Novels by Chubby pen

Noami’s PovMorning sickness is a cruel, miserable little monster that doesn't care whether you are sleeping in a cheap apartment or a multi-million-dollar mansion.I wake up before the sun is even fully up, running straight to the white marble bathroom in my guest suite, losing whatever little sleep I managed to grab. When I finally drag myself out, wiping my mouth with a damp cloth, I feel completely drained. My body is changing, my emotions are running wild, and the heavy feeling of being trapped in this giant stone house is pressing down on my chest like a lead weight.By nine o'clock, there is a gentle tap at my door. It is one of the security guards telling me that my private medical appointment has been arranged."I don't need a medical appointment," I tell the guard through the cracked door, crossing my arms over my oversized sweater. "I'm perfectly fine.""Mr. Kingsley's orders, Miss Ellis," the guard replies flatly, his face as blank as a stone wall. "A specialist is waitin

Naomi’s PovA sleek black car idling in front of a modest diner looks like a predator parked outside a sheep pen.That is the exact thought that went through my head yesterday when I noticed a strange sedan following me three blocks down from the market, its dark windows tinted so heavily I couldn't see the driver. And when the surrogacy agency called me two hours later to report that an unknown hacker had breached their server and downloaded my personal home address, Roman Kingsley's terrifying warning suddenly stopped sounding like a billionaire's control trip. It started sounding like a death sentence.So here I am, stepping out of a town car and looking up at a towering stone fortress that people apparently call a home.The Kingsley mansion looks like something straight out of a gothic horror movie or a billionaire fairy tale. Massive iron gates swing open automatically as we approach, and a long, winding driveway leads up to a towering white mansion surrounded by perfectly trimme

Roman’s PovMy phone buzzes relentlessly against my thigh, a vibrating brick of bad news, panicked stock market reports, and sycophantic text messages from board members pretending to care that my brother is gone.Ethan is dead. That is what the local authorities say. They say his private plane nosedived into a dense, foggy mountain ridge three nights ago, leaving behind a smoking crater of twisted metal and zero survivors.I stare out the tinted window of my town car as it cuts through the dreary streets of the city, watching the gray rain smear down the glass. I refuse to cry, and I refuse to believe it. Ethan was reckless, yes, and he spent half his life running away from the heavy shadow of our family name. But he wasn't stupid. Too many things about this crash do not add up. The flight plan was changed at the last minute. The transponder went dark ten minutes before impact. And the worst part? Before I can even properly grieve or dig into the mess of his sudden disappearance, hi

Naomi’s PovThe cold needle of the medical clinic is nothing compared to the cold lump of fear sitting right in the middle of my chest.I am lying on a sterile white examination table with paper crinkling under my weight, staring up at the bright ceiling lights while the nurse gently tells me to relax. My hands are clenched into tight fists at my sides, my knuckles pressing so hard against the thin hospital gown that my fingers are turning blue. I keep telling myself over and over again that I am doing this for Dad’s restaurant, for Claire, and for a fighting chance at a normal life. But as the doctor walks into the room with a silver tray and a small, carefully sealed tube, every single alarm bell inside my head starts screaming to run away."You're doing wonderful, Naomi," the doctor says, his voice much too cheerful for a room that smells like rubbing alcohol and pure anxiety. "Just a few deep breaths, and we'll have this whole embryo transfer finished before you even realize it's

Naomi POVThe bell above the front door jingles, and my heart drops straight down into my stomach.I am wiping down the counter with a damp rag when Mr. Harrison, the bank manager, walks in. He is wearing a sharp gray suit that looks far too clean for our dusty little diner, and he is holding a thick white envelope. I already know what is inside before he even opens his mouth. My hands start to shake, and I grip the edge of the wooden counter so hard my knuckles turn white."Afternoon, Naomi," Mr. Harrison says, his voice sounding flat and cold, like he is reading off a grocery list. He doesn't even look at the red vinyl booths with the peeling seats or the faded photographs of my dad hanging proudly on the wall. He just steps right up to the counter and sets the envelope down."Mr. Harrison," I manage to say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. "We are working on the money. My sister Claire and I, we are trying our best—""Naomi, we've talked about this three times already," he inte