Novels by A.M Wynter.

The sky was painted in strokes of gold and rose, the sun melting into the horizon like a slow exhale after a long, storied breath. Waves rolled onto the beach with a rhythm both ancient and tender, brushing over the shore as if to say, You made it. You’re still here.Adrain sat on a weathered wooden bench, his feet bare in the cool sand, the wind tugging lightly at the hem of his linen shirt. Beside him, Elena leaned against his shoulder, her hand nestled comfortably in his, the warmth between their palms long familiar.At her feet, little Aria crouched, humming softly as she arranged seashells in a winding spiral pattern. The tide inched closer, but she remained focused, brow furrowed, lips parted in quiet concentration.The sun hadn’t just set.It had descended like a curtain at the end of a long play—a story filled with fire and betrayal, loss and healing, collapse and rise. And now, here they were. Whole. Unshaken. At peace.Adrain glanced down at Elena.Her eyes were on the horiz

It started with one envelope.A sleek, cream-colored invitation from a global business ethics council, embossed with gold lettering and sealed in a red wax stamp. Elena opened it while Adrain sat across the table, feeding tiny spoonfuls of pear puree to Aria, who was much more interested in flinging the spoon onto the floor.She read it aloud, her voice soft and filled with wonder.“They want to honor you. A lifetime award for ethical leadership—‘for shaping the culture of global enterprise by proving that kindness, clarity, and conscience can lead empires just as well as dominance ever did.’”Adrain looked up, blinking. He reached across the table and took the card gently from her hands, reading it again for himself, as if seeing his own name among those words would make it feel real.“Isn’t that… something?” he murmured.Elena smiled. “It’s only the beginning.”She was right.Within weeks, more letters arrived.Invitations. Honors. Requests to speak. From New York to Nairobi, Seoul

It was a crisp Monday morning when Adrain stepped in front of a podium again—not to pitch, not to defend, not to lead a merger or face down a hostile board. This time, he had only one intention: to open a door.The announcement had been teased quietly the week before. A soft ripple across social feeds and newsletters:“Adrain will speak live at 10:00 a.m.—an invitation, not a comeback.”There was no need for glitz. No PR campaign. No countdown graphics or buzzwords. Just a simple, black-and-white headline.Adrain will be airing live at 10:00AM.It's an invitation and no one knew what to expect, but, they were eager to hear from him or know what he wants to say. Adrain has always been a centre of attention.Still, by 9:45 a.m., the livestream had nearly a million viewers.Inside the auditorium—spare, elegant, filled with clean light—journalists, young professionals, industry veterans, and many more gathered in silence. The air was charged, but reverent. Everyone knew something was diff

As the sky darkened into an inky velvet blue, strings of paper lanterns blinked to life overhead, casting a soft, honeyed glow across the courtyard. The tables had been cleared, plates stacked, glasses refilled. Music pulsed gently in the background—something warm and old, with rhythm enough to move to but tenderness enough to sway hearts.Sophie was laughing with a circle of younger team members near the makeshift dance floor. Elena twirled with Aria once again, the toddler’s giggles rising higher than the violins and piano. The investigator and Nathan were deep in a mildly competitive card game on a blanket in the corner, and someone from HR had just started organizing a trivia game using company lore as the theme.It was then that Adrain stood up once again, this time from beside a small display table that had been kept under wraps until now. A velvet cloth still covered what rested on it.He clinked his glass softly, and a hush fell over the courtyard like a gentle breeze.“Alrigh

The energy in the building was unmistakable from the moment the elevators opened.Music pulsed softly from hidden speakers, and the scent of fresh roses, baked pastries, and citrus-scented candles floated through the main floor. Colorful paper lanterns hung from the ceiling beams, hand-lettered banners stretched across office walls, and confetti sparkled discreetly along the corners of the polished floor tiles. It wasn’t just another corporate event. It wasn’t polished or stiff. It felt like something far more sacred.It felt like family.The company had transformed into a mosaic of joy.Every department had contributed—IT teams printed holographic tokens of appreciation, the finance division cooked homemade dishes, marketing designed hand-sewn ribbons and hand-drawn cards. Everyone came not just as coworkers but as believers—in a culture that had redefined what it meant to work together.At the center of it all stood Sophie.She tried to deflect the spotlight. She wore her signature

The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of the garden room, painting everything in warm gold. Outside, leaves swirled gently in the breeze, casting flickering shadows over the stone pathway. The estate was unusually quiet—not with tension, but with a serene kind of stillness that only comes after long battles have finally been won.Adrain sat at the breakfast table, still in his white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. A newspaper lay folded beside his plate—its front-page headline read:"Adrian Company Breaks New Ground in Southeast Asia— Leading Landmark Deala."He didn't need to read it. He already knew the details. The deal had been weeks in the making. Sophie's team had sealed it yesterday, expanding the company’s digital infrastructure operations into an emerging region that was still finding its footing in the global tech economy. It was a smart move, and it was executed with precision.But more than that—it was ethical.No corners cut. No backroom manipulation. Ju

