Novels by Bosede

In the months that followed the hospital’s quiet frenzy, the hard, slow work of putting life back together began in earnest. The legal papers Xander had left the will, the trust documents, the pointed notes in his own hand — proved to be the hinge that opened doors June had long thought sealed. Mr. Collins and a handful of honest lawyers moved quickly on her behalf: they used the documentation Xander had prepared, the forensic accounting that exposed irregularities around Lionel and Damian’s takeover, and testimony that tied the wrongful transfers to coercion and fraud. In court, where years of noise and rumor finally met paper and sworn statements, the judges dismantled much of what had been stolen.It was not a clean or easy victory. There were long depositions, late-night meetings, and the steady grind of undoing corporate artifice. Damian fought; Lionel made excuses. But the story Xander had left his last-minute reconciliations, the letters, the trust arrangements that named Valer

June, I have put everything in order. The trust will make sure Valerie is taken care of. I know trust is not the same as presence, but I hope it helps. I leave you only with gratitude for the mercy you’ve shown our child. Don’t make your life small in mourning me. Live big for her. Love her well.June read the lines as if they were hot coals pressed to her skin. The handwriting, the small quirks eat too many lemon tarts cut through her with a delicate, impossible tenderness. In the margins, he had written a small note: When she asks, tell the truth when you think she can hold it and not break. Tell her I loved her. Tell her I am sorry. Tell her to be brave.The paper shook in her hands. She could feel Xander’s presence in each linethe old arrogance replaced by substance of sacrifice. The letter was not an excuse; it was the simplest thing a man could give after he had chosen the hardest thing.Her grief tore new ways through her. She had forgiven him in a chamber of the heart only sh

“I’m so sorry,” the nurse said. “There will be an opportunity for family viewing after the mortuary processes. I can arrange it at the earliest possible time, but right now”“You’re keeping him from me,” June said, and in a voice that was suddenly small and raw she let the grief flood. “You’re keeping the only man who could have told me why from me. You took away my chance to say anything before the body was claimed, before the world pronounced him dead.”They would not let her see him. She banged her fist on the counter until a fresh pain bit through the wail of rage. “What do I tell my child?” she demanded. “When she wakes and asks, Where’s my dad? What am I supposed to say? That he’s a miracle donor? That a stranger saved you? Tell mehow do I explain to a child that the man who gave her life is gone and that he lied to me about it and he”. The questions were a ragged thing that had no clean end.Dr. Lawrence had followed her into the hall and now placed a hand on her shoulder, an

The world narrowed to a single, bright, impossible fact: Valerie was alive. The monitor beside her bed sang a steady, regular note that sounded to June like a hymn. For a second she couldn’t move joy was a physical thing that pressed against the ribs, made the mouth taste like copper. Nurses bustled quietly in the ward but everything else felt muffled, as if wrapped in cotton.Then Dr. Lawrence stepped into the doorway with a face June had learned to read in the worst of mornings: composed, trained, and carrying news that would carve through whatever fragile calm she had built inside. His eyes flicked to hers, then down to the folder tucked under his arm.“Mrs. Williams,” he said gently. “The surgery was successful. Valerie’s pulse is stable. She’s in recovery now. We’ll keep monitoring her closely.”Relief shattered into a trembling laugh that turned into a wail. “She’s alive,” June whispered. She clung to the bedrail with white-knuckled fingers and then reached for Valerie, touchin

Dr. Lawrence gave him a few final instructions no jewelry, remove dentures, fasten the wristband and the anesthesiologist came in to talk about induction, what the drugs would feel like, for how long he might remember the beginning and then fade. Xander listened, nodding. He answered the nurse’s checklist and signed forms with a steady hand. Everything about him had taken on a painfully quiet decisiveness.Before they wheeled him away, Mr. Collins’ assistant, discreet and efficient, arrived with two envelopes in hand. Xander had requested these be brought to the ward the morning of the operation. He opened one and read it quickly the final will, the legal instructions putting Valerie in trust until she came of age. He signed with one flourish and placed the document back into the envelope, eyes bright. He glanced at the other envelope, smaller, his personal letters to June and Valerie. He smoothed the paper as if it were fragile. He had written them in the quiet that had come after

The morning smelled of disinfectant and lemon polish; bright hospital light filtered through blinds and painted the ward in sterile stripes. Outside, cars hissed by and the city went about its indifferent business, but inside room 412 time had narrowed itself down to a single, impossible choice.Xander sat propped on the bed in a pale gown, fingers laced together. The IV line at his arm glinted and the soft beep of monitors was a steady, oddly comforting rhythm. He had not slept. He had spent the small hours signing papers, making calls, arranging for the last practicalities: the revised will with Mr. Collins, transfer instructions to ensure Valerie would be provided for, messages to people who needed to know after the fact. He had whispered forgiveness to his father in the hospice and felt the old weight settle into something quieter. Now only the final step remained.Dr. Lawrence stood by the foot of the bed, a folder of charts in his hands, the familiar lines around his eyes deeper

