Novels by Mirage Sha

Aria POVThe timer rang.Sharp. Insistent. Domestic.I flinched like it had personally offended me.I shuffled to the counter, unscrewed the bottles with hands that felt detached from my body, swallowed my supplements with water that tasted vaguely metallic. Iron. Omega. Prenatal. The little rituals that now punctuated my day whether my world was intact or not.Pregnancy does strange things to time.To anger.To restraint.Because I was this close to calling Alex.This close to dialing his number and letting every word I’d swallowed pour out like acid. I could already hear myself doing it. Voice shaking. Tongue sharp. Saying his name like an insult.I didn’t.Not because I was mature.But because… what would that even do?What the hell.I leaned back against the counter, the weight of it finally settling.That man used me.Played me.Tested me.Like I was a theory.Like I was a variable.Like I wasn’t a human being with a heart and a body and a future growing quietly inside her.A lau

Aria POVThe timer rang.Sharp. Insistent. Domestic.I flinched like it had personally offended me.I shuffled to the counter, unscrewed the bottles with hands that felt detached from my body, swallowed my supplements with water that tasted vaguely metallic. Iron. Omega. Prenatal. The little rituals that now punctuated my day whether my world was intact or not.Pregnancy does strange things to time.To anger.To restraint.Because I was this close to calling Alex.This close to dialing his number and letting every word I’d swallowed pour out like acid. I could already hear myself doing it. Voice shaking. Tongue sharp. Saying his name like an insult.I didn’t.Not because I was mature.But because… what would that even do?What the hell.I leaned back against the counter, the weight of it finally settling.That man used me.Played me.Tested me.Like I was a theory.Like I was a variable.Like I wasn’t a human being with a heart and a body and a future growing quietly inside her.A lau

Aria POVI told myself it wasn’t about love.That was the story I chose. Clean. Practical. Almost convincing.I wasn’t clicking the link because of Alex.I was clicking it because of my child.Because one day, someone would ask questions.Because sincerity mattered more than affection.Because if the man tied to my future had been lying to my face, I deserved to know now. Not later. Not when it was too late to rearrange my life around the truth.At least, that was what I told myself.Still, my finger hesitated.Not fear. Not exactly.Instinct.I closed the browser.I wasn’t doing this here.Not in a borrowed space. Not in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of someone else’s perfume and disinfectant. Not somewhere that didn’t know me.Some truths demanded familiar walls.So I packed.Not carefully. Not thoughtfully. I shoved clothes into my bag, left the knitting half folded, ignored the front desk’s smile as I checked out early. The drive home felt longer than usual. Every red li

Aria POVIt stirred that nonsense curiosity in me.The kind that taps lightly at the back of your head and pretends it’s harmless.The kind I already knew I didn’t want to explore.So I distracted my hands.I pulled the yarn out of my bag, soft cotton in muted colors I’d picked weeks ago without thinking too hard about why. Cream. Dusty pink. A pale blue that felt like calm. I sat cross legged on the bed, the hotel room quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant, polite sound of waves crashing far below.Baby socks first.I had watched exactly three TikToks on how to knit them and somehow convinced myself that was enough preparation. It wasn’t.My first attempt looked like a deflated hat. The second had a hole so big a toe could escape through it. I frowned, unraveled it, tried again. The yarn tangled. I swore softly. Picked up my phone and opened YouTube this time, determined to do this properly.“Okay,” the woman in the video said cheerfully. “This part is trick

By the time I got home, my head was loud and my chest felt tight in that way that means sleep would be useless.The walls felt too familiar. Too close. Every surface carried residue of thoughts I wasn’t ready to touch. Chapter Four stared at me from my laptop like an accusation, blank where something sharp and alive was supposed to be.So I didn’t unpack.I didn’t sit.I ordered a taxi.I needed neutral ground. Somewhere anonymous. Somewhere inspiration could catch up with me without memory interrupting.The hotel rose out of the city like a polished secret. All glass and vertical confidence. Lights stacked on lights, each floor glowing softly as if breathing. The entrance doors slid open without sound, and cool air washed over me, scented faintly with citrus and something expensive I couldn’t name.Inside, everything whispered luxury instead of shouting it. Marble floors that reflected the chandeliers like water. Gold accents used sparingly, deliberately. Staff who smiled without sta

Aria POV“I know who Ethan’s real father is.”The words leave my mouth without force. Without drama. They don’t sound like an accusation even to me.They sound like a conclusion.Something finished.Alex doesn’t react the way men usually do when you touch a truth they’ve buried. There’s no flash of anger. No denial. No defensive laughter.If anything, he looks… relieved.Not visibly. Not in a way someone else would catch. But I see it. The subtle loosening in his shoulders. The way his jaw unclenches, just slightly, like he’s set something down after carrying it too long.For a second, the room feels smaller. Like the walls have leaned in to listen. Like this space understands that something old has just been named.I watch his face as I say it.I half expect him to deny it. Or deflect. Or turn cold. Alex’s silences usually have teeth.But he doesn’t interrupt.So I continue.“Someone sent me an email,” I say. “No greeting. No name. Just questions.”I pull my phone out, scroll to the

