Her Birthday His Forbidden Desire novel Chapter 17

**Twilight Carves Destinies by George Orwell**

**Chapter 7**

The clock had long struck midnight when Sloane finally made her way back to the estate, her figure drenched from the relentless downpour. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth, mingling with the faint aroma of the birthday cake that awaited on the coffee table. Candles, once flickering with life, now lay extinguished, their wax remnants a testament to the celebration that had taken place in her absence.

In the living room, Declan lounged on the couch, his laughter mingling with Vivienne’s as they tore through a pile of brightly wrapped presents. The sight of them together, enveloped in joy, sent a sharp pang through Sloane’s heart.

As soon as Declan’s gaze fell upon her, his laughter faded into a startled silence. “Sloane… I arranged for a car to pick you up, didn’t I?” His voice was laced with concern as he leapt to his feet, grabbing a towel from the arm of the couch, eager to help her dry off.

Yet, Sloane stood there, her gaze icy and unwavering, like a storm brewing on the horizon. She raised her hand, and with a swift, deliberate motion, she brought it down hard across his face.

In that instant, a figure darted forward, positioning themselves protectively in front of Declan.

Smack!

Vivienne gasped, a look of shock etching her features as she clutched her cheek.

“Ah!” The imprint of Sloane’s hand blossomed crimson against Vivienne’s skin as she crumpled into Declan’s arms, tears pooling in her eyes, making her appear fragile and vulnerable.

“Vivienne! Are you alright?” Declan’s voice was frantic, his fingers trembling as they brushed against her face, desperate to assess the damage.

His fingertips lingered on the swelling bruise, and in that moment, a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossed his features. But before he could fully process it, Vivienne reached out, her voice thick with emotion. “Don’t blame Declan. If you’re angry, if you need to lash out at someone—then let it be me.”

What a heart-wrenching display, Sloane thought bitterly, her heart hardening further.

Declan’s momentary guilt shattered like glass. He swept Vivienne into his arms, his voice soothing as he murmured, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll handle this.”

Then, with a piercing glare, he turned to Sloane, his demeanor shifting to one of icy resolve. “Those photos—they’ll be auctioned in six months. I don’t care if it costs a billion or ten billion; I will buy every single one. But Sloane, you crossed a line when you raised your hand to Vivienne.”

Six months? A chilling realization gripped Sloane. By then, she might not even be alive.

A hollow, joyless laugh escaped her lips as she began to ascend the stairs, her heart heavy with despair. She heard Declan’s final command echoing behind her. “If you don’t want to be detained for assault tonight, get out to the courtyard and get on your knees.”

The rain intensified, falling in sheets that blurred the boundaries of the night.

Upon her return to the estate, a sleek black SUV awaited her at the curb.

“Ma’am, Mr. Hawthorne requested that I escort you to Miss Vivienne’s birthday party,” the driver informed her, his voice devoid of any warmth.

She placed one copy of the divorce papers on the bed in the master suite, then retrieved her long-forgotten wedding ring, the weight of it heavy against her palm as she followed the guard to the car.

The yacht’s deck sparkled with twinkling fairy lights, casting a magical glow over the scene. Gifts towered like mountains, and a champagne tower glimmered under the spotlights, promising a night of indulgence. Tuxedo-clad waitstaff glided through the crowd, their smiles polished and rehearsed.

“Seriously, Declan, you’ve outdone yourself. Vivienne’s your girl, but she can’t even sip a glass of wine without you hovering around her!” someone remarked, laughter bubbling over the sounds of the party.

As Sloane stepped onto the deck, the atmosphere shifted. The bottle-spinning game at the long dining table came to a halt, the bottle slowing to a stop—pointing directly at her.

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

“Well, well. Would you look at that? The bottle’s spoken—time for a little punishment.”

Sloane felt the weight of their gazes, the laughter ringing in her ears like a cruel symphony, and in that moment, she knew she would no longer be a pawn in their game.