Historias cortas y novelas de Independence Forbidden Love

Loving Murphy Townsend was a secret Gemma Kirk could never share. Murphy was not just anyone—he was her uncle. She was the cherished rose he nurtured, but he was the forbidden love she could never confess to.

“Mom, Dan, I received an offer from an overseas university. I plan to take it.” Lucille Shaw’s voice was soft in the silent living room, like a single drop of water rippling across a still pond. Her mother Victoria exclaimed with joy, "Really? Congratulations! When are you planning to go?" “In Ten days.”

Benjamin Spencer took up the responsibility of raising Yvonne Johnson when her parents died during a holiday on the cruise. He took care of her, nurtured her, and gave her the care she needed. As time passed, Yvonne developed romantic feelings for Benjamin which he later found out. Astonished and dismayed, he decided to send her away. Five years later, she came back with a kid. What would be waiting for them in the future?

My boyfriend passed away from illness. Before he died, he asked me to look after his only younger brother—Callum Ressler. I put Callum through college, and helped him build his company from the ground up. Then one night, after a round of drinking at some work function, he ended up in bed with me. While I wrestled with what we were to each other, I noticed something on his office desk: a photo of me, framed neatly beside an engagement ring. My heart stirred. I pushed open the lounge door, ready to finally talk about us. But just as the door creaked open, a white camisole fell at my feet. I froze. Callum pulled the covers tightly around a shocked female assistant. "Diana, ever heard of knocking?" he snapped. Face pale, limbs suddenly uncoordinated, I started backing out. But the assistant's timid voice stopped me. "Diana… could you hand me my clothes?" I ignored the hostility behind her eyes, grabbed the garment, tossed it onto the bed, and left in a hurry. Once I stepped outside the company building, Callum called. "Diana, you should really stop barging into my room like that." I laughed and agreed. From that moment on, I never stepped into his world again.

When my mother first told me about the arranged marriage, Noah Parker lowered his head and kissed me, pulling me closer as we became tangled together. After a haze of passion, he carried me into the bathroom. Warm water streamed over my skin, but his words sent a chill straight through me, as if I'd fallen into an icy pit. "Go home. And don't come looking for me here again." I thought he'd seen the text and was jealous, so I quickly clung to him and swore, "I won't marry anyone else—" His smile stayed, but the heat in his eyes cooled into something distant. "But I'm getting married." He brushed back my messy hair, ignoring how my body trembled under his touch. "My fiancée is gentle and kind—nothing like you. She’d never throw herself at her foster brother like that. We've already set a date. If you keep clinging to me like this, she'll be upset with me."

When I opened my eyes again, I was pinned against the floor-to-ceiling window of the skyscraper by my stepbrother, Rocco. The man I had been infatuated with for a decade. He panted, his hot lips and tongue trailing along my collarbone as he murmured, "Don't go." In my past life, on the night I received my acceptance letter from London Business School, Rocco got blind drunk. Late that night, I gave in to his pleas for me to stay. I willingly gave myself to him. After a debauched night, his cherished fiancée, Clara, caught me walking out of his room the next morning, my clothes in disarray. She ran out in tears, her parting words ringing in the air, "I'll let you have each other." A month after she disappeared, the family search party found her engagement ring at the edge of a cliff. At the bottom of the cliff lay mangled remains, battered by the waves until they were unrecognizable. Rocco clutched that ring and didn't sleep all night. On the surface, he acted as if nothing had happened, even arranging a trip for me to Sicily, telling me to go and relax. The night I landed, I was kidnapped by assassins from a rival family. I screamed for him to pay the ransom, only to hear him give the order himself over the phone: "Don't make her death a quick one. The Costello princess? She's nothing but a damn liability. Torture her. Break every bone in her body. " "This is what she owes Clara." You like playing games, Rocco. But in this life, I refuse to play along.

After my parents died in battle saving the Alpha, Theron Blackwood, the Blackmane Pack took me in as an orphan. To repay them for saving his life, Alpha Theron laid down a rule: whoever became my mate would be the next Alpha. Growing up, I always believed that person would be Damian Blackwood. He was Alpha Theron's chosen heir and the man who had pulled me away from Redfang's silver blades twelve years earlier. I loved him, loved him enough to believe him without question, no matter what he said or did. But on the night of the blood moon, when the groom who looked exactly like Damian pushed back his hood, I instinctively reached for the mole at the corner of his eye. The ink wasn't dry yet. The mole smeared. I froze, realizing that the man at the altar, the man who had just exchanged vows with me, was not Damian. He was Damian's youngest uncle, Adrian Blackwood, identical to him except for the missing mole at the corner of his eye. Damian had thrown our mating contract, and me, to someone else. He was certain I loved him more than life itself, certain he could switch everything back before long. But this time, I was done bending to his will. So the first thing I did that night was wipe away the painted mole, along with twelve years of love.

I've been able to smell people's emotions since I was a child. Affection smells sweet. Sorrow smells bitter. Disgust and anger smell spicy. I'd been with Bruce Dawson for ten years, and the scent that clung to him had never changed. It was always sweet, cloyingly so. The only thing that ever shifted was the day my older sister left the country. That night, when he came home late, his scent had turned bitter enough to make me frown. But I never connected the two. Not until three years later, when my sister came home to get married. That day, his scent was bitter laced with something spicy, a mix I'd never smelled on him before. It struck me as strange. Without thinking, I followed him when he stepped away from the reception, and outside in the stairwell I heard his voice, low and pained. "That's enough, Jasmine! You'd rather marry a stranger just to make me give up on you?" My sister's voice cracked as she cried back at him. "What else can I do? You're my brother-in-law. Rosalie is my sister. We can't keep doing this to her!" I froze in the doorway, my whole body shaking with shock, my heart wrung out like a fist closing around it until I couldn't breathe. That was when my phone lit up with a reminder: my wedding to Bruce was next week. I stood there blank for two seconds. Then I called the hotel and canceled the wedding.