Callahan

Cillian sat behind the dark mahogany desk, black sleeves rolled to his forearms, a glass of vodka turning slowly in his hand.

Vodka.
Cillian never drank vodka.

Something was wrong.

His eyes finally lifted to me.

No warmth.
No smile.
No trace of the man I loved.

"Are you sleeping with my son?"

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

*

Shea thought marrying Cillian Blackwell would finally make her feel complete.

Older, powerful, unreadable, and devastatingly controlled-Cillian Blackwell was everything she had ever wanted. A man who absorbed everything and revealed nothing.

Then she met his son.

And something inside her began to rot.

Callahan Blackwell was midnight-blue eyes and sharp edges. The kind of man who felt like the ocean on a storm-dark night-beautiful, deep, and dangerous enough to drown in.

What begins as tension slowly becomes something far more poisonous.

Every thought stained. Every touch tainted. Every desire contaminated.

The lines between virtue and the forbidden blur beneath the weight of the Blackwell world-where silence is currency and devotion comes at a cost.

And the life she once dreamed of having slowly tightens around her throat. Beautifully.

What follows is not a love story.

It is the slow corrosion of morality, desire, and obsession-and the terrifying realization that some forms of ruin feel almost indistinguishable from love.