Her Birthday His Forbidden Desire novel Chapter 16

**Twilight Carves Destinies**
**by George Orwell**

**Chapter 6**

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The studio lights erupted into a blinding brilliance, illuminating every corner of the room. Sloane was jolted from her slumber, her eyes stinging painfully as they adjusted to the harsh glare.

She lay there, disoriented, in a room that was otherwise swallowed by darkness, save for the spotlight that bore down on her like a predator stalking its prey. A wave of horror washed over her as she realized her clothes had vanished, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

A chill coursed through her body, igniting a primal fear deep within her. In a frantic attempt to shield herself from the cold and the overwhelming sense of dread, she curled into a tight ball, her arms crossing protectively over her chest. But her feeble defenses did little to ward off the frigid air or the terror clawing at her insides. She felt utterly drained, as if all her strength had been siphoned away, rendering her incapable of even sitting up.

“Miss Sloane, you’re absolutely stunning. Especially through my lens,” a man’s voice drawled from behind the camera, low and dripping with amusement. The ominous black lens stared at her, a gaping maw that seemed to hunger for her fear.

“You sick bastard! I’m calling the cops! This is illegal!” she shouted, her voice trembling with rage and desperation.

“Oh? And who exactly do you plan to report? Me or your dear husband?” he replied, a mocking laugh escaping his lips, echoing in the hollow space around her. “This is my estate. All I requested was for you to be a model—an embodiment of art. I made a promise to Declan: I wouldn’t lay a finger on you, not beyond the shoot. But if you wanted more…” His voice trailed off, laced with a sinister suggestion. “I wouldn’t mind—”

“Get away from me!” she screamed, her voice cracking, tears spilling down her cheeks like rain. She felt like a carcass laid bare for slaughter, exposed on the soft backdrop, a marionette with its strings severed, left to dangle helplessly.

But the man persisted, his tone dripping with perverse delight. “Yes… perfect. Cry for me, sweetheart. You’re breathtaking when you cry.”

Each flash from the camera pierced her like daggers, carving deeper into her soul with every snap. Time lost its meaning, and reality blurred into a haze of anguish. Eventually, the relentless flashes ceased, the camera powering down with a soft whir, leaving her in a silence that felt deafening.

Sloane couldn’t recall how she managed to get dressed. The act of standing, of walking out of that room, was a blur—a surreal, disjointed experience.

She moved like a shattered marionette, each step weighed down by the heavy cloak of humiliation, dragging her through the metaphorical mud of her despair.

**Chapter 6**

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“I’ve shot thousands of women, but you’re the first one handed over by her own husband,” the photographer called out after her, his voice laced with cruel amusement, as if savoring her plight.

Her grip tightened on the doorknob, knuckles turning white. She understood now was not the moment for retaliation; not yet.

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