Novels by Mystique

The penthouse was dark when they returned.Selene didn’t waste a second—she kicked off her heels right as soon as they stepped inside. Six hours on stilettos, six hours playing the part. The glow from the city outside seeped through the windows, casting long shadows over the smooth marble floors.Without flipping on any lights, Avalon headed straight for the bar. She could hear the soft clink of crystal glasses and the gentle pour of something strong. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of his silhouette—broad shoulders tense, his head bowed low as if carrying a heavy weight.“That went pretty well,” she finally said, cutting through the quiet.He didn’t so much as glance her way. “Marcus still isn’t buying it.”“Did you really think he would?” She stepped closer. “One fancy gala isn’t going to wipe away all his doubts.”“No.” Avalon took a slow sip, then set the glass on the counter. “But maybe it could’ve given us a little breathing room. You on the other end looked scared

The orchestra played something slow and haunting—perhaps Debussy or Satie.Avalon’s hand rested at her lower back while his other held hers firmly. Selene had no choice but to step closer, able to smell sandalwood mixed with something darker—definitely not the cheap college aftershave. This scent was layered and costly.Everything about him now seemed expensive, except his eyes. They were the same green that once held wonder. Now, they reflected only winter.“Relax,” he murmured as they started to dance. “You’re tense. We’re supposed to be newlyweds.”“That’s quite a performance.”“Then sell it better.” His thumb traced a circle on her spine, making her body respond involuntarily. “Margaret’s watching. So is Marcus.”Selene forced herself to relax into his embrace, resting her hand more naturally on his shoulder. “How do I look now?”“Better.” His voice lowered. “Though you could smile now and then. You look like you’re being held hostage.”“Aren’t I?”A flicker of expression crossed

The stylist had completely reinvented her, crafting a new identity.Selene stared at the reflection, hardly able to see herself. The dress was a dark, flowing silk, shimmering with every motion, tailored to reveal her neckline and the curve of her shoulders. Her hair tumbled in deep, glossy waves—the stylist had been adamant about keeping it loose, claiming it appeared “more relaxed, less buttoned-up.” The diamond earrings sparkled softly with each gentle inhale.She appeared rich and refined. Inside, she felt like an imposter.“Mrs Pierce.” Mrs Liu appeared in the doorway, her kind face creasing with approval. “Beautiful. Mr Pierce is waiting downstairs.”The title is still jarring. Mrs. Pierce. As if saying it enough times would make it real.Avalon was glued to his phone in the foyer, and when he finally dared to glance up, a weird little spark danced across his face. It wasn’t exactly appreciative, and it sure wasn't apologetic—more like some confusing cocktail of the two.“You cl

POV: Avalon PierceAvalon usually steered clear of dive bars like this one. The floors were sticky enough to make you think twice about where you stepped, and the walls were decked out with those bright, buzzing neon beer signs that seemed to glow in every colour imaginable. In the corner, a jukebox was cranking out music that was supposed to be Johnny Cash, but honestly, it sounded more like a cat wailing its heart out — definitely hard to tell with all the background noise. Around here, the sound of pool balls clacking together mixed with the low hum of a TV tuned to a Warriors game that pretty much everyone was ignoring. It was a noisy, chaotic scene, the kind of joint most people wouldn’t give a second glance, let alone Avalon.He showed up about 15 minutes early, just doing a little scouting. The bartender was an older woman, probably in her sixties, who looked like she’d heard every tall tale you could imagine—and didn’t buy a single one. She poured him a scotch in a glass that,

Selene Castellano’s Point of ViewHer calculator had given up an hour ago, leaving Selene stuck, eyes glued to the same numbers that now just blended into a messy blur. It was all red ink—like some wild abstract painting gone wrong—a chaotic splash of financial disaster that she couldn’t escape.Hospital bills for Maya were scattered all over the kitchen table, much like a pile of fallen autumn leaves, each one representing a different kind of emergency. Some screamed “PAST DUE” in aggressive red letters, while others shouted “FINAL NOTICE” with that cold, intimidating tone only paperwork can manage. It squeezed her heart every time.Eight hundred forty-seven thousand, three hundred ninety-two dollars.That’s the jaw-dropping price tag for keeping her sister alive when insurance companies decided that experimental treatments didn’t qualify as “medically necessary.” As if Stage Three lymphoma was some choice Maya made, like picking up yoga or deciding to learn a new language.Selene’s

POV: Avalon PierceThe city lights sprawled like a living organism forty-five floors below Avalon’s office windows, a shimmering sea of neon veins pulsing through San Francisco’s restless heart. From this lofty vantage point, he watched the intricate dance of countless lives unfolding beneath him—people bustling with purpose, free from the shadow of manipulation or unseen strings pulling at their fates. Yet, here he was, ensnared in an invisible trap left behind by the woman who had once been his anchor.Nene’s will sat on his desk like a bomb that had already detonated. An edict issued from beyond the grave—it was less a request and more a command, an ultimatum disguised as a final bequest.Marry Selene Castellano within thirty days.The scotch in his glass caught the amber glow of his desk lamp. He’d poured it two hours ago and hadn’t taken a sip. This ritual—the act of filling the glass, the weight of it in his hand—was all that remained as a vestige of control amid the chaos. Cont