Novels by Korie M.

Late January 2029 clawed at Greenwich, Connecticut, with a frost that bit like a blade. I, Elise—Xiamond—crouched in a shadowed alley near Kayla Reed’s apartment, my platinum hair matted under a black hoodie, chipped nails gripping a burner phone. Her blue sedan, parked on a quiet Greenwich side street, had been my first strike—brake lines slashed by Derek, my Newark ally, fluid pooling on asphalt. Kayla, her jet-black hair loose, her emerald dress from the Nexus gala (December 2028) burned in my mind, her six-month pregnancy—my ultrasound leak (November 2028)—a taunt. She’d stolen Justin Drake, my Justin, his hazel eyes once mine in 2023. My leaks—Greenwich auction shots (October 2025), Catskills drones (September 2026), Barbados villa photos (October 2028), the ultrasound, the gala caption Kayla’s last stand?—failed to shatter them. Last week’s Nexus event in Manhattan, where Kayla’s wariness foiled my SUV plan, was a lash. Yesterday’s brake sabotage, meant for her clinic run today,

Late January 2028 wrapped Montclair, New Jersey, in a brittle frost, the air sharp enough to cut as I stood in our apartment’s kitchen, my jet-black hair spilling loose over a thick wool sweater, my plus-sized curves straining against the fabric, my six-month pregnancy—discovered in Barbados in August 2027, due late April or early May—a quiet weight beneath my heart. The Nexus event in New York last week (Chapter Thirty-Eight) had left me rattled, the black SUV circling the Flatiron ballroom, its tinted windows a ghost of the one I’d seen outside our building, paired with that cryptic note slipped under our door: “Watch your step.” Justin stood by the counter, his dark curls damp from a shower, his hazel eyes shadowed, his gray hoodie stretched over broad shoulders. The Nexus gala (December 2027) and press tour (November 2027) had cemented his app’s triumph, but the SUV and note gnawed at us both. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice low, pouring coffee into a chipped mug

January 2028 bit at my skin as Justin and I stepped into the pulsing heart of New York City, the Nexus follow-up event lighting up a sleek Manhattan ballroom in the Flatiron District. The venue’s glass walls shimmered under a sky heavy with frost, the city’s skyline a jagged silhouette against the dusk. My jet-black hair was swept into a loose bun, my plus-sized curves draped in a deep emerald dress that hugged my six-month pregnancy—discovered in Barbados in August 2027, due in late April or early May, our secret still cloaked by the press tour’s lies (November 2027). The Nexus gala (December 2027) had launched Justin’s privacy app to the stars, but tonight’s event was its victory lap, a showcase of its global reach. My resignation from Valley Hospital (December 2027) left me untethered, my nurse’s instincts now solely for our unborn child, but a gnawing unease clung to me, sharpened by that cryptic note slipped under our Montclair apartment door last week: “Watch your step.” The bla

Late January 2029 gripped Montclair, New Jersey, in a brittle frost, the air sharp as a blade. I, Elise—Xiamond—lurked in a shadowed alley near Kayla Reed’s apartment, my platinum hair matted under a black hoodie, my chipped nails clutching a burner phone. Her blue sedan sat parked on a quiet street, its brake lines freshly cut by Derek, my ally from Newark, his cruelty a mirror to my own. Kayla, her jet-black hair loose, her emerald dress from the Nexus gala (December 2028) still haunting me, carried her six-month pregnancy—my ultrasound leak (November 2028) exposed—like a trophy. She’d stolen Justin Drake, my Justin, whose hazel eyes once burned for me in 2023. Her poise at the Nexus follow-up event in Manhattan last week, her wariness foiling my SUV plan, was a lash across my scars. My leaks—Greenwich auction shots (October 2025), Catskills drones (September 2026), Barbados villa photos (October 2028), the ultrasound, the gala caption Kayla’s last stand?—hadn’t broken them. The bra

January 2029 cloaked my Brooklyn loft in a gray, suffocating haze, the city’s distant pulse a bitter echo of the rage searing my chest. I, Elise—Xiamond—stood by the grimy window, its cracked frame rattling in the icy wind, my platinum hair matted from sleepless nights, my manicured nails chipped from clawing at a tattered Greenwich map pinned to the peeling plaster wall. Red ink circled The Gilded Spoon, the upscale Greenwich diner where Kayla Reed waitressed in 2025, her emerald dress at the October auction a taunt that burned like acid in my veins. She’d stolen Justin Drake, my Justin, the man whose hazel eyes once held mine, not hers, in a fleeting blaze of passion. Her pregnancy, six months along, exposed by my ultrasound leak (November 2028), was a wound I’d never let close. Their Nexus gala (December 2028) mocked me, Kayla’s confidence a slap, my leaks—photos from the Greenwich auction (October 2025), the ultrasound, the gala caption Kayla’s last stand?—failing to shatter their

January 2029 cloaked my Brooklyn loft in a gray, suffocating haze, the city’s distant pulse a bitter echo of the rage searing my chest. I, Elise—Xiamond—stood by the grimy window, its cracked frame rattling in the icy wind, my platinum hair matted from sleepless nights, my manicured nails chipped from clawing at a tattered Greenwich map pinned to the peeling plaster wall. Red ink circled The Gilded Spoon, the upscale Greenwich diner where Kayla Reed waitressed in 2025, her emerald dress at the October auction a taunt that still burned like acid in my veins. She’d stolen Justin Drake, my Justin, the man whose hazel eyes once held mine, not hers, in a fleeting blaze of passion. Her pregnancy, six months along, exposed by my ultrasound leak (November 2028), was a wound I’d never let close. Their Nexus gala (December 2028) mocked me, Kayla’s confidence a slap, my leaks—photos from the Greenwich auction (October 2025), the ultrasound, the gala caption Kayla’s last stand?—failing to shatter