Page 67 of Sinful Obsession

Sleek chrome railings lined the edges, framing cushioned lounges and glass-topped tables under a retractable canopy.

A spiral staircase descended to lower decks. It was a floating palace, larger than any mansion I’d seen.

I watched Ethan’s jet take off, its roar fading into the night, leaving me alone with the waves and my fury.

My fists clenched, nails biting into my bloody palms,.

“Fuck you, Ethan!” I screamed, my voice swallowed by the endless sea.

I was free of his presence but trapped in his world, my memories whole but my heart shattered.

I carried Cassian’s child, a life forced upon me, and the weight of Elodie’s death clung to me like a shadow.

I sank to my knees, the deck cold against my skin, and vowed to protect my baby, no matter who came for us—Ethan, his father, or Cassian himself.

Chapter 11

CHARLOTTE

The days on the yacht blurred into a monotonous rhythm of solitude.

At first, the vastness of the floating mansion overwhelmed me—its decks sprawling like a labyrinth of luxury, and private suites that could rival any five-star hotel.

I wandered the halls, my footsteps echoing on the polished teak floors, trying to make sense of my new prison.

The air was always salty, the gentle rock of the waves a constant reminder that I was adrift, cut off from the world.

I unpacked the clothes Ethan had left—simple dresses, jeans, and tops in soft fabrics—and stocked the fridge with the pre-supplied meals, cooking for one in the expansive galley.

It was lonely, achingly so, the silence broken only by the distant cry of seagulls or the hum of the yacht’s generators.

I found myself hoping for the maid’s arrival, imagining a woman’s voice to fill the void, someone to talk to beyond my own reflections in the mirrored walls.

But as the sun set each evening, painting the sea in hues of orange and purple, no one came.

I adjusted, forcing myself into a routine—morning walks on the deck, afternoons reading in the library lounge, evenings staring at the stars from the helipad.

Yet the isolation gnawed at me, a quiet terror that Ethan’s promises were lies, that I’d been abandoned here forever.

On the fourth day, as I sat in the sun lounge sipping tea, trying to ignore the growing bump under my shirt, a distant whir cut through the calm.

My heart leaped—the sound of a chopper.

Finally, the maid.

I set down my cup, my hands trembling with a mix of relief and nerves, and hurried to the upper deck. The wind whipped my hair as I shielded my eyes against the sun, watching the chopper approach, larger than Ethan’s jet, its blades slicing the air with authority.

But as it landed on the helipad, my relief shattered.

No maid emerged. Instead, a group of men in dark suits stepped out, their postures rigid, eyes scanning the deck like predators on the hunt.

They lined up in formation, automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, exuding the kind of danger that made my stomach twist.

My breath caught, fear coiling in my chest. Were these Ethan’s father’s men? The Bellucci Clan, come to claim me as replacement for my mother? To drag me to Chicago for a fate worse than death—rape, prostitution, endless torment?

I backed away, my hand instinctively protecting my belly, my mind racing with escape routes, but the yacht was a trap, surrounded by endless ocean.

Then a powerful figure emerged from the chopper’s center, tall and commanding, his dark coat billowing in the wind.