All Chapters of Forbidden Agreements: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

"Don't you know that is my favorite urn, Moreau?" There was no choice. There was a crisis behind the exceptional decision that had been floated as an act of determination. The initial question the woman had felt like a desire to give Moreau a hard-on. That Barbara might have gotten. Vigilance rose on par with the eye contact between them. Moreau knew she had to be careful, but trying to brush off her mother's anger was futile. There was no guarantee that the woman would make the right choice. Moreau could only watch as Barbara suddenly pointed out something. The woman knew all too well how much the object in her hand meant to Moreau. "What do you want to do, Mom?" Moreau asked with a wary tone. Another object in Barbara's hand confirmed something. Scissors. She knew this was going to be the brutal part of the decision to come.

"I apologize for the mess, Miss. You didn't have to do this to protect me. If I get fired, that's probably what I deserve. Not you. It wasn't your things that were taken and damaged."  Moreau had never expected Caroline to catch up as soon as the woman had cleared the scattered jars. She didn't look Caroline in the face, but the guilt behind the woman's voice was unmistakable. This wasn't right. The mess started because she was chasing after Troyas. If only Moreau hadn't been enthusiastic enough to take Troyas for a spin. That shocking scene would never have happened. Barbara's urn wouldn't have been giggled at, dropped, broken, messed up, and most importantly, Moreau wouldn't have found her father's gift jacket to be targeted, helpless, and perforated in one spot with a—for her—horrible hole.  "It's okay, Caroline. I don't blame you, but can you leave me alone? I don't want to be disturbed."  

"Your habit, Amiga. Always not being careful." Juan's statement seemed deliberately worded so that Anitta would never take her eyes off the scratch on Moreau's leg. Something had gotten out of hand. She'd been thinking too much about how to ask for a half-day pass to fulfill Abihirt's words this morning, and just now... unexpectedly, Moreau had flopped over and was knocked several meters off the ice sheet. Not entirely an obstacle. Things didn't have to be exaggerated. They were facing a slight advantage regarding the break time. For now, Moreau could take a few moments of respite, while Juan needed to help her clean up the remaining dried blood, which would occasionally make Moreau shy away when the pain struck, as if eating at the sensitive nerves in her body. She held Juan's hand. Hoping the man was a little concerned, but the crisis within Juan seemed to hold a certain passion while watching her pain reaction. The man mustered up a feeling of satisfaction, a silent smirk, ex

Ever since setting foot in the studio. Moreau never took her eyes off the few clothes hanging on the poles and the various devices angled everywhere as a man led her and Abihirt through the various rooms. They would be introduced directly to the owner of the studio, or not really: Abihirt was certainly not involved. Only Moreau, as the man obviously already knew who he was meeting. The bit of information that splashed across the top of her head gave Moreau a slight affirmation that 'perhaps' Abihirt was being too bold in his defiance. She didn't know what the man was thinking, but she shouldn't have allowed them to be linked together with one forbidden person. "So you know Mrs. Smift is my mother's rival in the working world. Why still bring me to this place?"

Several people were making preparations in a room full of draping curtains. Faintly, Moreau knew; there would be a photo shoot today. Models were on their way, then later, once the process was complete, they would begin. There was no denying that she was a little intrigued to observe more. Sometimes would quietly peek in the distance. Asking, what does it look like, and has the model arrived at the destination? Moreau was a little impatient. Quite curious. Could it be fun to be a clothing model? Perhaps it would be like that. There would be a wide variety of fabric stitches, whatever, that she would want to try on—try wearing, then standing in front of the camera to be immortalized in digital images, or if printed on the cover of a magazine... didn't sound too bad either. Moreau snorted faintly. She was creating an overreaching thought, while her instincts would probably say no.