Novels by Penra

A dead silence clamped down on the ballroom. For two seconds, the only sound was the low drone of the air ventilation.Then Tristan Thorpe’s face twisted into incredulous mockery.He let out a bark of theatrical laughter, spinning toward the glittering circle of CEOs, venture capitalists, and socialites."Did you all hear that?!" Tristan hollered, clapping his hands together with sickening condescension. "She’s standing in the middle of the Sovereign Grand, holding up a black plastic brick, claiming Marcus Kensington is her father! An unpaid domestic housewife pretending the titan of the southern hemisphere answers to her beck and call!"Cruel chuckles erupted from the crowd like venomous rattles."She really has lost her mind," a diamond-draped heiress laughed behind her satin fan. "To forge an entry card is one thing, but to insult Mr. Thorpe's bloodline in public? Desperation is an ugly perfume."Julian stepped forward, his chest puffed so high his rented cummerbund creaked. He rea

The ballroom of the Sovereign Grand Hotel gleamed under massive crystal chandeliers. Champagne flutes chimed against laughter, diamonds threw cold sparks across velvet gowns, and the scent of expensive perfume hung heavy in the air.I stood near the marble terrace doors, wrapped in a simple, charcoal silk sheath dress. My skin was still pale from the surgery earlier that morning, but my posture was straight as a drawn arrow.Around my throat sat a modest silver chain. No flashy gems. No ostentatious heirlooms. After five years away from this world, I wanted to see everything clearly before the curtain fell."Evelyn?!"A harsh, irritated whisper hissed from the edge of the champagne fountain.Julian marched toward me, clutching an engraved leather folder to his chest. He wore a rented navy tuxedo that pulled too tight across his shoulders, his hair slicked back with too much pomade.Right behind him waddled Chloe. She was clad in a floor-length white chiffon maternity gown that billowe

Rain drummed violently against the tinted glass of St. Jude Private Clinic.I sat on the cold vinyl bench on the third floor, my fingers clutching the paper slip: Elective Procedure Room 4.My palm involuntarily drifted to my lower abdomen. Two months. For five agonizing years, Julian and I had tracked every calendar day, spent thousands on consultations, and cried together over negative tests. I had swallowed bitter herbal brews that made me vomit in secret, praying for the miracle growing inside me right now.And Julian was currently playing house with his brother’s widow, boasting about his noble seed."Patient 42, Evelyn Sterling," a nurse called out from the double doors. "Please step inside for the ultrasound check before we prep the theater."I stood up, pulling my oversized beige coat tightly around my frame.Just as my trembling fingers touched the brass door handle, the VIP elevator at the end of the wing chimed."Julian, slow down... my lower back aches so much," a soft, br

The steam rising from the ceramic mug on my dining table had long gone cold. It was a mug of black, foul-smelling Chinese herbal tonic—the third batch I had boiled this week, and the hundredth I had forced down my raw throat over the last five years.Every woman who has ever begged the universe for a child knows the smell of that bitterness. For five years, my life had been reduced to a humiliating cycle of basal thermometers, scheduled intimacy, invasive dye tests, and the quiet agony of white test strips that never turned pink.Whenever my period arrived, Julian would hold me in the dark. He would bury his face in my neck, his hot tears soaking my collarbone, whispering, "Don't cry, Evie. We'll try again next month. God is just testing us. I want a baby with you more than I want my own life."I believed him. I loved him so deeply that I had walked away from my family's astronomical fortune, keeping my true name buried so he could build his pride from the ground up without living in