Epilogue.Few Years LaterThe morning light spills through the kitchen window, soft as a sigh, painting the countertops in hues of apricot and gold. I’m barefoot, as always, the cool tiles grounding me as I pour coffee into two mismatched mugs, one chipped from a clumsy moment years ago, the other a gift from Kelvin, painted with lopsided stars. The house smells of cinnamon and fresh laundry, a quiet symphony of the life we’ve built.Kelvin, bounds down the stairs, his guitar slung over his shoulder like a faithful companion. He’s taller than me now, his curls wilder, his grin still carrying that spark of mischief. “Mom, I’m late for band practice!” he calls, snatching an apple from the bowl.“Shoes!” I call back, pointing to the sneakers abandoned by the door.He groans but complies, tossing me a lopsided smile. “Love you, Mom. Tell Dad I’ll be back for dinner!”The door slams behind him, and the house settles into its familiar hum. I glance at the wall, where a new photo has joined

POV: Emerald The party was already in full swing when I stepped onto the patio.Laughter rose like music—soft, unforced, genuine. It curled into the air like incense, mingling with the scent of grilled meat and lemon verbena from the garden hedge. Golden string lights floated overhead like captured stars, their glow brushing every face with warmth. The long table was brimming with things I didn’t have to make—platters of roasted vegetables, herb-stuffed chicken, three kinds of cake. Flowers I hadn’t arranged bloomed from vases like joy in full color. And people... people I once couldn’t imagine being this much a part of my healing, now lived like branches in the tree of my peace.I stepped further out, my dress brushing against my ankles, barefoot on the warm stone. It didn’t feel like just another summer evening. It felt like the answer to a prayer I didn’t even know how to form ten years ago.A flash of movement—tiny sneakers and loud giggles.Kelvin tore across the patio, a crooke

POV: Emerald The vineyard was quiet, wrapped in lavender dusk.Golden vines stretched over rolling hills, catching the late sun in their folds. There were no camera flashes, no screaming guests, no lavish spectacle. Just rows of chairs on soft grass, white petals scattered by the breeze, and a soft violin playing in the distance.It was perfect.Because it was Matthew.I arrived just before the ceremony began. Sat near the back. No attention drawn, just a quiet nod from a few familiar faces. Michael sat beside me, his fingers interlaced with mine. Kelvin, restless in his small suit, perched between us, legs swinging.Matthew hadn’t seen me yet.But when he stepped out beneath the old wooden arch, his eyes searched the crowd. And when they landed on mine, something passed between us—a breath, a memory, a farewell.He smiled.Not the smile he used to wear when he was trying to be enough.But one that said: I am.His bride, Elodie, wore a dress that floated. Her smile was a soft sunrise

POV: Emerald It came in a plain white envelope.No return address.Just my name, written in a hand I hadn’t seen in years—angular, careful, familiar in the way something poisonous becomes when you’ve survived it.I didn’t open it at first.I placed it on my desk, beside my planner and the vase of peonies Michael brought me from the market. For three days, I let it sit there. I’d glance at it sometimes, in between meetings or on my way to bed, and each time I’d think: Not today.Until one morning, when the city was still soft with fog, and the house was quiet except for the hum of the espresso machine, I picked it up.I carried it to the balcony.I sat.And I opened it.—Emerald,I know I am the last person you ever expected—or wanted—to hear from. And that’s why I waited. Until the noise quieted. Until the headlines changed. Until your peace had room to breathe.But I write now because truth, even late, is still a kind of debt we owe.I was cruel to you.At first, it was jealousy. N

POV: Emerald Tuscany wasn’t part of the original plan.But after three days in the cabin, tucked beneath pines and wrapped in quiet, Michael looked at me over morning tea and said, “What if we let the next chapter write itself somewhere warm?”And I said yes.So we packed light, left our phones on airplane mode, and landed in Florence with no itinerary, just each other and a journal filled with places we might want to see.Our villa sat on a hillside, wrapped in vines, framed by olive trees that swayed like they had been whispering secrets to the wind for centuries. The air smelled like earth and lemon blossoms, and the sky each morning opened like a soft invitation.We weren’t tourists. We were two people reclaiming time.—We made love that first night with the windows open. Slow. Reverent. No rush. The kind of closeness that makes you forget you were ever afraid of being seen.He kissed the inside of my wrist like it held history.I whispered his name like a prayer.We didn’t need

POV: Emerald The celebration carried on behind us—music, laughter, clinking glasses, the sound of heels against marble and the occasional roar of Kelvin’s giggle as he danced like the floor belonged to him.But we slipped away.Michael and I.Through the side doors of the conservatory, past the hedges where the roses were just beginning to close for the night, and into the garden lit by nothing but moonlight and strings of soft, amber bulbs.I kicked off my heels halfway down the stone path.He reached for my hand without a word.And we walked until the music felt like a dream in another room.There was a bench beneath the big elm tree—our tree. The one we’d sat beneath when we toured the venue months ago and knew, somehow, it would hold a part of our story.He sat first. I curled beside him, knees tucked, my head on his shoulder.The stars were everywhere.And for a moment, we just breathed.No speeches.No vows.No eyes on us.Just stillness.“I didn’t think I’d make it here,” I sa