Book Cover By: @writermarie__
Five years after a night of forbidden passion, a powerful mafia Don's violent pursuit of a debt leads him back to the enigmatic dancer unaware that she holds a secret that could shatter his empire: his heir.
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Lyric
The following week crawled by, each day a torturous exercise in avoidance. Tristian was a ghost in his own house, a looming, silent presence that only materialized for Trevor.
He'd ruffle his hair, ask about his day, his voice softening to a near-tender timbre I hadn't heard directed at me since... well, since before the mall incident. Allen was even scarcer. He'd perfected the art of being unseen, a feat I admired even as I seethed at him. He knew he was in the doghouse, knew my simmering rage was aimed squarely at him, and he was doing everything in his power to stay out of the splash zone.
Trevor was oblivious to the tension that hung thicker than the velvet drapes in the living room. He was happy, content in the knowledge that he had a father, even if that father was a remote and often absent figure. And that, more than anything, gnawed at me. I'd given him something he desperately wanted, but at what cost?
Days bled into nights, filled with restless sleep and the gnawing feeling that I was walking on eggshells. I tried to justify my actions to myself, replaying the scene in my head, dissecting every word, every glance. I was protecting my son, wasn't I?
From Tristian, from Allen, from the whole damn mess they were embroiled in. But the truth, a bitter pill I couldn't swallow, was that I was also protecting myself. From the undeniable pull I felt towards Tristian, a pull that threatened to unravel the carefully constructed wall I'd built around my heart.
My mind was finally made up after I witnessed something so disgusting.
Driven by a need to understand what I was up against, I found myself drawn to Tristian's office one night. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness hinting at the secrets within. I told myself I was just curious, that I needed to know what he was planning, who he was talking to. But deep down, I knew it was more than that.
The faint sound of moaning drifted from the crack in the door. My breath hitched. Curiosity, hot and ugly, clawed at me. I pressed my ear closer, the sound becoming clearer, more explicit.
I should have walked away. I should have turned around and pretended I hadn't heard anything. But my feet were rooted to the spot, my hand reaching out to widen the crack just a fraction.
The scene that unfolded before me was brutal, raw, and shockingly devoid of tenderness. Tristian was leaning against his large mahogany desk, his dark hair disheveled, his face contorted in a mask of anger rather than pleasure. A woman, whose face was hidden from my view, was pinned beneath him, her body arching in a desperate rhythm.
He wasn't kissing her, wasn't whispering sweet nothings. He was using her, his movements harsh and punishing. It was a power play, a demonstration of dominance, and it left me feeling cold and strangely sick.
I watched for a few more agonizing seconds, the moans and the heavy breathing filling the silence. Then, I snapped. I couldn't bear to witness any more.
