Novels by Delancyquin

Mira’s P.O.VThe night exploded into chaos.Gunfire ripped through the compound, shattering the quiet like glass. The sound was deafening—bullets hitting steel, men shouting orders, the pounding of boots against marble floors. The storm outside howled like it was mourning, wind and rain colliding with the echo of violence.I pressed my back against the wall, breath sharp, trembling. The air was thick with smoke and fear. Cassandra had drawn her gun, eyes steady and cold as she moved toward the main door, her every step precise.“Stay behind me,” she ordered without looking back.But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. Luca was out there—facing the man who gave him life and took away everything else.And the baby—our child—was kicking harder than ever, as if sensing that danger had entered the world it wasn’t ready for yet.“Cassandra,” I whispered, my voice breaking, “we have to help him.”She turned to m

Mira’s P.O.VThe storm outside had grown worse.Thunder rolled like distant gunfire while lightning illuminated the compound through the narrow windows. Inside the war room, the air was so heavy with tension that even breathing felt dangerous.Luca stood motionless, staring at the documents Cassandra had thrown on the table. His father’s name—Antonio De Silva—was printed across the top of every page, attached to offshore accounts, coded transactions, and government-linked contracts that made my stomach turn.“This can’t be,” Luca whispered, his voice hoarse. “He died in Milan. I saw the reports. I buried him myself.”Cassandra crossed her arms, unflinching. “You buried what he wanted you to bury. A name. Not a body.”I watched the muscles in Luca’s jaw tighten, the storm inside him barely contained. “You’re saying my father faked his own death to fund the people attacking us?”“Yes,” she said flatly. “And he’s been rebui

Mira’s P.O.VThe world outside the hospital was a blur of darkness and rain.Cassandra moved with the kind of confidence that came from years of surviving danger. Every step she took was calculated, every turn of her head precise. I followed her through the back exit, the cold air hitting my face like needles. My legs still felt weak, but I didn’t care. All I could think about was Luca.“Stay close,” Cassandra whispered, her voice barely audible over the storm. “They’ve got eyes everywhere.”We slipped into a black SUV waiting behind the hospital. The driver didn’t speak a word—just nodded once before starting the engine. As the car sped away, I looked back through the tinted window. The hospital lights faded into the distance, swallowed by the night.“Where are we going?” I finally asked.Cassandra didn’t look at me. “Somewhere Luca never wanted you to find.”Her words sent a chill through me. “You mean—”

Mira’s P.O.VWhen I opened my eyes, the world was quiet.Too quiet.The last thing I remembered was the sound of gunfire, the taste of rain and blood in the air—and Luca’s voice begging me to stay awake. Now, everything was wrapped in stillness. White walls. The faint scent of antiseptic. A steady beep echoing somewhere near my ear.I blinked hard, realizing I was lying in a hospital bed. My hand instinctively flew to my stomach.The baby.“Please…” I whispered, tears welling instantly.Before panic could fully drown me, a voice spoke softly from the corner. “He’s fine, Mira.”I turned my head slowly—and froze.Cassandra Navarro was sitting beside the window, her arms crossed, a faint bruise darkening her temple. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes, usually sharp and cold, were softer now.“He’s fine,” she repeated. “Both of you are.”My heart slammed against my rib

Mira’s P.O.VThe night burned.The sound of gunfire swallowed everything—thunder, wind, even my heartbeat. The mansion trembled under the weight of chaos outside, and every shot that echoed through the storm felt like it was tearing straight through my chest.“Stay down, Señorita!” Manang Silva cried, pulling me behind one of the marble columns as glass shattered somewhere near the west wing. “They’re trying to breach the gates!”But my eyes stayed on the door.Because somewhere beyond it… was him.“Luca,” I whispered, the name breaking apart in my throat. The world outside was on fire, and all I could think about was getting to him.I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t just wait.“I have to go,” I said, trying to stand, but Manang grabbed my wrist with surprising strength. “No! You can’t—”“She’s out there too,” I cut her off, trembling. “Cassandra. She’s alive, Manang. She’s—she’s fighting them.”Manang’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her wrinkled face. “Cassandra Navarro? Señ

Mira’s P.O.V The world outside the safe room had gone still. Too still. For a moment, I wondered if I had gone deaf—or if the storm had swallowed every sound whole. The silence pressed against my ears, heavy, unnatural. My pulse became the only noise I could hear. “Manang,” I whispered, but she didn’t answer. She was frozen near the door, clutching the rosary that dangled between her trembling fingers. “Stay here, Señorita,” she murmured again, voice breaking. “Don’t make a sound.” But I couldn’t just stay still. Not when Luca was out there. Not when Cassandra Navarro—the woman who was supposed to be dead—was standing in front of him like some ghost come to collect what she was owed. I turned back to the screen, watching every flicker of movement. The rain blurred the camera lens, but even through the static, I could see the tension—the way Luca’s shoulders squared, the way his gun lowered ever so slightly, as if he were seeing something impossible. Cassandra took a step close

