Her Birthday His Forbidden Desire novel Chapter 1

**Twilight Carves Destinies by George Orwell**

**Chapter 1**

Ethan Rivers, the photographer whose name echoed in the minds of every aspiring female model, had once again claimed the top spot. His reputation was legendary, and countless women dreamed of spending intimate moments with him. Yet, despite his fame, he had never once turned his lens toward me.

When reporters inquired about his preferences, his eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and protectiveness. “My wife is for my eyes only. Everyone else can forget about it,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for doubt. It was a sentiment that should have filled me with joy, but instead, it left an unsettling ache deep within me.

On the morning of my birthday, excitement bubbled within me as I slipped into a delicate lace nightgown. The fabric clung to my skin, and for the first time, I dared to suggest that he capture this moment with his camera. The anticipation danced in the air, but moments later, the silence was deafening. No click of the shutter broke the stillness; only Ethan’s rigid expression filled the space between us.

“Let’s forget about it,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

My heart sank, confusion swirling in my mind. “What’s wrong?” I asked, searching his face for answers.

“It’s just…” he offered a dry smile, one that seemed to mask deeper emotions. “Photography is work. I don’t want to mix business with pleasure.”

With those words, he returned the camera to its resting place, his back to me as he slipped into the bathroom. The door to the darkroom stood ajar, a crimson glow spilling into the hallway like a warning.

Curiosity tugged at me, and I stepped inside, my heart racing as I spotted a photo album on the workstation. Its cover read “Victoria White’s Private Diary,” and my breath caught in my throat as I opened it. The pages unfolded to reveal a collection of photographs that showcased every pose imaginable.

Shock washed over me like a cold wave, each image striking me with the force of a bullet to the heart. The woman captured in those photographs was playful, seductive, and at times, achingly innocent. Each frame shattered the boundaries Ethan had so resolutely claimed to uphold.

He had assured the media, looking directly at me, “I only do commercial modeling shoots. Don’t contact me for private sessions—I have strict boundaries.” Yet here was the evidence of his hypocrisy, the girl before me unabashedly flaunting her curves, her beauty laid bare for him.

Each photograph felt like a resounding slap, a brutal awakening to the reality I had chosen to ignore. Slowly, I set the album down, feeling utterly depleted, as if all the energy had been drained from my body.

When Ethan finally emerged from the bathroom, his expression shifted from shock to guilt as he took in the scene before him. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came forth.

After a tense silence, I found the strength to break the stillness. “Who is this girl?” My voice was unnaturally calm, a façade hiding the tempest within.

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