Novels by Fatema Kapasi

Genevieve’s POVI wasn’t sure when exhaustion had become my default setting.Six hours of scrubbing, cooking, folding, checking every inch of the house like my life depended on it—and maybe it did.I stood in front of my closet, fingers trembling. The bruises on my arms still ached, a gift from this morning’s conversation."Don’t you dare disappoint me."I pulled out a black dress with a low back and a jeweled neckline. One of the few things I owned that wasn’t considered a “rag.”I added silver earrings, mascara, and a touch of red lipstick—hoping it would distract from the tired lines under my eyes. Hoping he would see me.The doorbell rang.> Smile. Even if it’s porcelain.I stepped into the hallway just as I heard him laugh. That laugh—carefree, charming. A sound I’d never earned."Genevieve!" he called.I entered the lounge slowly. The air felt thick—too many expensive colognes, too many eyes.Jaxon lounged on the couch like royalty, a drink in his hand, an audience at his feet.

Genevieve’s POV The whirl of images spinning through my head nearly made me sick. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it only made them stronger. Clearer. Me in my white gown, sitting with nervous hands folded in my lap. Dad’s comforting grip on my shoulder. Jaxon in his black tuxedo, barely sparing me a glance. His crushing hold during the vows. No kiss. No warmth. Just silence. He left me—alone—in our new house on our wedding night. The images looped like a broken record. The last one made me whimper. Stop. It’s over. That night is over. I forced myself off the cold wooden floor, legs still trembling from the fall. Steadying myself against the nearest wall, I took a shaky breath. I would make him breakfast. It was something. Something I could do right. Something that would make him stay. I scrubbed the floors, dusted every surface, and peeked into the bedroom now and then—just to see his face. Just to admire him while he slept. It was the only time he looked peaceful. Or reac

Genevieve’s POV: The scent of old books and polished oak wrapped around me like a blanket. I curled into the oversized armchair in the mansion’s library, my fingers resting on the spine of a book I hadn’t touched in hours. It was nearly midnight. Jaxon still wasn’t home. The mansion felt more like a mausoleum than a home—too quiet, too grand, too cold. My eyes darted to the grandfather clock stationed across the room. 1:47 a.m. I had made his favorite dinner. Warmed it twice. Laid out the table with candles. Even played his favorite instrumental playlist in the background. Still, nothing. A part of me still clung to the belief that it could get better. That underneath Jaxon’s coldness was a man who just didn’t know how to show care. Maybe he needed time. Maybe, just maybe, he was scared of feeling anything. That fragile hope was the only thing keeping me here. The lights cast long shadows across the velvet rug. I shifted in the chair, pulling a soft throw blanket over my knees

Genevieve’s POV: I was seventeen the day my life stopped being mine. The scent of burnt coffee and old furniture filled our living room as I sat on the edge of the couch, my hands folded neatly in my lap. My mother paced. My father sat in his favorite chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His face was unreadable—a mixture of tension and resignation. The tension in the room felt like an invisible string being pulled tighter and tighter with every breath. They spoke in hushed tones until the knock came. And everything changed. The door opened and in walked Mr. Black—tall, stiff, perfectly tailored. His presence made the room feel smaller. Sharper. It was like he brought with him a draft that extinguished every warm feeling in the space. I stood automatically, like I’d been taught. “Good afternoon, sir.” He didn’t smile. He barely acknowledged me, his dark eyes moving past me like I wasn’t there at all. “Let’s get started,” he said, sitting across from my father. What followed

Jaxon’s POV: "I love you," she whispered again. The words clung to the air like smoke—soft and suffocating. I grabbed my keys from the counter without replying. She said it like it was supposed to mean something. Like it would change anything. But it didn’t. I slammed the door behind me, cutting off her voice. The night air hit me like a slap—cold and cleansing. I took a breath. Finally. The only sound that made sense was the engine roaring to life. The vibration beneath me. The rush of speed. This was freedom. The only thing that felt real anymore. --- Two years ago. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Meeting or not, I had to answer. "Dad," I said, stepping into the hallway. "Come home. Now." "I’m in the middle of—" "Don’t argue." Click. I drove back faster than I should’ve. When I pulled into the driveway, I saw it: a red Ferrari parked next to my father’s car. Not ours. Inside, voices echoed from the sitting room—low and controlled. "...obedient, well-groomed, prese

I rushed through the crowded street, my feet pounding against the pavement with every hurried step. I wiped the sweat dripping off my forehead from the back of my hand as I took a glance at my watch. “Late,” I muttered under my breath, making my legs move even faster—if that was even possible. My sweatshirt clung to my back, drenched with the humidity of the unbearing heat. My jeans felt too tight, the air felt suffocating, beads of sweat dripping on my nose. But I didn't care. None of that mattered. Because I was Jaxon Black's wife. And that thought alone… a huge smile popped on my face. The Jaxon Black. Sinfully handsome and devastatingly powerful. And all mine. At least that's what I kept telling myself. Finally, I spotted the beautiful white mansion, standing as tall and sturdy as its owner. I reached the front of the mansion and flung open the door. I stepped into the marbled silence of the grand hallway, my heels clicking too loudly in a house that felt as empty as I