Novels by Nhelahsheere

Selene Vale sat on her bed, a glass of champagne in her hand—Dom Pérignon, because she'd needed something to steady her nerves after the day she'd had. Maxwell was dead. Kenneth Dunlap was circling like a shark. And Rowan... Rowan was probably tearing his organization apart looking for the traitor who'd helped stage his prisoner's suicide.But she was safe here. Anonymous. Just another wealthy woman in an expensive hotel, paying cash, using a name that wasn't quite hers.The hotel room glowed—gold lamps, crisp sheets, a city laid out beneath glass. Why the lights were so harsh she didn't know. Perhaps it had something to do with her running away from Leon after he had helped her.This is what needed to be done. Leon knew this.She convinced herself.This was the second day she was there in the hotel and she had no idea what she’d do next. Harold called her later that day telling her that someone got the footage of that day, and she couldn't remember asking anyone to do it. Had Leon go

It was Lucien. He took one look at her flour-covered clothes and smoke-stained ceiling and her creepy smile and turned right back.Whatever her appearance and that smile was about, he wasn't going to be part of it.Then he felt her dragging him back through his shirt, he was wearing a light shirt and a trouser. Considering the way she was dragging his clothes, he couldn't risk going back naked so he had to follow her inside.Once in, she closed the door flashing him a creepy smile.He had planned to annoy the hell out of her but that planned seemed as if he was digging his grave.“I don't want to know why you're here, but you're here at the right time. Come with me. Breakfast is served.” Marcelline said leading him to the dinning.“Sit tight. I'll be right back.” She said and dashed inside the kitchen, reappearing minutes later with a plate of what seemed like a burnt offering.“Eat.” she encouraged.He stared at the plate before him, they were giving “This was once a Cookie ” vibe. H

Marcelline woke to morning light streaming through her expensive curtains, the kind that filtered sunlight into a soft golden glow that interior designers charged fortunes to achieve. Her eyes snapped open, and panic flooded her system.She was late.Her internal clock screamed at her that she should have been up an hour ago. She threw off the covers and swung her legs out of bed, already mentally running through her morning routine, calculating how long it would take to shower, dress, review the morning reports—Then it clicked.Saturday.It was Saturday. A weekend. No office. No meetings. No quarterly reports demanding her attention or board members questioning her decisions or Damien plotting her downfall.Just... nothing.Marcelline sank back onto the bed, the adrenaline draining away and leaving confusion in its wake. What was she supposed to do with a Saturday? Her life had been so consumed by work—first as Rowan's wife managing his household and social calendar, then as CEO man

Her father watched her closely. “Then prove it,” he said.The dinner had begun. And Marcelline realized something with startling clarity— This table wasn’t testing her.It was remembering her.And tonight, she would remind it exactly who she had become.For exactly three bites, they maintained the illusion of a normal dinner.Then the first strike came—not from Alexander, but from one of the board members."Miss Odette," Gerald Hutchinson began, clearing his throat in that particular way people did when they were about to say something unpleasant, "there have been... concerns."Marcelline didn't look surprised. She dabbed her lips calmly with her napkin, set it back in her lap with deliberate care. "Concerns are expected in any leadership transition. Go on."Gerald glanced at Alexander before continuing, seeking permission or perhaps reassurance. "The company has faced public scrutiny recently. Leadership optics, investor confidence, market perception—"Damien cut in smoothly, his voi

Marcelline stood in her penthouse at 8:30 PM, staring at her reflection with the kind of dread usually reserved for executions.She'd spent the entire afternoon contemplating not going. Had drafted a dozen different text messages to Lucien explaining why she couldn't make it, why a family dinner after thirteen years of silence was too much, too soon, too complicated.Had deleted every single one.Because the truth was simple and infuriating: if she didn't show up tonight, she'd spend every moment wondering what had been said in her absence. What decisions had been made about her future. Whether her position as CEO had been quietly dismantled while she hid in her penthouse like a coward.The Odettes didn't forgive absence. They remembered it. Used it. Weaponized it.So she'd go. She'd sit through whatever performance her father had orchestrated. And she'd face her family with the same composure she brought to boardrooms full of hostile investors.Even if it killed her.The dress she'd

"Marcelline," Lucien said again, taking a step further into her office like he had every right to be there. "It's been a while."The understatement of the century.A thousand questions crashed through her mind at once, each one fighting for dominance. Why now? Why after nine years of silence? Where were you when I got divorced? Where were you during those nine years of marriage when I was completely alone?But what came out was something else entirely. "What are you doing here?"His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I was hoping to surprise you.”That did it.The word surprise echoed somewhere deep in her memory, attached to a time she didn’t like to revisit. A time when she’d been smaller, quieter, less certain of her footing.“Oh. I'm surprised.” She said sarcasm dripping in her voice. “Get. Out.”Lucien's lips curved into something that might have been a smile on someone less guarded. "Is that any way to greet your brother?""Brother," she repeated, the word tasting bitter. "You lo