Forbidden By Her Sister's Husband

Her back hit the cold wall before she could even breathe. Damian’s hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. His voice was a low, trembling threat.

“Do you feel what you’re doing to me, Aria?”

Her heartbeat stuttered. “You’re my sister’s husband…”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “That’s why I shouldn’t want you.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing her lips.

“But wanting you is all I’ve done… every damn day.”

***

Aria Hale has spent her life unseen, ignored by her father, used by her sister, and taught that her feelings don’t matter. But everything changes the day she moves into her sister’s penthouse…

the same home ruled by Damian Cross.

Thirty-six. Billionaire. Cold.

Married to her sister.

And quietly, obsessively fixated on Aria.

He watches her too long.

Stands too close.

Speaks too softly for a man with no heart.

He looks at her like she’s the only warmth in his frozen world.

Aria tries to avoid him.

Tries to reject him.

Tries to pretend she doesn’t feel the air tighten when he enters a room.

But Damian does not let go.

He corners.

He interferes.

He destroys anything that dares approach her.

Because wrong or not, forbidden or not—

he has already decided she belongs to him.

And when the truth behind his obsession finally comes to light…

Aria will learn that some desires, once awakened, are impossible to escape.

The silence in the Hale estate wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy, like water filling a room, rising slowly until it pressed against your chest and made it hard to breathe.

Aria Hale woke up to that silence, just as she did every morning.

She lay still for a moment, her eyes tracing the familiar crack in the ceiling of her bedroom. The room was small, tucked away in the north wing of the house, far from the master suite and far from Cassandra’s sprawling quarters. It was perpetually cold here, the kind of stale, artificial chill that settled into the floorboards—the result of massive stone walls and a house that never seemed to let the summer sun in. It seeped through the thin rug she had bought with her own pocket money three years ago.

The light filtering through the sheer curtains was gray and weak, signaling another overcast morning.

Aria pushed the duvet back. The cool morning air brushed against her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She didn't shiver. She had learned a long time ago that reacting to the cold didn't make it warmer; it just made you more aware of your own discomfort.

She moved through her morning routine with the efficiency of someone who didn't want to be noticed. She showered quickly, the water lukewarm because the hot water tank always prioritized the main bathrooms first. She dressed in a simple beige long-sleeved top and faded jeans, clothes that allowed her to blend into the background, to become part of the furniture.

That was her role, after all. The