Novel-novel oleh Honey Pot

ANASTASIA. He pauses with his hand on his door’s handle. “What did you just call me?” “Husband. You know what they call the man when they get married? Yeah, that–” “Lose it.” “Lose what?” “The word. Lose it.” “No.” I crossed my arms over my chest as I glared at him. “What I call you is my business, I can decide to call you whatever, you don't control me. Plus, we need to keep things original, you know, Cierra, she's cunning, and it's only a matter of time before she starts sniffing around us, and she's smart too. It's not a coincidence that Dad has been battling a lifetime of court cases with her.” “Anastasia,” he warns. “You need to start calling me Ana or something for this whole thing to work,” I said, getting tired of how my skin tingles anytime he calls me by my full name. He shouldn't have that much access to me. A cold smile takes over his mouth, and I know that whatever is about to come out of his mouth will not be to my liking. “What about kiddo

ANASTASIA. The getting married part didn't make me want to throw up my guts. I wanted to throw up my guts when I saw Payton, the witch, at my wedding. Yes, I knew she would be there; after all, she's close to Damien’s age and works with him. Gag. Eww. So yeah, seeing her there might've brought out the anger. I usually try to tone it down and bury it inside. The anger I feel is toxic, super toxic, and I don't want to be that person in the presence of Damien on my wedding day. Payton didn't do anything either; her mere existence just makes me want to turn into a beast. Anyway, it's over. We are finally married, though nobody will know about it except the four of us: myself, Damien, Payton, and Cierra. He made it clear that no one else would know about it, and we removed our rings immediately after we were done at the city hall. He would probably throw them out once we were far away from here. I still feel a ick for Payton, so the moment I get home, I open my journal

ANASTASIA I have not been able to get those words out of my head. HER FUTURE HUSBAND. I didn't know how to react; I was overwhelmed and hiding, like I always do. I couldn't sleep. I wanted to stay with Dad, but Damien did his thing and told me to go home and get some sleep because tomorrow was a big day. He didn't voice the last part, but I figured it out on my own. But I couldn't just get some sleep, not even after I blasted Taylor Swift on my headphones and exhausted myself by stress dancing, not even when I swallowed three sleeping pills—or maybe five. I lost count somewhere. My mind was definitely shutting down. Usually, Dad makes me some herbal tea—with raspberry flavor—and reads me a story as if I'm a little girl. He puts me to sleep and stays by my side till I fall asleep. But Dad wasn't there last night. I could feel the loss of his presence in my bones, and maybe that was the reason I didn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about what to do if something ha

ANASTASIA. My eyes snapped open, the sterile, antiseptic air of the ICU stinging my nostrils. The reality I had desperately tried to suppress crashed over me, cold and suffocating. My father–my brilliant, scowling, secretly soft-hearted father–could die. A raw, salty taste filled my mouth. I was drinking my own tears. This wasn't a reaction to a word in a notebook. This was terror, pulled from a place so deep inside I didn't know it existed. He was my only family. The man who painted my world in bright, defiant colours. The thought of a world without his off-key “Happy Birthday,” without his late-night tea because I couldn't sleep, without the home we built together….it felt like the floor had vanished beneath me. A shiver jolted me upright as a heavy jacket slid from my shoulders into my lap. My fingers traced the tough fabric. The scent hit me immediately–vanilla, spicy, woodsy, with a faint, familiar musk. It doesn't matter that I don't remember him putting it o

ANASTASIA. The glass slipped, a brief rebellion against my fingers, and exploded against the stainless steel sink. Shards scattered across the countertop, and it made everywhere disorganized. The noise was a brutal sound, perfectly synced with the screaming climax of Twenty One Pilots from the Alexa. I winced. Moving on autopilot, my hands began the careful work of gathering the pieces. My attention, however, was on my phone. The group chat–Liam, Jenna, Harper–was filled with memes and dull chatters. I labelled them friends, but academic acquaintances’ was more honest. We're all pre-law students, drawn together by nearness and ambition, I knew they were not close to me for any other reason thato get favoured when it was time to apply to Dad’s law firm.. It's hard for me to trust that anyone's interest was genuine. Since I was a child, most people have been drawn to the gravitational pull of my father's success or the spectacle of our family drama–specifically, the en

ANASTASIA. I jolt, hugging my phone to my chest. And fuck, that was such a bad idea, because now I'm thinking about him between my breasts, and the G-string I had on was so damp right now and messy. My reaction went downhill from there, and there was no way to stop it. My lips were parted, I'm sure my cheeks were heated, and my expression must have been frozen like a deer caught in headlights. But instead of commenting on his picture that I'm sure he saw on my phone, he stepped in front of my swing, towering over me like a fucking Greek god. “Don't worry. I'm not interested in peeking at your conversations with your boyfriend.” My heart did this somersault thing that made me feel like I'm going to vomit or faint, maybe both. Boyfriend. His expression showed anger for a second. I wasn't sure because the lapse was just for a second, and then it was back to his default. “I don't have a boyfriend.” “One less thing for Xavier to worry about.”