Novels by Linda Nova

Chapter 10: The GalaThe next evening, the Oakhaven Charity Gala was in full swing.The grand ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton was a spectacle of obscene wealth. It was bathed in the golden glow of a massive crystal chandelier. Men in tailored tuxedos and women in breathtaking, glittering gowns mingled around the room, sipping champagne and exchanging corporate secrets disguised as polite small talk.I stood near the grand staircase, holding a glass of sparkling water. I was wearing a sleek, backless black gown and diamond drop earrings. My hair was swept up, and my face was a flawless mask of polite, unreadable calm.Vivian Cole stood beside me, looking stunning in a deep crimson dress. She took a long, cynical sip of her champagne."I absolutely hate these things," Vivian muttered, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes. "Half the men here are trying to hide their offshore accounts, and the other half are trying to look down my dress.""Just smile and take their money," I said, my voice smo

CHLOEFive years later, I was one of the most powerful women in Oakhaven.I stood at the head of a massive mahogany table in the center of a glass boardroom. The holographic projector hummed softly, casting a glowing blueprint of the new Oakhaven Waterfront project into the air.Around the table sat a dozen corporate executives, all of them hanging onto my every word.Vance Interiors had become a global powerhouse. We didn't just design buildings anymore. We designed entire skylines, luxury resorts, and private islands. I had a staff of fifty, a penthouse overlooking the mountains, and a personal net worth that rivaled the men who used to look down on me.I was wearing a tailored white pantsuit and four-inch heels. My hair was sleek, my makeup was flawless, and my eyes were as cold as a frozen lake."As you can see," I said, my voice crisp and commanding, "the projected return on investment for this waterfront development is thirty percent higher than your current portfolio. We have s

CHLOEThe email from Mrs. Thorne was a lifeline.She was a wealthy retiree who owned a historic house on the edge of Oakhaven. She wanted a complete redesign of her parlor room before her daughter’s wedding in three weeks. The pay was modest compared to what I used to make at Sterling Enterprises, but she offered a fifty percent deposit upfront.I replied at 3:15 a.m. with my portfolio. I attached the strongest images from my old college days, carefully removing every reference to my married name. I signed the email: C. Vance Design.By 9:00 a.m., I was standing on her front porch, panting slightly from the six-block walk. My incision was burning, a sharp, brutal reminder that I was still healing. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the chill in the air. I forced a sharp, confident smile onto my face.Mrs. Thorne was a sharp-eyed woman in her sixties. She looked me up and down, clearly noting my pale skin and the cheap fabric of my coat."You look like you haven't slept in a week, Mis

CHLOE They discharged me on a Thursday morning under a sky the color of wet concrete.The nurse wheeled me to the main entrance with Leo’s discharge papers in a clear plastic folder on my lap. He was still in the NICU. The doctors would not release him for at least another twelve days. I was allowed to leave only because my incision was healing and the hospital needed the bed.I signed the final forms in the lobby while a cold draft pushed through the automatic doors. The social worker handed me a list of local resources. Food banks. Temporary housing. A clinic that offered sliding-scale care. I folded the paper once and slid it into my bag without looking at it.Outside, the air smelled of rain and exhaust. I stood on the sidewalk with my single suitcase and the empty car seat the hospital had required me to take. The car seat felt like a cruel joke. I had no car. I had no baby in my arms.I walked six blocks to the bus stop, moving carefully so the stitches would not pull. Every st

CHLOEThe first thing that hit me was the smell.Sharp. Chemical. Clean in a way that felt wrong. My throat was dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. When I tried to move, a dull, deep ache spread across my lower abdomen, heavy and tight, like someone had stitched me back together with wire.My eyes opened slowly. White ceiling. Dim light. The steady, mechanical beep of a monitor somewhere near my head.Hospital.My hands moved before my mind caught up. They pressed against my stomach.Flat.Empty.The sound that left my mouth was not a word. It was raw, broken, animal. I tried to sit up. Pain exploded through my middle. An IV tugged at my arm. A thick bandage held me down.A nurse appeared in the doorway almost immediately, as if she had been waiting for the moment I woke.“Miss Vance, you need to stay still,” she said, moving quickly to the side of the bed. “You had an emergency C-section. You’re safe. The baby is safe.”The words did not land at first. I stared at her, brea

CHLOEEight months later, the cheap motel room looked less like a place to hide and more like a war room.Fabric swatches covered the floor. Paint chips and blueprints littered the stained carpet. My heavy laptop sat in the center of the bed, surrounded by empty coffee cups and crumpled receipts.I was running on caffeine and sheer willpower.The boutique hotel project was my only lifeline. Mr. Henderson, the developer who had taken a massive chance on me, was shocked by my work ethic. I threw myself into the work with a ferocity I didn't know I possessed.I didn't just design the space. I negotiated with local suppliers. I haggled for cheaper materials. I stood on my feet for twelve hours a day at the construction site, supervising the crew.The construction site was dusty and loud. The smell of fresh paint and sawdust made my stomach churn every morning. I ignored it. I ignored the way my vision would swim black at the edges when I stood up too fast."You are a machine, Chloe," Mr.