warm and fragrant with lavender.“It’s quiet tonight,” he said.“It’s nice,” I said. “I like the quiet.”He turned to me. His grey eyes were soft, reflective.“Five years ago,” he said, “I was sitting in a penthouse, alone, staring at the city lights. I had everything—money, power, an empire. And I felt nothing.”“And now?” I asked softly.“Now,” he said, “I’m sit