Novels by Gemma D. Nash

“Mommy, you’re going to be late.”“I’m not going to be late,” I replied, reaching across the kitchen counter to slide a plate toward Alice. “I’m managing my time.”“You said that yesterday,” she pointed out, narrowing her eyes slightly. “And then you were late.”I paused mid-step, then sighed. “That was one time.”“It was two times,” she corrected, already picking up her fork.I glanced at Ace over her head. He was seated at the table, coffee in hand, watching the exchange with quiet amusement that he wasn’t even trying to hide.“You’re not helping,” I told him.“I’m not interfering,” he replied calmly. “There’s a difference.”“She’s ganging up on me.”“I’m being accurate,” Alice said, her tone firm as she took a bite of her pancake.I crossed my arms. “You’re seven.”“I’m right,” she said through a mouthful of food.Ace huffed out a quiet laugh, setting his cup down. “She has a point.”I stared at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”“I am on your side,” he said. “I’m just not wi

The first time I got married, I didn’t choose it.Not really.I told myself I did. I convinced myself it was love, that it was history, that it was something inevitable and right. But looking back now, standing barefoot on the grass with the evening sun settling softly over the estate, I understood the difference.That wedding had been performance.This… wasn’t.“Mommy, you’re not listening.”Alice’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I blinked down at her where she stood in front of me, hands on her hips in a way that was far too familiar.“I am listening,” I said, smiling faintly. “You said the flowers are uneven.”“They are uneven,” she insisted, turning to point at the small arrangement set up near the edge of the garden. “That one is higher than the other one, and it’s bothering me.”I followed her gaze, studying the flowers.They were slightly uneven.“You’re right,” I admitted.“I know,” she said, nodding with full confidence. “We have to fix it before Daddy gets here.”I

The detention center didn’t look the way I expected it to.There was no dramatic weight to it. No sense of finality carved into the walls. Just clean floors, muted colors, and a silence that felt procedural rather than emotional. It was a place built for processing, not reflection.Still, something about it pressed against my chest as I stepped inside.“Name?” the officer at the front desk asked without looking up.“Lily.”His pen paused mid-stroke. His eyes flicked up briefly, recognition passing across his face before it was quickly masked. “You’re expected,” he said, setting the pen down. “This way.”Of course I was.Nothing about this was accidental.I followed him down a long corridor, the sound of our footsteps echoing faintly. The further we walked, the quieter it became, like the building was swallowing noise the deeper we went.“Three separate requests were made,” he added as we stopped in front of a secured door. “You can choose who you see first.”“Willow,” I said.The offi

The studio lights were warmer than I expected.Not harsh. Not blinding. Just steady enough to make everything feel deliberate, controlled—like nothing existed outside the space they illuminated. The kind of environment where words didn’t slip accidentally. They were placed. Measured. Recorded.Permanent.I sat across from the interviewer, my hands resting loosely in my lap, my posture straight but not rigid. The chair was comfortable, but I didn’t let myself sink into it. Comfort had a way of softening edges, and I needed mine intact.“You’re sure you don’t want water?” the producer asked quietly from the side.“I’m fine,” I replied.He nodded and stepped back.Across from me, the interviewer—calm, polished, practiced—offered a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll take this at your pace,” she said. “There’s no pressure to answer anything you’re not comfortable with.”“I understand,” I said.There was a brief pause as final adjustments were made. A microphone clipped. A camera angle checked

By the next morning, the world had already decided who I was.I didn’t need to open my phone to know that. I could feel it in the way the air inside the house had shifted—tenser, heavier, like even the walls were bracing for impact. Still, I opened it anyway, because avoiding it wouldn’t change anything.The headlines came in waves.GRANT HEIR SCANDAL EXPLODESKIDNAPPING, CORPORATE FRAUD, AND A SECRET CHILDWHO IS LILY?I stared at the last one longer than I should have.Who is Lily?The question wasn’t curious. It was invasive. Hungry.I scrolled.Victim.Manipulative opportunist.Gold digger.Survivor.Liar.The words blurred together until they stopped meaning anything and started feeling like pressure against my chest.“She shouldn’t even be near that child.”My thumb froze.I reread the comment slowly, my stomach tightening.“She shows up out of nowhere and suddenly she’s the mother? Please.”A sharp knock sounded against the bedroom door before it opened without waiting for perm

The cameras started flashing before we even reached the podium.By morning, the story had fractured across every network—kidnapping, corporate scandal, socialite matriarch in handcuffs. The Grant name had become a headline instead of a legacy, and for once, the narrative wasn’t being controlled behind closed doors.Ace had called the press conference himself.Not a statement through legal counsel.Not a controlled leak.Not silence.A conference.The ballroom of the Grant headquarters had been transformed overnight into a media arena. Reporters packed shoulder to shoulder, microphones branded with logos angled toward the stage, eyes sharp with anticipation. They wanted blood, denial, spin.They weren’t going to get any of that.I stood just behind the curtain with Alice in my arms. She was quiet, unusually so, her fingers wrapped around a loose strand of my hair as if anchoring herself. She had barely slept. Neither had I. But she felt solid against me—warm, alive, safe—and that was e