Novels by Niri Vosa

“You’re doing it wrong again,” Ava said, voice light.Serena lifted an eyebrow. Surprised, but not shocked at her mother in law barging in like this early in the morning. “I’ve been making tea in this exact way for months."“And for months you’ve been murdering the bag.” Ava stepped in, plucked the tea bag out before it could turn the water bitter, and dropped it into the trash with the casual authority of someone who’d won this argument a dozen times. “Tragic loss of flavor.”Serena let out a small and real laugh. “You say that every single time.”“Because every single time I’m right.”Ava slid in beside her, both of them leaning against the counter now, shoulders almost touching. They faced the big window together. The city shone below—restless, indifferent, beautiful in the way only places that don't sleep at night will be. Serena stayed quiet. “Rough one?” Ava asked quietly.Serena blew out a breath through her nose. “Yeah.”Ava nudged her gently with an elbow. “You survived. Tha

Vale Productions didn’t do cozy.The building stabbed up from Sunset Boulevard—cold steel, smoked glass, and the kind of deliberate restraint that cost more than flash ever could. Lucian had the lobby stripped years ago: no posters, no gold-framed headshots, no reassuring wall of awards. He believed prestige should whisper. Anything louder was insecurity wearing a tuxedo.Serena felt the hush the second the elevator doors sealed her in.It wasn’t peaceful quiet. It was surgical. The kind that made your own heartbeat embarrassingly loud. She laced her fingers together hard enough that her nails left pale half-moons in her palms. Across from her Lucian Vale stood like a statue somebody had forgotten to label “caution.” Eyes on the floor numbers and expression unreadable as always. Forty-two floors. An ice age.Neither of them spoke. The afterparty noise still echoed in her skull—drunken laughter, camera shutters like machine-gun fire, Aiden’s palm pressed passively against the small

The thing about power, Isadora Vale had decided a long time ago, was that it wasn’t about who held it. It was about who understood its silence.And tonight, Hollywood was very, very loud.From the balcony of the Devacraux estate, she could see the ballroom below like a living organism—glittering, shifting, predatory. Every move choreographed. Every laugh rehearsed. And at the center of it all: her brother. Lucian Vale.He looked exactly how he always did when things began to unravel—composed, surgical, all clean lines and quiet ruin beneath them. The press would call it control. Isadora knew better. It was survival. She wasn't his sister, not exactly. She was adopted. She never liked him much either. Their sibling relationship was non existent. Yet, she’d flown in from London two days ago after catching wind of the Ravelle biopic mess through one of her associates at Oriel Pictures. She wasn’t supposed to care about American film politics anymore—she’d spent years building a clean l

The terrace felt like a reprieve.Not truly quiet—Hollywood never granted that mercy—but subdued, as if the city's relentless hum had been dialed back just enough to breathe. Faint strains of music drifted from the ballroom, softened into a distant pulse, while the laughter inside mellowed into something bearable, no longer sharp enough to cut.The night air carried a deliberate chill, crisp against the skin.Lucian emerged onto it like a man stepping into a private reckoning.He didn't lean on the railing. No cigarette. No feigned contemplation. He simply stood, posture rigid, jaw locked, hands hanging loose at his sides in a way that betrayed their readiness to clench.Through the glass doors, if he tilted his head just so—past the crowd, the glittering chandeliers, the mirrored illusions—he could still spot her. Serena, seated at that table amid the polite predators. Serena, smiling with the precision of someone mapping every escape route.It should have steadied him.It didn't.He

By noon, the internet had decided who Serena Rivera was.She watched it happen in real time, the way one watches a tide come in—helpless, clinical, faintly fascinated by the violence of it.She didn’t scroll. She didn’t need to. The headlines had weight now. They pressed against her ribs even with the phone face-down on the café table, even as Lucian’s presence anchored the air across from her.He hadn’t touched his coffee.That bothered her more than it should have.“You’re not angry,” she said suddenly.Lucian blinked, just once. “That’s not true.”“No,” Serena said. “You’re… resolved. Angry people react. You’re already ten moves ahead.”He studied her like she’d said something worth filing away. “And you?”She exhaled. “I don’t know yet.”That was the truth. Anger felt too clean for what she was carrying. Hurt felt indulgent. Fear was useless. What she felt was something murkier—like being pushed into a role she’d spent her whole life avoiding, and realizing the script had already

The internet didn’t sleep.By the time Serena woke up, the headlines had already changed shape.Last night, she’d been the ingénue caught in the wrong orbit.This morning, she was a temptress with bad timing.> “Wolfe and Rivera: Midnight Drives or PR Diversions?”“Rivera’s Rise: The New Starlet Who Can’t Stay Out of Trouble.”“Seraphina Silent Amid Rumors—Lucian Vale Seen Leaving Gala Alone.”Her phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Mentions, tags, half-hearted statements from PR teams who didn’t belong to her. Her name sat just below #LucianVale and #SeraphinaDevacraux, separated only by a thread of outrage.The public didn’t want nuance and didn't care for it. They wanted hierarchy. Seraphina: divine, untouchable, betrayed. Serena: young, ambitious, disposable.A story told before. A script she hadn’t even auditioned for. But one the world will make her a part of nonetheless.She turned her phone facedown on the counter and exhaled, her breath shaky and uneven. Her untouched coffee ste