Chapter 55 Chapter Two of His Favourite Sin
Salem~
Lucian Vale was my mom's ex-lover.
A man she couldn’t stop thinking about, not for a second.
He occupied every corner of her mind, every glance, every breath.
Because of him, the warmth in our home died slowly.
The way my father used to look at my mother—with soft eyes and quiet admiration—turned into something bitter, hard. He started coming home later and later. Stopped talking during dinner. Until one day, he packed his things, signed the divorce papers, and walked out of our lives like he’d never belonged in them.
As a kid, I didn’t understand why my father left.
I thought maybe he just didn’t love us enough. Maybe he was the problem. But now… now that I’m older—now that I see the world for what it really is. I realized the truth.
There was something wrong with my mom.
Something obsessive.
Twisted.
She didn’t just love Lucian Vale.
She worshipped him.
My father probably got tired, frustrated, watching the woman he married fall to pieces over a man who wasn’t even trying. It wasn’t just cheating.
It was humiliation.
Because Lucian Vale wasn’t just any man. He was self-reserved, unreachable… a name whispered in circles of power. A billionaire whose silence held more weight than a politician’s voice. A man who could ruin you with a nod and bury you with a smile.
Going after him would’ve been suicide. So, my father—powerless and heartbroken, did the only thing he could. He signed the divorce papers… and left.
And my mom? She didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even blink.
Because Lucian Vale already owned her. Body. Mind. Soul. Call it obsession. Call it madness.
Call it the beginning of my own undoing.
By the time I turned six, our home had become a shrine. Photos of Lucian—black and white, glossy and matte, candid and posed lined our walls like family portraits. My childhood was spent under the gaze of a man I had never met.
A stranger… but not really.
I remember studying his features, his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way his fingers rested around a crystal glass in one photo like they belonged to something more dangerous than human.
And when I finally saw him in the flesh when I turned seven, Lucian Vale in a black coat, standing at the top of his staircase, eyes scanning me with bored curiosity—
I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
Mr. Vale ended things a few days later, but I never really stopped thinking about that door.
Not even when the whole thing with him was over. Not as the years went by and I turned into an adult and acquired my mom's diary.
Not when my mother finally stopped breathing his name in her sleep and passed on quietly in her bed.
Maybe… just maybe, inside that room was where all my fantasies could finally come alive.
And maybe, just maybe, my foster father was the one meant to bring them to life.
I wanted to experience everything my mother had behind those doors.
The way she described it in her diary—vivid, shameless, dripping with need. The choking. The restraints. The toys that made her sob and tremble. His cock that filled her up over and over again. Every filthy detail she'd written like a love letter to her own ruin… I wanted it too.
I wanted to know what it felt like to be owned the way she was.
To be undone. Rebuilt. Worshipped in the most degrading, delicious ways.
And I wanted him to be the one to do it.
I slipped under my sheets and pulled my panties to mid-thighs as my fingers touched my clit. My fingers moved slowly and sensually—caressing my clit in a circle. My breath hitched, and a moan slipped out.
I arched into the thought. Into the fantasy of that door finally opening for me.
My fingers moved more slowly now, circling with more pressure, chasing the ache that lived just beneath my skin. My thighs trembled. My lips parted. I bit back a sound, not wanting to make a noise.
Shame curled around the edges of my pleasure, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I was soaked, my fingers slipping easily now, rubbing faster, harder. Every breath came out ragged, every moan smothered into the pillow.
Because in my mind, it wasn’t just my fingers.
It was him.
I imagined him slamming into me—hard, rough, unapologetic, his breath hot against my neck, his voice low and filthy in my ear.
"You like that, sweetheart?"
"You were made for this. For me."
His hand around my throat, tightening just enough to make my head spin. Not out of anger—but control. The kind that says, you're mine, and I’ll ruin you sweetly.
I whimpered louder, my back arching as the fantasy deepened.
I imagined him reaching for the drawer he thought I didn’t know about—the one with the toys, the leather straps, the sleek silicone, and cold metal.
My mother wrote about it in her diary, before she died. Said he liked to test her limits. Said he had “toys that didn’t belong in polite society,” that he used them to make her cry and beg at the same time.
I used to read those pages with a twisted fascination, fingers trembling. Now, I understood.
I imagined him trying each toy on me. Testing me. Stretching me. Seeing how far I could go before I broke open, leaking and breathless, trembling under the weight of his control. Then he'd slam into me with his big cock. And he wouldn’t stop. Not until I was raw with pleasure. Not until I was addicted to it.
My thighs clenched tighter as my fingers worked faster, chasing that high. My breath was erratic, my mind drunk on the image of him dragging me to the edge again and again, whispering things no father figure ever should—
"You like being my little toy, don’t you?"
"You’ve been waiting for this. All grown up now… desperate for me to ruin you."
I came again with a gasp, biting the sheets this time, thighs shaking so hard they burned. The pleasure was raw, almost punishing. The kind that left my body aching and my soul cracked open.
I groaned, scooping my red hair back, my skin still flushed. Fuck.
I wanted him so bad it hurt.
Sleeping with my mother’s ex—it was wrong. Twisted. But it was that exact wrongness that made me hotter, needier, nearly shaking with it. I could feel it burning under my skin… the hunger, the revenge.
Maybe this was how I’d finally get back at her.
For being a shitty mother.
For being a pathetic, cheating wife.
For choosing a man over everything else—including me.
I wanted her to see me.
To watch from whatever spirit realm she floated in now while I rode the man she worshipped like a god.
I wanted her to scream in rage while I moaned in his arms, claiming what she could never truly have.
Because this time, he wouldn’t be doing it for her.
He’d be doing it for me.