AMARA’S P.O.V The day stretched on like a punishment. I woke up with the blanket still tangled around me on the couch. My neck ached from the awkward angle I had curled into, and my back felt stiff, like even my body was protesting how I’d slept. The first few seconds were fog—then the silence hit me, thick and total. I turned my head toward the window. The curtains didn’t block much, just softened the light into a pale rectangle that stretched across the floor. Not bright. Not warm. Just late morning, maybe close to noon. Marcus still wasn’t home. My hand moved automatically toward my phone. I didn’t even think—just reached. The screen lit up and my stomach sank at the emptiness. No text. No call. Not from him. Not from Luke. Just notifications that had nothing to do with me. Discounts. Subscriptions. Useless reminders. All these things shouting about a world that was fine, untouched, while mine felt like it was quietly cracking in two. I sat there with the phone in my hand for

AMARA'S P.O.V The door closed with the softest click, but it reverberated in my bones like a gunshot. Silence followed—thick, oppressive, almost alive. I stayed standing there, one hand on the knob, forehead against the wood. My chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, as if part of me still expected him to knock again. To stay. To refuse to leave. But he didn’t. Luke was gone. And Marcus was still nowhere to be found. The house was too quiet, every shadow stretched thin by the early light seeping through the curtains. It wasn’t even morning yet, not fully—the world outside still wore that strange half-light where the sky can’t decide between night and day. I hated that hour. Too honest. Too raw. It exposed everything you’d tried to bury in the dark. I walked back toward the living room, but my legs felt like they were moving through water. The couch swallowed me the moment I sat down. My body sagged against the cushions, but my mind refused to rest. I kept hea

AMARA'S P.O.V The message burned on the screen: I’m outside. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My hand went clammy around the phone, thumb hovering like I might erase the words just by touching them. But no, they stayed there, glowing, undeniable. I looked up at the window. The curtains were thin enough that faint morning light was starting to seep through. Grey, weak, not the golden kind you’d welcome—it was the kind that made everything look colder. My chest tightened. Outside. He was actually outside. I told myself not to move. To stay on the floor where I was, where my body had slumped against the wall after hours of waiting for Marcus. Just stay. Pretend I never saw it. Pretend I’m asleep. Pretend none of this is happening. But my legs moved anyway. Clumsy, stiff, like they weren’t mine. Each step felt like betrayal, but I kept walking toward the door. The hallway was quiet, too quiet. Even the creak of the floor under my feet sounded like a confession. My hand found the

AMARA'S P.O.V The space on the hook gaped at me like an open wound. One hook empty, one still holding my keys. His absence was loud, louder than any slammed door or shouted word. I couldn’t move. My body stayed frozen in the hallway, bare feet glued to the cold floor, eyes fixed on the missing keys as if staring long enough could summon him back. It was 2 a.m. What reason did a man have to leave at 2 a.m.? The seconds dragged, the clock ticking faintly above the doorway, each sound pounding inside my head. My fingers curled tighter around the edge of the table until my knuckles ached. I told myself not to spiral. Not to think of the worst. But the images came anyway, flooding me mercilessly. Marcus behind the wheel, jaw set, hands steady. Driving to—what? Another woman? A secret meeting? A place I had no part in? I squeezed my eyes shut, but that only made it worse. My imagination filled in the blanks with cruel efficiency. A dimly lit street. A door opening. His body leaning

AMARA'S P.O.V The cursor blinked. And blinked. And blinked. That stupid little line, pulsing like a heartbeat on a screen. Mocking me. Reminding me that I couldn’t even do the simplest thing—reply to a message. My thumbs hovered. I typed: Don’t come. Then erased it. I typed: Yes. Erased it too. Every letter felt like a commitment, a crack in the thin wall I was holding between myself and everything I wasn’t ready to face. Luke’s words just sat there on the screen: Do you want me to come? So simple. So sharp. I stared until the letters blurred. My chest tightened the way it always does when I’m caught between two choices I don’t want to make. My nails dug into my palm, leaving little crescents on my skin. I told myself I should delete the whole thread. Just erase it, erase him, erase everything. Pretend it wasn’t there. Pretend he wasn’t there. But I couldn’t bring myself to swipe left and hit delete. My body wouldn’t move. My thumb just hovered, trembling lik

AMARA’S P.O.V I stayed in the kitchen long after Marcus disappeared upstairs. My hands wrapped around the mug like it was the only thing keeping me steady, though the coffee inside had already gone cold. The porcelain pressed into my skin until my fingers turned red. I knew I should set it down before it slipped and shattered, but part of me almost wanted it to. Maybe the sound of something breaking would match what was happening inside me. The house felt heavier than usual. Like the walls were made of cement blocks stacked on my chest. Every corner was too quiet, too polished. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall grated against my nerves. I hated how normal everything looked when nothing about me felt normal anymore. I pressed my forehead against the counter, the marble cold enough to sting. My reflection on its glossy surface stared back at me—pale skin, swollen eyes, hair falling loose. I didn’t look like the woman Marcus married. I didn’t look like anyone I knew. Just this

