Todos os capítulos de Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband : Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

TRISTAN'S POV The hydraulic hiss of the jet stairs lowers with a heavy thud, cutting through the humid air of the County tarmac. Three weeks in Monaco left the air in my lungs feeling too clean, too sterile; I need the grit of home. I adjust my cufflinks, the platinum catching the harsh glare of the sun, and step down. The Italian leather of my oxfords clicks against the metal stairs, then the concrete. The heat hits me instantly—a wet, heavy blanket that smells of jet fuel and impending rain. Two shadows detach from the black SUV waiting at the edge of the private terminal. Kael and Jax. They move with the synchronized precision of trained Dobermans, their suits cut sharp enough to slice glass. They reach me just as my feet hit the pavement. "Welcome back, Mr. Sinclair," Kael says, his voice a low rumble. He extends a hand for my briefcase before I can even offer it. Jax flanks my left, scanning the perimeter like he expects a sniper in the hangar. "Good to be back," I mutter

Three months later. The rain is a relentless, cold deluge, soaking through my black dress and clinging to my skin like a second, icy layer. I stand under a black umbrella, holding the handle so tight my knuckles ache. I don’t know who gave it to me; it was just there, thrust into my hand by a faceless mourner. I haven't moved since they lowered the casket. The wet mud sucks at the heels of my shoes, anchoring me to this spot. I stare at the fresh mound of earth, waiting for something to break. I wait for the scream to tear from my throat, for the tears to finally come, but there is nothing. Just a hollow, echoing silence in my chest. I never knew what it felt like to be truly alone, to lose the one person who stayed when my mother left. Now I know. It feels like standing in the rain while the rest of the world is dry. The burial ceremony is over. The mourners have drifted away, their black coats blending into the gray mist. But I remain. "Anna." The voice cuts through the

I look past her, following her gaze. Sitting at the table, a glass of white wine in front of her, is a woman dressed in a sharp black blazer and silk blouse. She looks older, but the makeup is expertly applied, hiding the wrinkles. Her hair is styled in expensive waves, cascading over her shoulders. My breath hitches in my throat. The room spins. Valeria. She looks up from her menu, her eyes locking onto mine. A small, knowing smile curves her red lips. "Hello, Anastasia," she says smoothly, her voice like polished glass. "Please, sit down. I've ordered the wine." My eyes dart to Lila, who looks apologetic, silently pleading with me not to make a scene. I don't say a word. I just turn and walk out, my boots echoing against the polished floor, the sound too loud in the quiet room. Lila follows, grabbing my arm. "Ana, please—" I yank my arm away, but she grabs me again, her fingers digging in. "Ana, please listen to me." I stop, turning my face away, staring at a poste

A sharp, rhythmic tapping against her shoulder blade pulls Anastasia from the heavy, suffocating dark of sleep. Her head snaps up, neck cracking, the disorientation of the plane cabin swimming into focus. A flight attendant stands over her, smile practiced and bright, informing her they have landed in Italy. Anastasia blinks, the grit of sleep crusting her eyes. She doesn't even remember drifting off. The last thing she recalls is the low hum of the engines and her mother, Valeria, sitting across from her, lips parted to say something about Anna’s father—a subject usually forbidden—before a ringtone sliced through the tension. Valeria had excused herself, leaving Anna alone with the hum and her own spiraling thoughts. Now, she stumbles out of the private jet, the Italian sun blasting her face like a physical weight. It’s a harsh, intrusive brightness that forces her to squint. A staff member gestures for her to follow, reaching out to take her heavy designer bag. She complies mech

Three sharp raps against the heavy wood of the door drag me out of a sleep so deep it feels like anesthesia. I groan, the sound vibrating in my chest, and blindly fumble for the phone on the nightstand. The screen blares 7:00 a.m. in harsh white light. "Who is it?" I croak, my voice thick and dry. "Mrs. Sinclair requested your presence downstairs for breakfast, Miss," a muffled voice calls from the hallway. The maid. I don't even know her name yet. "I'll be there," I manage to mumble before the silence returns. I push the duvet away and sit up, stretching my arms high above my head. My spine pops in three places, a satisfying chain reaction. I yawn, my jaw cracking, and run a hand through my hair—it’s a tangled, rough bird's nest on top of my head. God, this bed is ridiculous. The mattress swallows me whole, the Egyptian cotton sheets are softer than a cloud, and for the first time in months, I didn’t wake up with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. I slept like the dead. The