Her Birthday His Forbidden Desire novel Chapter 21

**Twilight Carves Destinies by George Orwell 21**
**Chapter 11**

Declan’s voice dripped with disdain, and in that instant, Vivienne felt her composure shatter like glass.

“Why would you say that?” she exclaimed, her voice trembling as tears began to pool in her eyes. “Declan, you know I love you.”

“Your name is still etched into my heart, Vivienne. I’ve confessed my feelings to you more times than I can count. I tried to leap from a building for you! I was prepared to die in that car crash if it meant saving you! That steel rod pierced my heart, remember? This scar—it’s ugly, I know. But I’ve never regretted it.”

With a sudden rush of emotion, she climbed off the bed and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, as if trying to anchor herself to him. “Last night… was my first time. I gave it to you. Please, don’t treat me like this. I can’t bear it. I’d rather have perished that night in the accident than endure this agony now.”

Her tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt, a silent testament to her pain.

Once again, a tidal wave of guilt crashed over him, dragging him down into its depths. His throat tightened, and for a fleeting moment, he found himself frozen, unable to move. “…There better not be a next time. That’s my final line.”

“Get some more sleep. I’ll stay a few more days,” he murmured, turning to lift her gently, cradling her as he laid her back down in bed.

As Vivienne’s breathing steadied into the rhythm of sleep, Declan stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air wrapping around him like a shroud. He lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl and rise, blurring the horizon, yet it did nothing to obscure the haunting image in his mind—Sloane’s tear-filled eyes, a reflection of hurt he had caused.

He tried calling her again, but the silence was deafening, just like before. The guilt he had bottled up over the past few days surged forth, a relentless tide crashing through his chest.

Finally, surrendering to the weight of his remorse, he began typing furiously on his phone: [Sloane, I’m sorry. When you see this, please call me back. I know I’ve done terrible things lately, but I’ve only ever loved you. From the very beginning, it’s always been you.]

He continued, [Three days from now, let’s go to Finland. You’ve always wanted to see the northern lights, remember? I’ll take care of everything by then. No more chaos—just us, like before.]

After sending the message, he wasted no time in contacting his assistant to book the flights to Finland.

“Oh, and there’s a jewelry auction in Bayport in two days. Secure that ruby necklace for me—whatever it takes,” he instructed, determination lacing his words.

He was meticulous in his directives. Sloane had always adored rubies, and he was resolute in making amends, promising to shower her with time and all the things she cherished.

But three long days passed, and not a single call from her pierced the silence.

Anxiety coiled tighter in his chest, a serpent of dread. He spent those days with Vivienne, yet his heart was a hollow shell, echoing with emptiness. He took her shopping, swiping his card without a second thought, even renting out an entire amusement park for her to create her birthday photobook.

On the third night, after a lavish dinner at a revolving rooftop restaurant, Declan pulled out a folder and placed it deliberately on the table, the weight of his words heavy in the air.

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