Novels by D&M

The rain came harder, blurring the world into streaks of silver and noise.Damien’s car idled at the end of the alley, headlights slicing through the dark. His face was half-lit, half-shadowed — the kind of look that made it impossible to tell if you should run toward him or away.Alexander’s grip on my arm tightened. “Don’t even think about it.”I looked between them — father and son, mirror images separated by age and ruthlessness. The Whitlocks didn’t just build empires. They bred predators.And here I was, standing between them, soaked and shaking, with both pretending they were here to save me.“Get in the car, Elara,” Damien called, voice raised over the rain. “Please. You have to trust me.”A bitter laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. “That’s funny coming from you.”Alexander stepped closer, his voice a low current. “If you get in that car, you’ll regret it.”“And if I stay?”He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.For a heartbeat, I saw something raw in Damien’s expression —

The message from Alexander stared back at me like a trap that had already sprung.You’re in over your head, Elara. Walk away before it’s too late.I read it twice. Three times. Every repetition made it sound less like a warning and more like a challenge.If he wanted me afraid, he’d have to try harder.I deleted the text, though the words burned themselves into memory, and slipped the phone into my bag. Outside, the city hummed — horns, voices, the pulse of a thousand ambitions colliding. I moved through it like a ghost who’d chosen not to haunt, just watch.Back home, the folder waited on the counter, silent and patient.I made coffee first — a ritual, not a need — then opened it.Photographs. Reports. Names.Most of it looked harmless on the surface: meeting notes, vendor lists, travel records. But the pattern was there if you squinted. Every leak traced back to a specific division, one under Damien’s oversight before his father quietly reassigned it.Figures.Still, something didn’

The morning after the dinner with Alexander Whitlock felt like waking from a dream I wasn’t sure I’d had—or a game I hadn’t realized I’d started.The news was everywhere. My face. His. Side by side.“Runaway Bride Seen With Groom’s Father.”“Is Alexander Whitlock Protecting His Son’s Fiancée—or Something Else?”I almost laughed when I saw the headlines. Almost.They called me “the scandal everyone loves to watch.” I’d become a show, a headline, a hashtag. And I couldn’t even deny that I’d handed them the script.But underneath the noise, I felt calm. Too calm. Like the quiet right before lightning splits the sky.The doorbell rang just as I poured coffee. My stomach twisted—it was too early for reporters, and Maggie always texted first.I opened the door halfway.A man in a dark suit stood there, expression unreadable. “Miss Vale?”“Yes.”He handed me an envelope so heavy it felt expensive. “From Mr. Whitlock.”I blinked. “Alexander?”He gave a polite nod. “You’ll find everything insi

The morning after the Whitlock gala felt strangely quiet.Too quiet.The world had been watching me last night — cameras flashing, whispers blooming like wildfire. I half expected to wake up to chaos. But the silence that filled my apartment wasn’t peace. It was the kind that comes before a storm.My phone buzzed against the counter, screen lighting up with notifications. I didn’t even have to look to know what they were. I opened it anyway.“Runaway bride attends Whitlock charity gala.”“Elara Hale seen on balcony with Alexander Whitlock.”“Whitlock heir’s ex-fiancée steals spotlight.”I couldn’t help it — a small smile tugged at my lips. The press had eaten it up, just like Alexander said they would. Damien’s damage control team must’ve been tearing their hair out. My mother, too. She probably hadn’t expected me to walk straight into their world again — and certainly not on Alexander’s arm.I scrolled through the photos. In one, I was standing close to him, his head tilted toward me

The Whitlock estate was exactly as I remembered it—polished marble, quiet fountains, and walls that whispered old money. The kind of place that made people straighten their backs and lower their voices without realizing why.I shouldn’t have been here. Not after everything. But that was exactly why I came.Layla nearly had a heart attack when I told her my plan that morning.“Elara,” she’d said, clutching her coffee like it was holy water. “Going to a Whitlock event after what happened is either the bravest thing you’ve ever done or the dumbest.”“Maybe both,” I’d replied.She wasn’t wrong. Everyone expected me to disappear. Hide. Break quietly so the Whitlocks could smooth over the scandal. I could practically hear Damien’s smug little speech in my head: *She’s emotional. She’ll calm down.*But I wasn’t calming down. I was dressing up.The evening air was cool as my car rolled up the long, tree-lined drive. Spotlights washed the front steps in soft gold. Waiters in black suits moved

The sky was painfully blue the next morning. It shouldn’t have been. It should’ve been gray and stormy, matching the way my chest felt. But no — the sun poured through my windows like the universe didn’t care about broken hearts or ruined weddings.The kettle on the counter whistled, sharp and shrill, dragging me back from another spiral of thoughts. I poured hot water over the teabag, watching the steam rise like smoke from a fire. Sleep hadn’t come easily, and when it did, it brought me dreams of gold rings slipping off fingers and laughter turning into whispers.My phone was still buzzing. Calls.Messages. Notifications. Headlines. I had stopped looking at them. Instead, I stared at my kitchen table where a single wedding magazine lay face down. I didn’t even remember putting it there. Damien’s smile was on the cover, his arm around my waist, the headline screaming out: “THE WEDDING OF THE YEAR.”Not anymore.A knock echoed through the apartment. Not a frantic one this time. Slow.