Novels by Ravensong

The last trimester hit like a slow-building wave, turning our quiet suburban cottage into a nest of anticipation and minor chaos. By month seven, my belly had rounded out fully, making simple tasks—like bending to tie my shoes or getting up from the couch—a comedy of errors. The garden out back, which I'd taken pride in tending with herbs and flowers, now required Damien's help for weeding, his tall frame bending where I couldn't. Mornings started with gentle kicks from inside, like our little one was already eager to join the world. "Active today," I'd say, rubbing the spot, and Damien would press his hand there, eyes widening at each flutter."How are you feeling?" he'd ask every morning over breakfast, his voice a mix of concern and excitement, pouring me decaf coffee while he sipped his regular."Tired, mostly," I'd reply, stretching my back against the chair. "The baby's using my bladder as a trampoline, and sleep's a joke with all the tossing and turning. But... it's good tired.

Two years had slipped by since our wedding, each day weaving Damien and me closer in ways I hadn't imagined possible. The move to the outskirts of New York came naturally after the first year—away from the city's constant buzz, the lingering whispers of old scandals, and the memories that sometimes surfaced uninvited. We'd settled into a cozy cottage in a quiet suburb, with wide open fields and a small garden out back. Mornings were slow now, filled with coffee on the porch and plans for the day, no more rushing through traffic or dodging paparazzi glimpses. Rossi Designs had grown into a steady online empire, with pop-up shops in the city when needed, and Damien's gallery thrived through virtual auctions and partnerships. Life felt balanced, grounded—like we'd finally left the storm behind.Lila came to visit for two days last month, crashing on our guest room couch with her usual energy, bringing takeout and stories from the city. We spent the first evening on the porch, wine in han

The garden venue's petals still clung to my gown as Damien and I slipped away from the chaos, the echoes of Marcus's screams fading behind us like a bad dream finally breaking. Security had hauled him off, his voice cracking with desperation—"Elena! You can't do this! We're meant to be!"—but the doors shut on his pleas, sealing the chapter I'd fought so hard to close. In the bridal car, now repurposed for our escape, Damien held my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. "You okay?" he asked, his hazel eyes searching mine, voice steady amid the whirlwind. I nodded, leaning into him, the lily in his pocket brushing my cheek. "Better than okay. It feels... free." He smiled, pulling me closer. "Good. Because this is just the start." We honeymooned in a quiet cabin upstate, a world away from the city's frenzy—log fires crackling, walks through autumn woods, nights wrapped in each other's arms. No grand gestures, just us, exploring the quiet joy of a love without conditions. "I

The bridal car glided through New York streets, the spring sun filtering through tinted windows, casting patterns on my white gown. One month of frantic planning had led here, the seventh wedding attempt, a number that felt cursed despite Marcus's optimism. I sat in the back, hands clasped in my lap, Mr. Hale, my old professor and mentor beside me, his steady presence a stand-in for my late father. He'd flown in from Chicago, his warm smile easing some nerves. "You look radiant than ever before, Elena," he said, patting my hand. "Your parents would be proud.""Thank you," I replied, forcing a smile, my mind racing with flashbacks. Marcus's proposal on the rooftop, the lilies he'd given me recently—wait, no, back then it was roses, Sophia's favorite, not my lilies. I'd accepted them silently, not wanting to nitpick. Now, it all felt like signs I'd ignored or was chosing to. Whispers from his friends comparing me to her, the way he'd light up at her mentions. But today was supposed to

One month had passed since my return from Brooklyn, the launch's success a distant glow overshadowed by the storm brewing in my personal life. Rossi Designs was thriving—orders pouring in for the fractured hearts line, each unique piece a testament to my vision of singularity and authenticity. I'd spent days in the studio, sketching furiously, turning pain into art, but Marcus's persistent calls and texts chipped away at my resolve. He was everywhere in my thoughts, his apologies evolving from desperate pleas to calculated remorse, gaslighting me into questioning if I was the one overreacting all along. Sophia's baby had been born, a boy, healthy despite early scares and Marcus swore he was done, cutting ties, focusing on us. "Like they say seventh time's the charm," he'd said in one call, his voice laced with that old charm that once made my heart flip.I met Damien for coffee a few times, our connection deepening into something undeniable—late walks, shared laughs, exploratory talk

The Brooklyn warehouse gallery hummed with anticipation, its industrial space transformed into a sleek venue with string lights dangling from exposed beams and white-clothed tables scattered around. I’d spent the afternoon in my hotel room getting ready for the launch, slipping into a sleek black gown that hugged my slim curves without overdoing it, elegant, professional, with a slit for movement. My hair was pulled into a loose updo, and I added one of my own pieces: the split ruby necklace, its gold veins catching the mirror’s light like a badge of survival. This was my night, Rossi Designs stepping into the spotlight, and I wasn’t letting Marcus’s half-hearted promises from the plane call derail me. I rented a car at the hotel desk, a compact sedan, practical for navigating Brooklyn’s streets since bringing my own from New York wasn’t an option, and taxis felt too unreliable for the event’s timing. I drove over, the GPS guiding me through unfamiliar neighborhoods, parking in a desi