Novels by elizabethdamilolasolomon

Maeve Wells leaned over the sink, breath fogging the cracked mirror. The girl staring back looked nothing like someone ready to walk into a room full of sharks. The thrifted green dress scratched at her skin, the hem already coming loose. Her hair—God, she’d tried—was pinned up too tight, a few curls already breaking free like they knew better. Her eyes looked strange tonight. Too bright. Tonight wasn’t just another pitch. It was the night—facing the Takahashi Group, the investors who could make or break Carter Langston’s billion-dollar merger. One wrong breath, one stumble, and she’d be out of the Langston Challenge. No $50,000. No way to pull her family out of the wreckage. And worse—the memory of Carter’s offer in the limo still bruised her mind. Marriage. A contract. Her life on his terms.She held the sink tightly till her knuckles were hurting.“I have got this” she whispered to herself shakily but she was determined and fierce.“For Mom. For Tommy. For Rita.”Her phone beeped.

The spotlight was on Maeve Wells which stole her breath. For a second, she couldn’t move. Every eye in the room was staring at her, waiting to eat her alive. Her blouse, which was a cheap secondhand thrift store dress, she wore clung to her skin, sticky with her sweat.Carter Langston’s words still echoed. Maeve Wells, step forward.His words somehow were heard across all the noise in the room.Maeve’s heart was beating rapidly not from fear. Nah, but from the heat what was rising beneath her.Defiance. She wasn’t here to be paraded like some prize for Carter Langston and his empire. The Challenge was meant for girls with trust funds, for pretty influencers in gowns worth more than her car. Not for someone who’d spent the morning kneading masa with calloused hands, thinking about hospital bills and school fees.Yet he had chosen her.Carter stood by the stage, grey eyes steady, sharp as glass. At twenty-seven, he was the man magazines worshipped—rich, powerful, every angle of his face

The night in Los Angeles buzzed, restless, like a wire that wouldn’t stop sparking. The market had its own rhythm—grease popping, voices calling, the air thick with garlic frying and sweet dough turning brown. The heat stuck to skin, damp and heavy.Maeve Wells worked her stall, Maeve’s Bites, under a line of fairy lights that made the place look warmer than it really was. Her counter was just a slab of old wood, marked up with burns and knife scratches, nothing fancy. On the counter sat piles of tamales, steam curling off them, and empanadas that breathed out little bursts of heat every time she opened the lid. What people really came for was the jar sitting at the edge of the counter—her mango salsa. Which was very sweet. She cleaned her hand on the front of her apron, adding another dirt to the mess already there. Tugged the knot tighter, breathed out, and kept moving.She was twenty two. Still young, yeah, but there was nothing soft about her. She carried a grit most people didn’

The top floor of Langston Appliances wasn’t merely an office—it was a glass fortress, suspended high above Los Angeles and watching the city throb with its usual restless energy. On ordinary nights, the view stretched endlessly, stars colliding with ribbons of traffic lights below. But tonight, it didn’t matter.Carter Langston stood straight with his hands shoved into his pockets, staring at nothing in particular . His reflection glared back, sharp suit, harder eyes. He was only twenty-seven, yet somehow already running a company. The title of CEO sat on him like iron chains, a weight that could flatten men who’d lived twice as long. Still, he carried it. He has broad shoulders and a sharp jaw. He look like a man in control But his gut was a storm.Behind him, Reginald Langston lounged like he owned the place. Scotch in hand, silver hair perfectly in place, legs crossed as if this were nothing more than a chat after dinner. Once, he had been the king of this empire. Now he was the d