Todos os capítulos de HIS FORBIDDEN OBSESSION : Capítulo 21 - Capítulo 30

The drive to the Voss estate was silent.Elara sat in the passenger seat of Damien’s car with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching the familiar streets slide past. She had showered and changed into jeans and a soft sweater, but she still felt marked—by his mouth, his hands, the way he had spent the night claiming every inch of her like he was trying to rewrite the six days they had lost. Damien’s hand rested on her thigh the entire way, thumb stroking absently, as if he needed the contact to keep himself grounded.Neither of them spoke about what waited at the end of the drive.Victor opened the front door himself before they reached it.He looked older than he had a week ago. The usual easy warmth was gone, replaced by something measured and exhausted. His eyes moved from Damien’s face to Elara’s, then to the place where Damien’s hand rested at the small of her back. Something flickered there—pain, resignation, a reluctant understanding.“Come in,” he said.They followed hi

The story broke at 6:12 a.m. on a Thursday.By 7:00 a.m. it was everywhere.*Billionaire Damien Cross and the Daughter of His Best Friend — Age Gap Affair Exposed*The headline was accompanied by the same three photographs Julian had weaponized: the car, the elevator kiss, Elara leaving at dawn. Within an hour the piece had been picked up by larger sites. By mid-morning, variations of the story were circulating through every social circle that mattered in the city. The comments sections were predictable and vicious. Predatory. Midlife crisis. Gold digger. The usual cruelty dressed up as moral concern.Damien’s phone would not stop.Board members. Old colleagues. Two charity foundations requesting “clarification of his continued involvement.” Serena Vale sent a single text that simply read *I tried to warn you* before she blocked his number. Marcus, his right-hand man, called three times before Damien finally answered and gave the only instruction that mattered.“No comment. Not to any

The rain came down in sheets, the kind that turned the city streets into black mirrors and made every neon sign bleed across the pavement. Freya Lang stood outside the converted warehouse loft like she had no business being there, soaked to the bone, her leather jacket clinging to her like a second skin. Her dark hair was plastered to her cheeks, and the camera bag slung over her shoulder looked heavy enough to drag her under. She didn’t knock right away. Just stared at the heavy steel door, heart hammering harder than it had any right to. Two years. She hadn’t seen Rowan Kane in two fucking years, not since the last awkward conversation at her brother’s memorial where he’d looked at her like she was still sixteen and breakable. Like she was something sacred he’d sworn to keep untouched. She hated how much she still wanted to shatter that vow. Freya raised her fist and pounded on the door before she could talk herself out of it. It opened faster than she expected. Rowan filled th

Rowan closed the door harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the loft like a warning shot. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid under the black jacket. Whatever he’d learned from his contact had put murder in his eyes. “Tell me,” Freya said, unfolding from the couch. She didn’t bother pulling the hem of his t-shirt down. Let him look. He did. His gaze lingered on her thighs, the way the fabric brushed the tops of them, before he forced it back up to her face. “His name is Marcus Vale. Photographer. Mid-level gallery connections. History of obsession with models and artists. Two restraining orders in other cities that somehow disappeared. He’s good at covering tracks… but not good enough.” Freya’s stomach twisted, but she kept her voice steady. “So what now?” “Now I handle it.” Rowan shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. The motion pulled his shirt tight across his chest. “You stay here. No arguments. I’ve got people watching your apartment and your usual spo

The next few days blurred into a dangerous rhythm. Rowan left early and returned late, always with new scraps of information about Marcus Vale—bank records, gallery connections, a trail of obsessive messages that made Freya’s skin crawl. He barely touched her again after that night against the wall, as if distance could undo what his fingers had already claimed. But the tension never eased. It thickened every time their eyes met across the room, every time she caught him staring at her mouth or the sway of her hips. Freya played her part too well. She wore his clothes. She cooked in his kitchen wearing nothing but an apron just to watch his knuckles turn white around his coffee mug. She “accidentally” left the bathroom door open while she showered. Small rebellions. Tiny fires. Each one chipped away at his control until she could almost hear it cracking. Then the wife showed up. Victoria Kane arrived on Friday evening like a storm in designer heels. Tall, elegant, with sharp cheek