Novel-novel oleh Raven

For some moments the room felt still. Isabella’s words hung in the air, trembling between disbelief and revelation. “I—I remember.” Jayden didn’t speak right away. He just watched her, watched the way her shoulders shook, the way her fingers pressed into the couch as though she needed something solid to anchor her to the present. He stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay, Bella. You don’t have to rush it.” She nodded faintly, though her gaze stayed fixed on nothing in particular. “It’s like… someone just ripped open a curtain inside my head. Everything’s blurry, but it’s there.” Her voice cracked at the end. Jayden lowered himself into the chair across from her. “Then don’t force it. Let it come, slowly.” And for the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, across from each other as the noon sunlight slanted across the suite, bathing it in a soft golden haze. After sometime, Jayden stood up and walked toward the sideboard. “You need fo

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the city far below the glass walls. Isabella stood rooted where she was, her breath caught halfway in her chest.The words "long-lost sister" kept circling back in her head, looping again and again until they lost meaning.Finally, she blinked and shook her head, a small incredulous laugh slipping out. “I’m sorry—what?”The man—Jayden, though she didn’t know that yet—didn’t move. His expression remained calm, too calm, as though he’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times before actually saying it aloud.“I said,” he repeated quietly, “I think you’re my long-lost sister.”She laughed again, sharper this time. “Right. Your what? No, no, that’s… that’s ridiculous.” She stepped back, putting a little distance between them, her hand instinctively finding the edge of the marble counter behind her. “Look, I appreciate whatever this is—some weird joke, or hangover hallucination—but you’ve got the wrong person.”He took a step f

Isabella groaned and pressed a hand to her forehead as light filtered through the sheer curtains, soft, golden, and uncomfortably bright. The sheets beneath her were cool and smooth, the scent of fresh linen mingling faintly with something expensive — sandalwood, maybe. Her skull throbbed like someone had struck a drum inside her head. She blinked once, twice. Then sat up too quickly. This… wasn’t her suite. The walls here were ivory and gold, the ceiling was higher and the furniture richer. Everything here gleamed, the chandelier above her, the cream-colored armchairs by the window, the glinting silver tray on the bedside table. Even the air smelled different, like she had climbed into a different tier of luxury. Panic crept into her chest. She looked around, trying to piece things together. Her head hurt, her mouth dry and bitter from whiskey. When she turned slightly, she saw a bottle of water beside the bed. She sluggishly reached for it but then froze. There was a folded

Isabella sat in the backseat, her luggage beside her, staring at her reflection on the glass as the city outside blurred past the tinted windows. The driver barely spoke, only glanced at her through the rearview mirror when he stopped in front of the hotel entrance — a towering structure of glass and quiet opulence. She didn’t hesitate. She needed distance. She needed silence that didn’t echo with laughter that wasn’t hers. “Welcome to The Clarendon,” the concierge greeted her as she stepped into the marble lobby, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, reflecting off gold-trimmed columns and velvet lounges. It smelled faintly of white lilies and expensive whiskey, an indulgent sort of peace she hadn’t felt in years. She checked in under her adopted name, Isabella Reeves. A private card. Her safety net — the one account untouched by the Hamiltons. “Your suite is on the twenty-first floor, ma’am,” the receptionist said wi

The echo of Isabella's heels followed her up the staircase like a pulse, steady, deliberate and unyielding. She didn’t stop until she reached their bedroom, the same one that had once felt like a sanctuary but now stood as a mausoleum for everything she had lost. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, spilling across the room and clashing cruelly with the turmoil inside her chest. Without hesitation, Isabella crossed the room to the closet. The faint click of hangers replaced the silence as she began pulling out her clothes — dresses, blouses, silk scarves and folded them with precision. Each one a relic of a life she no longer wanted. Her hands shook only once, when she reached for the travel suitcase. It was the same one she had used six years ago on their honeymoon. She pressed her lips together and forced the tremor away. There was no time for nostalgia. She packed quickly and efficiently. And by the time she zipped the last bag shut, the p

The sound of laughter didn’t belong in this house anymore. Not the kind that rang through the marble halls like music, but the sharp, intimate kind — a man’s low chuckle, a woman’s light giggle — drifting from the foyer. Isabella froze halfway down the staircase, her hand tightening on the polished rail. For a moment, she wondered if she was just imagining it. Julien rarely brought anyone home, and when he did, it was for business; never this late, never with that warmth in his voice. She took a few more steps downwards and then she saw them. Julien Hamilton stood in the glow of the chandelier, his arm loosely around a woman with golden hair and eyes that sparkled like she owned the room. Victoria. That name alone had haunted Isabella for years. Victoria was Julien's ex, the same one who had left him before their wedding, the one his mother once called the perfect match. Now she was here. In Isabella’s home. “Oh, Belle,” Margaret, Julien's mother's clipped voice cam