Her Birthday His Forbidden Desire novel Chapter 18

**Twilight Carves Destinies by George Orwell**

**Chapter 8**

Sloane felt an unsettling shift in the atmosphere, a prickling sensation that urged her to retreat. “I refuse to play along with this charade,” she declared, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside her.

But before she could take another step back, a young trust fund brat rose from the circle, a glint of mischief in their eyes. Without a moment’s hesitation, they swung their hand and delivered a sharp slap across her cheek.

Laughter erupted like a wave crashing over the gathered crowd. “She deserved that! That’s what you get for slapping Vivienne!” someone jeered, the mockery ringing in her ears.

Vivienne, with her sweet, innocent facade, merely smiled, the kind of smile that could cut through steel. “Oh, Sloane, don’t take it personally. We’re all just having a bit of fun,” she chimed, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

In stark contrast, Declan remained a silent observer, his demeanor cold and detached. He simply sat there, watching the scene unfold as if it were a mere spectacle. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he spun the bottle once more, the glass glinting under the dim lights.

“Keep going,” he urged, his voice devoid of emotion.

That was the moment clarity struck Sloane like a thunderbolt.

The kneeling she had endured in the rain had been merely the prelude. This was her true punishment. For the slap she had delivered to Vivienne, she was now forced to repay it tenfold, all while under the scrutinizing gaze of her peers.

The bottle seemed to conspire against her, pointing in her direction again and again.

Ten times in total. Each slap landed with a resounding crack, echoing through her skull. By the time the final hit connected, the guards released their grip on her arms, and she staggered, her body reeling from the onslaught.

Her ears rang like church bells, and pain throbbed through her swollen face. Slowly, she raised her hand to her cheek, feeling the heat radiate from the angry red mark.

“Declan, remember you promised to bake me a birthday cake tonight?” Vivienne suddenly cooed, her voice sugary and light.

Declan offered her a gentle smile, rising from his seat. “Just wait here. I’ll be right back from the kitchen,” he replied, his tone almost affectionate.

But before he walked away, he turned, fixing Sloane with a long, inscrutable gaze. Then, without uttering another word, he departed, leaving her alone in the aftermath of humiliation.

As soon as he was out of sight, Vivienne dropped her act of fragility, her true self emerging like a serpent shedding its skin.

“So, Sloane,” she taunted, her voice dripping with venom, “how did that feel? Did you enjoy the spotlight while being slapped in front of everyone?”

Sloane chose to ignore her barbs, a faint, indifferent smile playing on her lips as she turned to make her exit.

She understood one thing all too well—this pampered heiress, intoxicated by her small triumph, would undoubtedly follow her.

And just as she had anticipated, the sharp sound of Vivienne’s heels echoed behind her as she ascended to the upper deck of the yacht.

“Vivienne,” Sloane called out, pausing at the railing, her heart racing. “You really believe you’ve won, don’t you?”

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