Forbidden desires

The unexpected reunion

Brianna

I started working at the café and bar a few weeks ago, and honestly, it’s been helping me stay both occupied and financially afloat.

The workers there are amazing.

Sure, customers can be frustrating sometimes and work gets exhausting, but somehow we always manage to make things work.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve also been making regular trips to the Hemsworth Empire headquarters on the Upper East Side, my father’s family’s company.

At first, all my efforts were completely useless because the receptionist seemed convinced I was one of those crazy people trying to force their way into a wealthy family.

Honestly, I still don’t know where she got that idea from.

I mean, unless one of the Hemsworth men had a reputation for sleeping around recklessly, there was no logical reason for her to assume I was lying.

And seriously, who even takes those kinds of risks these days?

Last week, I walked up to the receptionist desk like I always did, but this time things went horribly wrong.

The woman immediately called security to escort me out.

Luckily for me, fate decided to help for once.

Just as security was about to drag me outside, a man who looked to be in his early fifties walked into the lobby and asked what the commotion was about.

After a little online stalking later that night, I discovered he was actually my father’s older brother.

The receptionist explained the situation, somehow making me sound far more insane than I’m sure I actually looked.

I expected him to dismiss me immediately.

Instead, he simply asked if I was certain about what I was claiming.

And unfortunately, my answer came out with very little confidence.

He told me to leave my contact information and email address, saying he would get back to me after an important meeting.

I thanked him politely before giving the receptionist my best death glare on the way out.

Her shocked expression almost made the humiliation worth it.

Honestly, I had already given up hope that he’d contact me.

Then last night, I received an email.

A strange one.

The moment I opened it, my heart nearly stopped.

It was from him.

He arranged a meeting for tonight at seven and asked me to text my address so a driver could pick me up.

After sending the address, I barely slept.

Today, I woke up feeling anxious enough to throw up.

Even my coworkers noticed something was wrong. They insisted I leave work early because apparently I looked seconds away from passing out.

They covered the rest of my shift, and after thanking them a hundred times, I rushed home.

Which led to my current situation:

My room looking like a tornado exploded inside it.

“Darling, your room looks like it survived a natural disaster,” Beth says as she carefully steps over piles of clothes scattered across the floor.

“It’s not even afternoon yet,” she continues. “Why are you panicking already?”

I groan dramatically while digging through my closet.

“I have perfectionist tendencies, okay? I really don’t want to mess this up or show up looking like I’m beneath them.”

At my last sentence, she gives me a look that clearly says, Well…

Rude.

“You know what?” she says suddenly. “Move aside. I’m helping.”

“Oh my God, thank you.”

Two hours later, Beth is convinced we’ve found the dress.

Ironically, it’s the same gown my friend Gia bought me months ago—the one I never had the courage to wear.

“But it hugs my body too much,” I complain, already reaching for the zipper.

“I’m uncomfortable.”

“Don’t you dare,” Beth warns, pointing at me dramatically.

“You haven’t even looked in the mirror yet.”

With an exaggerated sigh, I finally turn toward the mirror.

And immediately lose the ability to speak.

The gown is long-sleeved with a soft V-neckline that somehow manages to look elegant without being too revealing.

The silky gold material hugs my curves perfectly, emphasizing my hourglass figure in a way I’ve only recently started learning to appreciate.

A slit runs along one side of the dress, exposing just enough skin to make it feel classy with a hint of boldness.

And against my olive skin and hazel eyes?

It looks beautiful.

“This is…” I trail off, completely speechless.

“Gorgeous,” Beth finishes proudly. “I know.”

Then she smacks my butt lightly.

“Now sit down so I can fix your hair.”

By 6:35 p.m., a car horn sounds from outside.

I quickly grab my clutch and give myself one final nervous glance in the mirror before leaving my room.

Beth looks up from the couch and gasps dramatically.

“Holy crap.”

I burst out laughing.

“You look stunning,” she says. “Seriously, it’s not too late to reconsider your sexuality.”

“You’re already in a healthy relationship,” I remind her. “Stop trying to recruit me.”

We both laugh.

The horn sounds again.

“I really have to go,” I say quickly, heading toward the door.

“Text me when you get there!”

“I will. Love you!”

“Love you too! Stay safe!”

I hurry outside before I can completely lose my nerve.

The sleek black car waiting outside my building makes me pause for a second.

For just a moment, I wonder what my life would’ve looked like if I’d been born into luxury instead of constantly struggling to survive.

Carefully, I make my way toward the car, trying very hard not to trip in these heels.

“Sorry I’m late,” I tell the driver as I climb in.

He simply nods politely before pulling away from the curb.

As we drive through the wealthy parts of New York, I get completely lost staring out the window at the city lights and towering buildings.

I’m so distracted that I don’t even realize we’ve arrived until the driver speaks.

“We’re here, miss.”

I blink and look outside.

My stomach drops instantly.

The restaurant in front of me is one I’ve only ever seen online—one of those places reserved for billionaires, celebrities, and people whose bank accounts probably have too many zeros to count.

The driver steps out to open my door, which makes me awkwardly uncomfortable.

I’m definitely not used to this kind of treatment.

Inside, the restaurant is breathtaking.

Crystal chandeliers glow softly overhead while quiet conversations and elegant music fill the air.

A waiter immediately approaches me.

“Welcome, ma’am.”

Without even asking my name, he guides me through the restaurant toward a private dining area.

And that’s when I see them.

The Hemsworth family.

Every single face around the table is painfully familiar from years of internet searches, interviews, magazine articles, and public appearances.

My father’s family.

I’m just close enough to hear part of their conversation when a blonde woman—who looks suspiciously like an older version of me—speaks.

“She’s Thomas’s daughter.”

At those words, I finally lift my eyes properly toward the table.

And my entire world stops.

“Oh my God.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Every head at the table turns toward me.

But I only notice one person.

Him.

The stranger from that night.

Slowly, his eyes lift to meet mine.

Recognition flashes across his face instantly.

“Well,” he mutters darkly, “s**t.