The silence in the penthouse was unbearable. Even the city outside—its muted hum of horns, laughter, and occasional shouts drifting up from the street below—seemed too far away, too detached, as though mocking the storm that brewed inside me. I paced across the living room, barefoot on the cool marble floors. My skin prickled with the remnants of the argument I’d had with Ethan hours ago, his words replaying in a loop inside my head. “You think love alone can keep you safe? Ariana, the world I live in will devour you if you keep searching for truths that are better left buried.” That voice, clipped and cold, still lingered in the air like smoke. Yet beneath it, I had seen it—the flicker in his eyes, the hesitation that betrayed the iron walls he constantly built. I wrapped my arms around myself as if I could shield my heart from breaking any further. But the truth was, I was tired. Tired of running after answers. Tired of c

The house felt too big that morning. I woke to silence—not the peaceful kind, but the kind that made your chest tighten. The sheets beside me were still warm, so Ethan must have slipped out of bed not too long ago. I could still smell his cologne faintly on the pillow, that sharp, clean scent that used to comfort me. Now it only reminded me of how close he was and yet how far he felt. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning and the faint sounds of the city outside. Cars honking in the distance, a dog barking somewhere beyond the gates. Normal life kept moving, while inside me everything had slowed to a crawl. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I wrapped the silk robe tighter around my body. My skin felt cold, though the sun was already spilling light through the tall windows. Downstairs, the staff moved quietly, like they knew something was wrong but didn’t dare speak it. Every

The ride back to the penthouse was the longest I’d ever endured. The driver kept his eyes straight on the road, silent as a stone. Miguel had stayed behind in that hotel suite—too smug, too sure of himself—and yet his presence clung to me like smoke I couldn’t wash off. Ethan sat beside me, his shoulders rigid, one hand gripping his knee so tightly the tendons strained. He didn’t speak. Not a word. His silence filled the space between us, louder than any argument. I stared out the tinted window. The city lights blurred together, streaks of gold and red smeared by the rain. My own reflection stared back at me—hollow-eyed, pale, lips pressed into a thin line. I almost didn’t recognize her. When the car stopped at the building, I stepped out first. The air was damp, thick with the scent of asphalt and wet pavement. Paparazzi flashes sparked near the gates, but the guards kept them back. Still, I felt exposed, as if their camer

The sound of his voice froze me in place. “Ariana.” Ethan’s tone wasn’t angry, not yet—but it was deep, steady, the kind that carried weight. The kind that could unravel me with just one word. My pulse hammered against my ears. I could feel Miguel’s gaze on me, sharp as a blade, savoring the tension. He didn’t move to open the door. Instead, he tilted his head and whispered, almost smug, “Seems your husband doesn’t trust you after all.” I wanted to slap that smirk off his face. Instead, I took a breath and crossed the room, each step heavier than the last. My heels sank into the thick carpet, my throat constricting with every second Ethan stood on the other side of the door. My fingers brushed the cold brass handle, but before I could turn it, Miguel’s hand landed on my wrist. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was enough to stop me. His voice dipped low. “Think carefully, Ariana. Open that door, and you

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, but the sound felt unnaturally loud against the silence pressing around me. My heels clicked softly on the polished marble floor as I stepped out into the twelfth floor of Hotel Valencia. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood mixed with the sharp tang of disinfectant—an odd combination that made my chest tighten. Everything here gleamed: the golden sconces casting warm light across beige walls, the thick carpet that muffled footsteps, the faint hum of central air conditioning. It was beautiful, elegant, the kind of place people chose for secret affairs or high-stakes deals. And maybe that was exactly why Miguel had chosen it. I forced my hands to stay steady as I smoothed the front of my dress, but inside, my pulse was erratic, each beat hammering against my ribs like it wanted to escape. The memory of Ethan’s warning replayed in my head—his voice low, commanding, edged with frustration: Don’t dig into thi

The storm had passed by morning, but the air in the mansion was heavier than before—thick, metallic, as though the walls themselves had absorbed every scream, every silence, and now they were bleeding it back into the air. I hadn’t slept. Not really. I had curled up on the farthest edge of the bed while Ethan remained on the other side, his back turned, his body rigid as stone. The space between us had never felt wider. When I finally rose, the curtains were still drawn. The faint glow of daylight seeped through, pale and gray. My body felt like lead as I stood, dragging myself toward the mirror. My reflection startled me. Hollow eyes, lips cracked from the salt of dried tears, skin pale against the dark silk of my nightdress. I didn’t look like Ethan Navarro’s wife. I didn’t even look like Ariana De Leon anymore. I looked like someone’s shadow—fading, fragile, waiting to be erased. A knock startled me. Too soft to be Ethan