All Chapters of His Sinful Desire: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

RAFFAEL DAYS LATER The contract in front of me blurred as I tried, for the fifth time, to focus on it. Numbers and clauses swirled on the page, meaningless. My pen hovered above the dotted line, but my hand didn’t move. It wasn’t the deal that bothered me—it was solid, lucrative even. Yet, no matter how much I told myself to pay attention, my thoughts drifted. To her. And him. I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. Jordan. A sudden regular patron of the club. The guy’s name was an itch I couldn’t scratch. I’d noticed he had always been asking for Erica. Always lingering. He spent generously, which, on paper, should’ve pleased me. The whole point of this business was to rake in cash, and she was doing exactly that. A loyal, generous client like him was a jackpot. But every time I saw him with her, I felt the same sharp pang of irritation. He looked at her like he knew her, like he had the right to laugh with her, to sit too close and touch her hand. And she didn’t stop him.

ERICA The music thumped through the walls of the private lounge, muffled but persistent, a constant reminder of where I was. The air inside was thick, dimly lit by the faint glow of the neon signs outside. I sat across from Jordan, my only friend, the only person who felt like a piece of my past in a world I barely recognized anymore. His expression was a mixture of determination and concern, and his hands rested on the table between us, palms up, as if he was physically offering me something I couldn’t take. “Erica, you can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice steady but filled with frustration. “This isn’t you. It’s not the girl I grew up with.” I avoided his gaze, staring down at my hands. “That girl doesn’t exist anymore, Jordan.” “That’s not true,” he said firmly. “She’s sitting right in front of me. You’re just stuck in this… situation, but you’re still her. And you can get out of this. We can get you out.” I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “You don’t understan

ERICA The ride home was suffocating. The silence between us was loud—deafening, really. Raffael didn’t say a word, but I could feel his anger like a storm brewing in the cramped space of the car. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white, his jaw clenched, and his eyes fixed on the road like it had personally offended him. I wanted to say something, to defend myself, but the weight of his fury kept me frozen. What could I say, anyway? He wouldn’t believe me. He never did. I stared out the window, the neon lights of the city blurring into streaks of color as we sped through the streets. My chest was tight, my mind racing with everything that had happened. Jordan’s face kept flashing in my head—how he’d tried to protect me, how he’d offered to help even when he had so little to give. And how Raffael had beaten him for it. My stomach churned at the memory, guilt and anger mixing into a toxic cocktail. Jordan didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be dragged

Clarissa pushed her way into the club, her heart pounding harder than the bass reverberating through the walls. The usual haze of smoke and neon lights felt suffocating, but she barely noticed. Panic gripped her chest like a vice, making it hard to breathe. Her eyes darted across the room, searching desperately until they locked on Ray. He was lounging in his usual corner booth in the VIP section, his signature smirk in place as he held a glass of whiskey. The sight of him brought no comfort—only more fear. Without hesitation, she moved toward him, weaving through the crowd with shaky steps. When she reached the booth, Ray glanced up, his smirk widening briefly before his brow furrowed. “Clarissa,” he drawled, leaning back against the plush leather. “What’s got you in such a rush? You look like—” “Shut up,” she snapped, sliding into the seat across from him. Her voice was trembling, her hands gripping her purse like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. “I need to talk to

Raffael pushed open the door with his shoulder, a tray balanced carefully in his hands. The warm aroma of freshly made soup, toast, and tea filled the room almost instantly, but Erica barely reacted. She lay on the bed, pale and exhausted, her body still weak from the fever that had taken hold of her. Her gaze flicked to him briefly before settling on the tray he carried. “I brought breakfast,” Raffael said, his voice calm but carrying that familiar commanding edge. He set the tray on the side table before moving it closer to her on the bed. Erica propped herself up on her elbows, her movements sluggish and weak. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice scratchy and soft. She reached for the spoon, but before her hand could touch it, Raffael stopped her, his larger hand wrapping gently around her wrist. “I’ll feed you,” he said matter-of-factly, already picking up the spoon. She frowned, pulling her hand back. “What?” “You heard me,” he repeated, dipping the spoon into the soup and hold