Jane hadn’t slept much the night before. Mr. Whitmore’s words played like an endless loop in her mind, each one a reminder of the impossible choice he had set before her. She had tossed and turned, her chest tight with dread. By morning, her eyes felt heavy, and she expected another cold, distant day with Greg where she could at least keep her walls intact.But instead, she was met with the smell of fresh coffee and warm butter.“Good morning, beautiful,” Greg’s voice came, deep and smooth, as she stepped into the kitchen. He was standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, setting down plates. “I made you breakfast.”Jane blinked, taken aback. She tried to summon her usual composure, but the gesture caught her off guard. “Thank you so much, Greg.”“Hey, don’t mention it,” he said lightly, though there was a softness in his tone she wasn’t used to. His eyes studied her face. “But… I noticed you weren’t okay last night. You looked troubled. Hope everything is fine, huh? You can tell me

Over the table at a quiet bistro, Xander ordered something light and non pretentious; June declined wine and took water, her hands steady though her heart thudded hard beneath her ribs. They spoke cautiously at first patchwork conversation about nothing and everything: Valerie’s favorite cartoons, the absurdities of hospital food, the tiny miracle of a lemon tart that could brighten the gloomiest day. Laughter came, not easy at first, but honest, and the sound felt like a small, illicit blessing.Xander watched June with a hunger that was both humble and aching. He wanted this dinner to be remembered, not as a last supper of sorts, but as proof that tenderness could exist even after betrayal. He kept the bouquet’s stems in water at his feet, the petals brushing against his shoe, a simple, living reminder of what he was fighting for.June watched him too her gaze softer than it had been in months, threaded with worry she could not mask. Sometimes she caught him staring, and in those

The long, winding driveway leading to the Whitmore estate felt colder than usual that evening, though the sky remained clear. Jane’s fingers were tense on the steering wheel, her heart pulsing with questions. The message had been simple and discreet: “Come alone. Do not tell Greg. – G.W.”She had obeyed without knowing why.Now, standing in front of the towering oak doors, she felt an odd chill wash over her, as though she was about to enter something far deeper than just a conversation.The butler led her through the grand halls in silence, stopping before the study. “He’s waiting for you inside.”She pushed the door open.The room was dark, save for the faint orange glow of a fireplace flickering low in the corner. A single lamp illuminated the large desk near the window, and behind it, seated like a king on his throne, was Gregory Whitmore Sr., the patriarch of the Whitmore legacy.A glass of whiskey sat untouched beside him, and a thin line of smoke curled from the cigarette betwe

The silence in the penthouse had stretched for days. Jane moved through the luxurious space like a ghost, feeling its vastness echo the new emptiness growing between her and Greg. Since their last argument, he'd kept his distance — polite, civil, but colder than she had ever seen him. He was no longer the confident, smooth-talking man who teased her at dinner parties and watched her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. He was now... silent. Distant.And she hated it.The chill wasn’t just in the room — it was under her skin.Jane stood at the edge of the study doorway that evening, watching Greg as he leaned over a set of financial documents. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair slightly disheveled, a glass of untouched scotch sitting beside him. He hadn’t noticed her yet, too buried in whatever business emergency his grandfather had stirred up this time.She cleared her throat softly. “Greg.”He looked up. His expression shifted when he saw her, a flash of something — surprise, maybe

The fireplace crackled quietly in the background as Greg paced across the living room of the penthouse, the dim golden lights casting long shadows on the polished wood floors. His mind had been at war for days, trying to convince himself it was too soon… or too absurd… or too much.But he couldn’t avoid it anymore.He had to talk to Jane.She was curled up on the oversized sofa, wearing a soft ivory robe, her legs tucked under her as she flipped absentmindedly through a fashion magazine. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulder in loose waves, and there was something about the domestic calmness of the scene that made Greg hesitate.She looked peaceful. Untouched by the chaos that brewed in his chest.But the words burned on his tongue."Jane," he said finally.She looked up, eyes curious. “Hmm?”“We need to talk.”Her body stiffened slightly, a telltale sign she’d learned not to show fear unless it was necessary. She set the magazine down and straightened. “Alright… talk.”Greg walk

The antique grandfather clock ticked heavily in the quiet of the study, its steady rhythm matching the tension thickening in the air.Greg sat stiffly across from his grandfather, the formidable Theodore Hamilton, the patriarch of the Hamilton empire. The elder man was a picture of aged nobility silver hair immaculately combed back, piercing gray eyes that didn’t miss a thing, and a cane resting beside his chair more for intimidation than support.The study was Greg’s least favorite room in the estate all mahogany shelves, dusty oil paintings, and the lingering scent of old money and judgment.Theodore set down his brandy glass with a sharp clink and looked directly at his grandson.“I want a great-grandchild, Gregory.”Greg blinked, half certain he’d misheard. “I’m sorry… what?”Theodore leaned forward slightly. “You’re married now. Publicly, legally, and very convincingly. You’ve given me a charming daughter-in-law, and the press believes you’re on the path to stability. Good. But I