Secret love Affairs

Name: Secret love Affairs
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Tamuz14

Romance | Ongoing

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The prided itself on elegance and righteousness. Marble-clad cathedrals, high-rise buildings draped in shimmering glass, and a skyline punctuated by the gold cross of Saint Ursula's Cathedral all signs of a place that sold itself as godly and just. Beneath its spotless surface, however, hid networks of deception, espionage, and the relentless pursuit of control. It was on a chilly Saturday evening that the Cornwell estate hosted the most extravagant engagement party of the season. Racheal Cornwell, the bishop's eldest daughter, was now officially betrothed to Victor Launch, a polished businessman with a murky past. The ballroom shimmered with chandeliers, soft jazz played beneath the murmurs of political elites, and champagne flowed like truth in the pulpit rare and intoxicating. Sophia Cornwell, Racheal's younger sister, leaned against the marble rail of the terrace, watching her sister perform the part of the happy fiancée. Sophia knew better. Racheal was calculating, Victor was ambitious, and their love story was less of a romance and more of a treaty. The Cornwells weren't just a family; they were an empire. Bishop Cornwell, revered across the state for his sermons and philanthropic work, held power far beyond the pulpit. His influence reached politicians, law enforcement, and the financial elite. He believed in morality but never let it interfere with power. Inside the party, Governor Arnold Walsh gave a speech praising the couple and the Cornwell family's legacy. Eleanor Dorwell, the bishop's discreet yet intelligent secretary, stood quietly in the back, noting every interaction. Eleanor wasn't just a secretary she was the keeper of secrets. She kept files hidden in old hymnals, phone recordings disguised as prayers, and names written in invisible ink beneath her Bible's cover. She knew the real Grenswick. Police Chief George Orwell arrived late. His silver badge gleamed under his coat, but his eyes were sharp, always calculating. He greeted the bishop with a firm handshake and leaned in. "Your city's starting to hum again, Cornwell. I can hear the wires underground. Two days later, in a darkened room beneath the cathedral, a coded message arrived. A hidden network known as The Veil a group of spies and informants who had long worked to uncover the city's corrupt underbelly was active again. A drop point behind the old cemetery revealed documents exposing covert property seizures, money laundering by religious institutions, and a surveillance scheme run from within the governor's office. Sophia, more rebellious and independent than her sister, discovered the documents while investigating her father's strange late-night meetings. A brilliant but reckless codebreaker, Sophia had long suspected the cathedral was more than a place of worship. She followed Eleanor one night, dressed in a choir robe, and watched her enter the sealed chambers below. Inside, Sophia found evidence that turned her stomach: records of government-sanctioned surveillance, hush money paid to witnesses, and strategic alliances disguised as donations. Victor Launch's name appeared repeatedly. Meanwhile, Racheal began noticing Victor's late-night calls and unexplained absences. She followed him one evening to a hidden apartment in the industrial zone. There, she found him meeting with Chief Orwell and a masked stranger. She took photos but kept silent. If the Cornwells lost power, their enemies would swarm. The bishop preached about divine justice, while Eleanor worked behind the scenes to protect the real motives of the event cementing alliances and neutralizing threats. Governor Walsh agreed to give a televised address from the cathedral on the final night of the revival. Secretly, he was under pressure from The Veil, who had planted agents within his staff. Eleanor had picked up whispers of a coup an attempt to bring down the Cornwell dynasty during the broadcast. "You know he's working against us," she said, tossing the surveillance photos on her sister's desk. "Victor. He's not marrying you he's infiltrating." Racheal stared coldly. "And yet, I still might marry him. Power is loyalty. I can use him better than he can use me." Sophia shook her head. "You're playing his game." "No," Racheal replied. "I'm rewriting the rules." Eleanor met with Chief Orwell secretly in the underground chapel. "You're losing control," he said. "The younger one is sniffing around. The bishop's gotten too bold. Even Walsh is slipping." Eleanor replied, "Then we tighten the screws. Use the preacher's voice to silence the rebellion." "But what if the rebellion is already inside?" They didn't know that Sophia had recorded the entire conversation. As the revival began, Grenswick's streets swelled with worshippers and cameras. Drones hovered over the cathedral, and every pew was filled. But behind the stained glass, the war for the city was reaching its climax. Eleanor was intercepted by an anon

Crime Suspense Betrayal Love triangle Sexual slave Scheming

Chapter 5 A life Etched in Gold and grit

05-02 19:40

Chapter 1 Elegance meets secrets

Chapter One

Elegance Meets Secrets

The city glittered like a crown jewel beneath a starless sky. Limousines slid past manicured hedges and iron gates, their sleek bodies gleaming under streetlamps. The Cornwell Estate was ablaze with golden lights, music humming through its marble halls like a siren's lullaby. Champagne fizzed delicately in fluted glasses, and hors d'oeuvres tiny masterpieces of truffle and salmon floated on silver trays.

