Novels by Stepheee

MarilynBy morning, we were everywhere.I sat at the kitchen island with my coffee and scrolled through the coverage in silence. The wedding photos were running on every major outlet. We looked convincing like two people who had chosen each other. Raffaele sat at the far end of the table, working through his own phone with the focused calm of someone who had expected all of this."Dylan's people are already moving," he said. "Jilted and manipulated is the angle. It won't hold though my media team is handling the counter, but expect him to show up today."I looked up. "The board meeting is internal.""Dylan has two allies on that board and he is also a shareholder even though it is very little" He set his phone down. "He'll use them to get in the room. When you walk in there today, you walk in as Marilyn Romanov. Not the scorned fiancée. The woman who made a deliberate choice and has documentation to back every word."I hated that he was right.As I passed him on my way out, his hand

Marilyn"I now pronounce you husband and wife." The priest's voice echoed off the walls of the small chapel.I stared straight ahead. Raffaele stood beside me with the same composed expression he'd worn since we arrived making it feel like this was a board meeting rather than our wedding. Only his secretary and mine had witnessed it. No flowers, no guests, no music. Just vows that sounded like lies, signatures, and the strange new weight of a ring on my finger that hadn't been there this morning.We took photographs afterward. It was Raffaele's idea.“Grip the narrative before it grips you,” he'd said. His photographer was professional and fast, and Raffaele, to my considerable irritation, was very good at this. He knew exactly where to put his hand, exactly how to angle toward me, exactly how to look at a camera like he meant it.I looked at the images on the photographer's preview screen and felt something uncomfortable move through me. We looked like a couple, no one would doubt

MarilynHe didn't sit back down.He stayed exactly where he was, standing in front of me, close enough to be deliberate about it and the silence stretched between us like something he was enjoying."Name your condition," I said.His mouth curved. It was not a smile exactly, it wasmore like a predatory grin."Marry me."The words were so quiet and so calm that it took my brain a full second to process them."I beg your pardon?""Marry me," he said again, slowly like he was worried my brain wouldn't process what he said.I stared at him. "That is not a condition. That is a joke.""It's a strategy." He moved back to his desk, unhurried, and braced both hands on the edge of it, facing me. "You want Dylan finished. You want your shares protected and your company intact. You want Charlotte to spend the rest of her life understanding what she threw away. I can deliver all of that, but not for free, and not in a way that leaves you looking like a woman scorned running to the press with a ph

MarilynI didn't sleep.I lay on top of the covers in the dark, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while my phone lit up the nightstand with multiple notifications from Dylan, then Charlotte . I watched the screen go dark each time without touching it.There was nothing either of them could say that I needed to hear.The days that followed blurred together. I stayed inside, ignored the calls, let the coffee go cold, and gave myself exactly seventy-two hours to fall apart. I wasn't ashamed of it. Grief was grief, even when the people who caused it didn't deserve your tears. I cried for the years I had wasted. For the version of Dylan I'd believed in. For the sister I thought I had.Then I stopped.On the fourth morning, I sat at my kitchen counter with fresh coffee and a clear head and thought about Raffaele Romanov.He was Dylan's cousin on his father's side, the son of Mila DiLaurentis, Dylan's aunt, and heir to Denis Romanov's luxury automotive empire. He was old money. He sat

MarilynFive days before my wedding, I found out my entire life was a lie.My name is Marilyn Beckham, the heiress to B&H Industries and the fiancée to Dylan DiLaurentis, one of New York's most sought-after bachelors. On paper, I had it all; the legacy, the love story, the kind of life women cut magazine photos of and tape to their vision boards and I believed it.The morning of my final bridal fitting started like any other fairy tale scene. My mother sat in the corner of the designer's studio, dabbing her eyes every time I turned in the gown. My sister Charlotte lounged in a velvet chair, legs crossed, attention buried in her phone, looking beautiful as always, effortlessly so. She was the kind of woman who could roll out of bed and go straight to the runway. I'd spent years making peace with that. That she'd always be the more beautiful sister."Dylan and I talked this morning," Charlotte said without looking up, a small smile playing at her lips. "Did you know he took over the