Her Birthday His Forbidden Desire novel Chapter 8

**Twilight Carves Destinies by George Orwell**

**Chapter 8**

When I finally stirred from the depths of unconsciousness, a stark, sterile hospital room greeted me. The air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic, and the rhythmic beeping of machines filled the silence. My eyes fluttered open, and there, beside my bed, was my childhood friend, Ryan Mitchell. His face lit up with an expression of sheer relief, as if I were a beacon of hope in his otherwise tumultuous world.

“Stella,” he breathed, his voice a mixture of joy and concern.

Yet, despite the warmth of his presence, I felt a violent tremor coursing through my body, a haunting reminder of the grotesque ordeal I had just endured. Images of those thugs, their hands groping and violating me, flashed through my mind like a relentless nightmare.

Without hesitation, Ryan enveloped me in a protective embrace, grounding me in that moment. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. They’re behind bars now,” he reassured me, his voice steady and calming.

“And those photos? I had someone handle that too. Everything taken at the auction has been digitally altered,” he added, his tone firm, as if trying to shield me from the reality of what had transpired.

A flicker of relief washed over me, just enough to ease the storm of emotions swirling within. It was only then that I noticed the incessant buzzing of my phone, a cacophony of notifications demanding my attention. Over a hundred messages from Ethan Rivers.

How utterly absurd.

This man, who had single-handedly orchestrated my downfall, now sought my forgiveness? The very thought made my stomach churn. Without a second thought, I blocked him, severing the last thread of connection to that dark chapter of my life.

Just as I settled into the quiet of the room, the televisions mounted high on the walls flickered to life, displaying the auction livestream as if possessed by some malevolent force. My heart sank as I saw not only my fabricated photos but also intimate images of other girls, their dignity stripped away for public consumption.

I turned to Ryan, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a lawyer…”

Understanding dawned on his face, and he squeezed my arm reassuringly. “I’ve been itching to take these underground organizations to court for ages. We’ll see results soon, I promise.”

On the screen, Ethan was a whirlwind of desperation, shouting frantically to halt the auction. He stormed onto the stage, a wild look in his eyes, as he shouted, “You can’t auction my wife’s photos! Return them to me this instant!”

The more he pleaded, the more my disgust festered.

**Chapter B**

6.78%

He was the architect of this catastrophe—what was the purpose of his pathetic theatrics now?

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