Forbidden Hands on My Silk Robe - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
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His large hands forced my legs apart as a burning-hot body crushed down on me. The unfamiliar roughness sent shockwaves through every nerve. That voice—it wasn't my husband's!
I twisted, struggling to push myself up, and when I finally turned to look, my blood turned to ice.
The man on top of me wasn't my husband.
It was Daniel.
The alcohol haze lifted in an instant, replaced by raw panic. My limbs still felt weak, but terror gave me strength. "What the hell are you doing? Get off me—now!"
His laugh was dark, predatory. "You were begging for it a second ago."
He pinned me like a wild animal, his grip bruising, his movements furious.
"Help! Someone—!"
"Save your breath," he growled. "Your husband's out cold. And cut the act, sis-in-law. Let's see how much of a whore you really are."
My fingers clawed at the nightstand, grasping blindly until they closed around something solid—a vase. Without thinking, I swung.
Crack.
The impact stunned him. For two horrifying seconds, he just stared, dazed. Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, blood streaking down his temple.
Oh God. Did I just—?
Barefoot and shaking, I bolted to the living room, shaking my unconscious husband. My voice wouldn't work—just frantic, wordless gasps—before the world tilted, and everything went black.
When I woke, the sterile smell of antiseptic told me I was in a hospital. My husband sat slumped beside me, his grip on my hand desperate.
Memory rushed back. I jerked upright.
"Is he—? Did I—?"
He pulled me into a crushing embrace. "He's alive. This is my fault... all of it."
The weight of what happened crashed over me—the violation, the terror, the shame. Sobs tore from my throat.
He held me tighter, whispering apologies like a prayer.
At first, I thought he blamed himself for being too drunk to stop it.
But the truth was worse.
Daniel hadn't come for a friendly visit.
He'd come for revenge.
Months ago, my husband had caught Daniel's girlfriend cheating. Cornered, she didn't deny it—instead, she smirked, offering to "entertain" both brothers if he kept quiet.
Disgusted, he refused.
So she spun a lie, tearfully claiming he had assaulted her.
Their parents believed my husband. They'd never liked her—too flashy, too reckless. They forced Daniel to break it off, threatening to cut him off if he didn't.
Daniel never forgave his brother. In his mind, my husband had stolen his girl and framed her.
And last night?
Payback.
He'd drugged our drinks, planted a phone to record—planning to edit footage of me "begging for it" and send it to my husband. A taste of his own medicine.
But I smashed that plan to pieces.
Literally.
A family destroyed by lies.
Even between brothers.
I twisted, struggling to push myself up, and when I finally turned to look, my blood turned to ice.
The man on top of me wasn't my husband.
It was Daniel.
The alcohol haze lifted in an instant, replaced by raw panic. My limbs still felt weak, but terror gave me strength. "What the hell are you doing? Get off me—now!"
His laugh was dark, predatory. "You were begging for it a second ago."
He pinned me like a wild animal, his grip bruising, his movements furious.
"Help! Someone—!"
"Save your breath," he growled. "Your husband's out cold. And cut the act, sis-in-law. Let's see how much of a whore you really are."
My fingers clawed at the nightstand, grasping blindly until they closed around something solid—a vase. Without thinking, I swung.
Crack.
The impact stunned him. For two horrifying seconds, he just stared, dazed. Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, blood streaking down his temple.
Oh God. Did I just—?
Barefoot and shaking, I bolted to the living room, shaking my unconscious husband. My voice wouldn't work—just frantic, wordless gasps—before the world tilted, and everything went black.
When I woke, the sterile smell of antiseptic told me I was in a hospital. My husband sat slumped beside me, his grip on my hand desperate.
Memory rushed back. I jerked upright.
"Is he—? Did I—?"
He pulled me into a crushing embrace. "He's alive. This is my fault... all of it."
The weight of what happened crashed over me—the violation, the terror, the shame. Sobs tore from my throat.
He held me tighter, whispering apologies like a prayer.
At first, I thought he blamed himself for being too drunk to stop it.
But the truth was worse.
Daniel hadn't come for a friendly visit.
He'd come for revenge.
Months ago, my husband had caught Daniel's girlfriend cheating. Cornered, she didn't deny it—instead, she smirked, offering to "entertain" both brothers if he kept quiet.
Disgusted, he refused.
So she spun a lie, tearfully claiming he had assaulted her.
Their parents believed my husband. They'd never liked her—too flashy, too reckless. They forced Daniel to break it off, threatening to cut him off if he didn't.
Daniel never forgave his brother. In his mind, my husband had stolen his girl and framed her.
And last night?
Payback.
He'd drugged our drinks, planted a phone to record—planning to edit footage of me "begging for it" and send it to my husband. A taste of his own medicine.
But I smashed that plan to pieces.
Literally.
A family destroyed by lies.
Even between brothers.
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