They called it “The Trial of the Decade.” Adrian Vale vs. The Truth. The courthouse steps were choked with reporters. Microphones thrust into every corner. Camera shutters blinking like bullets. Protesters held signs scrawled with phrases like “Justice for Lena” and “Mental Health Is Not a Weapon.” May stood beside John in a fitted black suit, baby strapped to her chest, Saint clutching her hand like a lifeline. She didn’t say a word to the reporters. Her silence screamed louder than a thousand interviews. Inside, the courtroom was stacked with the press, elite board members, federal agents, and curious public figures who once worshipped Adrian’s name. Now they waited to see if he’d fall. Adrian walked in with his usual arrogance. But something was different. His swagger had a limp. His smile cracked. His tailored suit, pristine—but his eyes? Nervous. Like a lion finally sensing the trap around its throat. The judge entered. “All rise.” The trial began. John took the stand

It was a rainy afternoon when they found it. The flash drive had been sitting in Lena’s favorite hardcover book — The Unbearable Lightness of Being — tucked between pages marked by a dried iris. May had been reading to the baby when the flower fell out, revealing the tiny silver device taped beneath. Saint, sitting nearby, had whispered, “That was her favorite one. She always said it reminded her of light in a dark room.” They plugged it into the encrypted laptop John had been using for their private investigation. A password prompt appeared. Five chances. John stared at the screen, then at Saint. “Do you remember anything Lena used to say a lot? Maybe something only you would know?” Saint furrowed his brows. “She used to sing to me every night. The same one. ‘You are my sunshine.’” May typed it in. Access granted. The folder opened like a locked coffin finally giving up its ghosts. Inside: • Scanned copies of wire transfers tied to shell companies in Switzerland, the Ca

The next evening.Smith always thought charm could buy him a clean slate. Even now, as he leaned into the camera for yet another podcast interview—hair perfectly styled, voice syrupy smooth—he smirked as if nothing could touch him. “I was misled,” he said, lips curled like a man auditioning for sympathy. “May played everyone. Even me. I mean, who hides a baby from her husband, right?” Across the city, in the Bells penthouse, May watched with quiet fury. The video played on mute. She didn’t need to hear the lies to feel them. Her phone pinged. A message from her lawyer: “Drop goes live in 5 minutes.” “Let him talk,” she murmured. John leaned over the couch, glancing at the paused video. “Last words before the plunge.” Exactly five minutes later, the internet exploded. An anonymous exposé hit every major blog, news site, and YouTube channel. Under the hashtag #TheRealSmith, the post contained: • Screenshots of Smith begging May to let him claim the baby, even after the pater

The following day,The rain had stopped, but the earth was still soft underfoot as May and Saint stepped out of the car. The chapel was tucked behind rows of sycamore trees—quiet, simple, forgotten by the city’s rush. The kind of place people came to when they needed to whisper to God, not parade before Him. May had brought Saint without telling him everything. Not yet. He only knew they were going “somewhere your mom loved.” Saint held her hand tighter than usual, his thumb nervously rubbing her palm. “Did mom come here a lot?” he asked. May nodded. “Every year on your birthday. She lit a candle and whispered something only the heavens heard.” Saint looked up at the chapel’s cross, then back at May. “Did she pray for me?” May crouched down to meet his eyes. “She prayed about you. That much I’m sure of.” Inside the chapel, sunlight filtered through stained glass in splashes of violet and gold. The pews creaked beneath them as they walked, Saint tugging her forward with a stran

The following day, The press room buzzed like a disturbed hive. Reporters crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, cameras rolling, fingers hovering over record buttons. The air was thick with tension, rumors, and the electric anticipation of scandal. They’d all seen the headlines. They all expected a fall. What they didn’t expect was John Bells standing before them with a calm fury in his eyes—and May Hemlings beside him, no longer hiding. She wore no makeup. No designer label. Just a simple navy blouse and strength. The kind that came from surviving hell and daring to return with receipts. John stepped forward. “I was removed from my position at Bells Corp yesterday,” he began, voice low but resonant. “Not because of incompetence, corruption, or fraud—but because I refused to be controlled by men who hide behind power.” Cameras clicked. Reporters leaned in. “This isn’t just about a CEO being ousted,” he continued. “It’s about how the truth gets buried when it threatens the wrong people.

After seeing May’s reaction, John summoned a board meeting.The boardroom smelled of sharp citrus and cold ambition. John stood at the end of the long mahogany table, his back straight, his jaw locked. Across from him sat men and women he’d worked with for over a decade—some loyal, some wolves in tailored suits. At the head of the table: Mr. Lanre, one of the senior board members and a quiet admirer of power, not morality. “We’re here,” Lanre said, “to address concerns raised over the past few weeks. Regarding public perception, investor confidence… and executive judgment.” There were murmurs. One woman cleared her throat. Another adjusted her glasses, avoiding John’s gaze. Adrian, of course, wasn’t seated with the rest. He leaned casually against the window, sipping espresso like he was attending a brunch, not a hostile corporate takeover. He caught John’s eyes and smirked. John didn’t flinch. He knew this moment was coming. Adrian had spent weeks poisoning their trust—subtly