Novels by preciouswendy18

ClaireHe's too perceptive. He always has been. He knows something's wrong. He's going to ask questions, and I'm going to lie to him again, and I hate myself for it."Just tired," I said, forcing my voice into something more steady. "Didn't sleep well. I'll be out in a minute."Another pause. Then, softer: "Okay. Take your time."I heard his footsteps retreat, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.You can do this. You can pull yourself together. You can walk out there and pretend everything is fine. You can smile and kiss him and act like your world isn't crumbling around you. You can do this. You have to do this. Because if you fall apart now, you'll lose everything.You're going to lose everything anyway, the voice inside my head whispered. But at least this way you get to hold onto him a little longer.I took a deep breath, turned on the faucet, and washed my face again. The water was cold, bracing. I blotted my face dry with a towel, looked at my reflection on

ClaireI barely slept.The hours after my father's call stretched thin and sharp, each minute a blade pressed against my throat. Every time I closed my eyes I heard the name again—Jasmine—and saw the shape of a future that no longer included me. I lay on my side staring at the dark, replaying Victor's voice from earlier last night. The careful way he had said I was safe. The quiet promise that he would never push. The forehead kiss. The blanket pulled up to my shoulders. He had meant every word. I knew that. And that was what made it worse. He had given me tenderness without knowing the full truth of what we were. Without knowing that I've been lying to him.My father's voice echoed in my skull. Victor’s real girlfriend is coming back to Los Angeles. The words had burrowed into my chest like parasites, feeding on every moment of happiness I had stolen with Victor. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? Stolen.But Jasmine was his past. His almost-fiancée. The woman he had planned to s

VictorI closed the door.The click was too loud in the quiet hallway. I kept my hand on the knob a second longer than necessary, palm pressed flat against the cool metal, listening. Nothing. No voice calling me back. Just the thick, waiting silence of the house.I let my hand fall.Then I looked down at myself.Still hard. Ridiculously, stubbornly hard. The front of my trousers strained against the evidence of what had just happened a few minutes ago, as if my body had decided to stage a private rebellion. I stared at it like it belonged to someone else.“For God’s sake,” I muttered under my breath. “Enough.”My body did not listen.I turned away from the door. The hallway felt longer than it should have. I made it to the kitchen on pure willpower.The refrigerator light cut a hard white line across the dark floor when I pulled the door open. Cold air washed over my face. I grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap with more force than necessary, and drank until the chill stung my t

Claire“Then what are you afraid of?”I opened my mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. The truth sat like a stone on my tongue—I’m afraid of the day you remember, I’m afraid of how much I want this, I’m afraid that if we keep going you’ll realise I don’t know what I’m doing—but none of it would come out.Instead, my voice cracked on something smaller and far more dangerous.“I’m afraid that... I—" I stopped.I tried again. The words snagged somewhere between my chest and my throat.“I—just—” My voice cracked. I took a step back without meaning to. Heat rushed up my neck. “I can’t— I mean— it’s—”I stumbled back another step. Then another.“Claire—” Victor’s hand lifted, slow, like he was reaching for a frightened animal. The sight of it made something in me panic.I turned and almost tripped over my own feet. The hallway stretched too long. I pushed through the bedroom door. It shut harder than I meant it to. My back hit the wood. I stood there, chest heaving, palms flat again

ClaireThe words landed so deeply that something inside my chest cracked open. This version of him—the one who had lost his memories—loved me with a raw, uncomplicated certainty that made me feel more cherished than I had ever known how to ask for. And that was exactly what terrified me.Because, what would happen when those memories returned? When he discovered I had never truly been his girlfriend? That everything between us had begun as a mistake he didn’t even remember making?Fear rose sharp and sudden. Tears pricked my eyes before I could stop them, spilling over almost at once.Victor’s expression shifted instantly. His brows drew together, concern flooding his face as he cupped my cheek.“Claire… why are you crying?”A sob broke free before I could stop it. Then another. Tears spilt faster, and the words came out fractured between them.“I’m— I’m crying because—” my breath hitched sharply “—you’ve changed a lot.”Victor’s eyes softened with something unbearably tender. "Change

Claire The question hung between us, soft and completely serious. Why not you? Something fluttered hard in my chest. For a second, I couldn’t find an answer that didn’t feel too small. Victor’s thumb kept moving slowly across the inside of my wrist, warm and steady. His eyes never left mine. “You’re qualified,” he said quietly, “because you already understand the thing most kitchens never learn. You just told me a restaurant is a system of care—that food is the most immediate language we have for saying you care about someone. You spoke about making strangers feel seen. That isn’t technique, Claire. That’s vision. I’ve watched you at your restaurant — the way you stay calm when everything is moving too fast. The way you read what people need before they can name it, the quiet pride you take in sending them out lighter than they came in. Technique can be taught. That kind of heart, that kind of meaning… can’t. The Cavendish Imperial Dining has perfect plates. I believe what it does