Novels by Mariyam

For those who have been waiting with bated breath, marking the calendar and revisiting beloved pages in anticipation, the moment we have all been looking toward is finally drawing near. I write to you today not with a finished product in hand, but with something perhaps even more precious. Certainty. The manuscript is complete. The ink is dry. What remains now is the meticulous, loving labor of preparation, the final polish before these words are placed into your eager hands. I know the silence has been long. I know there have been days when you checked for updates and found only the echo of your own patience. For that, I offer both my gratitude and my sincere apology. The journey of a book is rarely a straight line. It is a winding path of revision, of second-guessing, of staring at sentences until they blur, and of waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning. But every winding road eventually reaches its destination, and we are now in sight of ours. The chapters are coming. Th

For those who have been waiting with bated breath, marking the calendar and revisiting beloved pages in anticipation, the moment we have all been looking toward is finally drawing near. I write to you today not with a finished product in hand, but with something perhaps even more precious. Certainty. The manuscript is complete. The ink is dry. What remains now is the meticulous, loving labor of preparation, the final polish before these words are placed into your eager hands. I know the silence has been long. I know there have been days when you checked for updates and found only the echo of your own patience. For that, I offer both my gratitude and my sincere apology. The journey of a book is rarely a straight line. It is a winding path of revision, of second-guessing, of staring at sentences until they blur, and of waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning. But every winding road eventually reaches its destination, and we are now in sight of ours. The chapters are coming. Th

For those who have been waiting with bated breath, marking the calendar and revisiting beloved pages in anticipation, the moment we have all been looking toward is finally drawing near. I write to you today not with a finished product in hand, but with something perhaps even more precious. Certainty. The manuscript is complete. The ink is dry. What remains now is the meticulous, loving labor of preparation, the final polish before these words are placed into your eager hands. I know the silence has been long. I know there have been days when you checked for updates and found only the echo of your own patience. For that, I offer both my gratitude and my sincere apology. The journey of a book is rarely a straight line. It is a winding path of revision, of second-guessing, of staring at sentences until they blur, and of waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning. But every winding road eventually reaches its destination, and we are now in sight of ours. The chapters are coming. Th

For those who have been waiting with bated breath, marking the calendar and revisiting beloved pages in anticipation, the moment we have all been looking toward is finally drawing near. I write to you today not with a finished product in hand, but with something perhaps even more precious. Certainty. The manuscript is complete. The ink is dry. What remains now is the meticulous, loving labor of preparation, the final polish before these words are placed into your eager hands. I know the silence has been long. I know there have been days when you checked for updates and found only the echo of your own patience. For that, I offer both my gratitude and my sincere apology. The journey of a book is rarely a straight line. It is a winding path of revision, of second-guessing, of staring at sentences until they blur, and of waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning. But every winding road eventually reaches its destination, and we are now in sight of ours. The chapters are coming. Th

Chapter 5: The Crack in the IceThe shift started small.Maria, with a conspiratorial wink, began leaving an extra cup of coffee next to the pot in the mornings. “For you, Bella. You look like you need it more than he does.”The coffee was good. Strong and Italian, the way I actually liked it. It was a tiny anchor of normalcy.A week after the “storm incident,” the routine had solidified. Mornings were chaotic with Luca. Afternoons were quiet with Sophia’s therapies or lessons. Evenings were Massimo’s brief, intense appearances, a check-in, a rule reminder, a distant nod.He was always watching. I felt his gaze like a physical touch when I wasn’t looking. When I turned, his eyes would be elsewhere. It was a silent, unsettling game.Then, on Thursday, Sophia got sick.It started at lunch. She pushed her food away, her face pale. I touched her forehead. It was furnace-hot.“I don’t feel good,” she whispered, her voice raspy.Maria fretted. “The signore is in a meeting across town. He do

Chapter 4: The Morning AfterThe morning was a quiet battlefield.Maria moved through the kitchen like she was defusing a bomb, her usual chatter absent. Luca sat at the table, subdued, clutching Bubbles the dog in a death grip. Sophia ate her cereal, her eyes flicking between the empty chair at the head of the table and me.Massimo entered, and the air pressure dropped. He was dressed for business again, his face a mask of calm control. But the storm from last night was still in his eyes.“Papa!” Luca scrambled down from his chair and ran to him. Massimo caught him, lifting him up for a brief, tight hug.“Did you sleep, soldatino?”“Yes. The storm is gone.”“Good.” He set Luca back down and looked at me. “A word in my office, Bella.”It wasn’t a request. Maria didn’t look up from the stove. I followed him out of the kitchen, not to the forbidden east wing, but to a small, windowless room near the front door, a utilitarian space with a desk and monitors showing security camera feeds.