Novels by Valentina

EMILE — POVHe rolled out of bed without a single word. Like he hadn’t just rearranged my guts.Classic Wilbet.If there’s one thing the man knows how to do, it’s fuck. I’ll give him that. Cold precision. Mechanical. Detached. But still—there’s a hunger to it. A need. I used to think it was about me. Now, I know better. It’s about control. About reminding himself that he still owns something—anything—in a world where everything else is slipping through his fingers.I stretched, letting the silk sheets pool at my waist, my skin flushed and sticky with the sweat of something that could never quite be called love. I watched him from the bed—back stiff, movements tense, shirt wrinkled from where it had been tossed across the floor last night. He didn’t glance at me. Didn’t say a thing.“You’re quieter than usual,” I murmured, voice low and drowsy, the kind of voice that invited secrets. “That wife of yours not letting you get any rest?”He paused for a fraction of a second, stiffened as

AZIZA — POVThere’s something about quiet that used to soothe me.Not anymore.Now, silence is just a breeding ground for dread.It started subtly—barely-there details I could’ve easily ignored if I wasn’t so attuned to lack. A maid I hadn’t seen in days. A driver replaced with a rental app. The fresh lilies that used to arrive every Tuesday from that overpriced florist in Victoria Island? Replaced with nothing. Just a lonely, empty vase on the dining room table, its glass catching the sunlight like it was mocking me.Wilbet doesn’t mention any of it. Not the missing staff, not the scaled-down dinners, not the canceled weekend getaway to countries that we never miss. He just moves through the house like it’s still filled with noise and people and champagne—like it’s still his.But I see the cracks now.The cracks in the marble floors. The chipped gold-leaf trim on the staircase. The way the lights flicker when the generator kicks in. Small things. But they add up.And then there’s the

EMILE — POVThey always assume I’m the villain.The bitter ex. The one who couldn’t keep him.But what they forget is—I built him.Before me, Wilbet was just another trust fund brat with charm and no compass. I gave him direction. I taught him how to hold a room, how to cut people down with a smile, how to weaponize silence. The slick suits, the cold ambition, the taste for control? All mine.I was the blueprint. The foundation. The one who shaped him into the man he is today. And now, he walks around like he invented power. Like he didn’t learn it in my bed, in my arms.They say he’s married now. That poor, quiet girl with the bruised wrists and wide eyes.Aziza.Even her name sounds fragile, like a whisper of a word that could easily be broken.She moves like a shadow, silent, careful. Like she’s always apologizing just for existing. She doesn’t talk much, but you can feel the fear in her posture, in the way she flinches before a room even notices her.She’s not a wife. She’s a poss

MALCOLM — POVI had always prided myself on my restraint and control. It was something I had honed over the years—carefully cultivated through brutal discipline and relentless precision. I had immense experience when it came to handling people, especially women. I knew how to make them feel wanted, understood, even cherished, all while keeping my heart locked behind iron bars. But when it came to her… all those years of experience went flying out the window.I first saw her at a debutante ball. She wasn’t the one being celebrated—no, she was simply there to support her older sister, who was making her grand entrance into society. While the entire room buzzed over the elegance and poise of the beautiful, condescending older sister, my gaze landed elsewhere. On her. She was like a breath of fresh air in that stuffy ballroom, a vision wrapped in soft silk and mystery. Her discomfort was evident—like she’d rather be anywhere else but there. That alone was amusing to me. Unpolished. Authe

WILBET — POVEvery man has his price mine thirty Million dollars And how do I intend on doing that Well it's very easy honestly See, I’m not some monster—I’m a product of my upbringing. I was raised to believe I deserved the finer things in life. Private schools. Tailored suits. Cuban cigars before I was legally allowed to smoke. I used to think wealth was a birthright, not something you worked for. But when you live like that without a plan? Without a fallback?You hit rock bottom.And believe me—I hit it hard.But I wasn’t going to beg. I had a reputation to uphold. A name. Wilbet Gregory doesn’t grovel. I had to be smart. Strategic. Marry rich—that’s always been the easiest con. That’s where Emile came in. God, she was everything I liked in a woman. Hot, leggy, toned as hell, and stupidly rich. She wore money like perfume. The kind of woman who bought islands for fun and never checked her bank balance.She was perfect.Except... she was wild. Fire in heels. Couldn’t tame her,

The rain hadn’t let up all morning. It was as if the universe was on the same page with my mood. It drummed against the windows with a rhythm too deliberate to ignore. The kind of rain that didn’t ask for permission—just seeped into everything. It filled the silence with something just loud enough to muffle guilt and expensive lies.The house was still. Sarah had gone grocery shopping. Wilbet, by some small miracle, had vanished hours earlier, muttering something about a board meeting and urgent calls. I didn’t care. All I wanted was silence.And the library—smug, dark, and lined with leather-bound delusions, Wilbet’s might I add—was the one place no one would dare look for me. The kind of room that existed for appearances, not use. The scent of old paper and wood was reassuring, if I didn’t think too hard about it.I ran a hand along the spines until I found a familiar title. The Economics of Prestige. Typical.Wilbet loved to decorate shelves with things he didn’t read. As if intel