Reputation was currency in this city, and tonight, the richest wallets held silence, smiles, and secrets. Amidst chatter about business mergers and philanthropic facades, alliances were being brokered under the chandeliers, and enemies clinked glasses like lovers.

Racheal Cornwell stood by the grand window, silhouetted in a silk emerald gown that clung like shadow. Her eyes, sharp and soft, scanned the ballroom. She belonged here, yet her heart thudded with a strange urgency. She was a Cornwell daughter of Bishop Cornwell, the most revered spiritual figure in the city, whose sermons filled cathedrals and whose voice moved city council decisions. And yet, Racheal was also a poet quiet, curious, and dangerously romantic.

The night she met Victor Launch was not under such grandeur. It was in a cozy poetry workshop in a neglected wing of the city library. The rain had pounded outside, a rhythmic beat to their first conversation. Victor had read Neruda, his voice deep, curling around syllables like smoke. Racheal had barely breathed through his reading.

After class, they'd lingered, the city outside soaked in silver and silence. Victor, with his lean, brooding charm and laugh that cracked through the tension, seemed like an echo of her soul. They talked of art, politics, purpose his words stirred her in ways even the cathedral's choir could not. By the time they shared coffee at a late-night café, the space between them had vanished. Their fingers brushed; her skin ignited. Love, not slowly, but all at once, consumed them.

Within weeks, their passion spilled beyond letters and kisses. Racheal had never known love so raw, so free of calculation. Victor wasn't born of this world of velvet masks and polished deceit. He was an outsider with ambition, but pure in intention.

Yet, now at this dazzling event surrounded by the elite she sensed the barriers creeping back. Protocol. Politics. Her father's expectations

Sophia Cornwell was the type who dressed like a headline and walked like a promise. The younger sister to Racheal, Sophia had long surrendered to the pageantry of their upbringing. While Racheal scribbled in notebooks and quoted obscure poets, Sophia reveled in the spotlights of fashion shows and charity galas, posing for cameras with practiced ease. She was fierce, flirtatious, and dangerously clever traits she often used to disarm their brother, Eric.

Eric Cornwell was a charmer-turned-cautionary tale. Dubbed the "man-eater" by tabloids for his trail of broken hearts men and women alike he was the family's wildfire. Still, Bishop Cornwell never gave up on him. Eric had brilliance, when sober, and an eye for deception sharp as his jawline.

Their father, Bishop Cornwell, had built more than a church he built an empire of morality and fear. With his eloquence and prophetic aura, he held the city in spiritual suspension. People came to worship God but often left worshipping the man himself.

Arnold Walsh and George Walsh were his oldest companions from a time before temples and politics. Arnold, gruff and calculating, had become a quiet architect behind many of the Bishop's expansions. George Walsh, in contrast, had aged gently, wisdom flickering behind his kind eyes. He and the Bishop had memories thick with laughter, failures, and wars of the soul.

Eleanor Donwell, the Bishop's secretary, knew more than most about the family. With a journal always in her lap and secrets behind her eyes, she was the Cornwell vault. Where the Bishop commanded attention, Eleanor commanded silence. Racheal had often seen her watching, never blinking, never speaking out of turn but knowing. Always knowing.

The charity gala was held beneath golden archways and dripping candelabras. Proceeds for the city's largest orphanage had brought everyone out wealthy benefactors, media elites, and political faces hidden behind benevolent masks.

Racheal was scanning the room when she saw him.

George Orwell not the author, but a family friend, someone whose presence had once been woven into her childhood. They'd played in the Cornwell garden, whispered secrets behind the choir stalls. Then he'd disappeared family conflicts, whispered scandals, and a life that veered elsewhere.

But now, here he was grown, bolder, and more handsome than memory allowed. His eyes met hers with familiar fire. They embraced, warmly but with tension humming underneath. The years hadn't diminished their bond. In fact, absence had fermented it into something rich and forbidden.

They found a quiet corner near the garden veranda. Laughter flowed naturally between them, and then, without a signal, his hand touched hers. Electricity. Her heart stuttered.

"You've changed," he said softly.

"And you," she replied, "still feel like home."

One glance. One silence too long. Then his lips found hers.

Racheal should have pulled away. She didn't

Every glance at Victor now felt strained, as though her guilt hovered in the air between them. He noticed the difference. His touches grew hesitant. His questions, sharper.

"You've been distracted," he said one evening, voice low.

"I've just had a lot on my mind," she lied.

But the truth was tangled with names she couldn't speak. George had resurfaced not just in her life but in her heart.

Meanwhile, Eleanor had watched her leave the garden that night with George. Eyes narrowed. She hadn't said a word but Racheal knew.