Novels by Mirage Sha

Aria POVBOOK CLUB PARTNERSHIP OFFER. Her eyes dropped to it. For a second, she did not react. Then she blinked. Once. Twice. “Aria,” she said slowly. I shrugged. That fake careless shrug people use when they are terrified of hoping. “They emailed today.” She leaned closer, reading the first line. Her mouth fell open. “No,” she said. “No way.” I scrolled, showing her the details. Dates. Terms. The logo at the bottom. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Are you joking with me right now.” I shook my head. “They want me for their next book club meeting.” She stared at the screen like it might be a trick. “But… everyone is dragging you online,” she said. “This is the worst week of your life.” “I know.” “And they still offered you this.” “Yes.” She grabbed my arm suddenly. “Aria. This is huge.” I laughed, but it came out shaky. “They’re offering my normal rate.” She went still. “Your normal rate,” she repeated. “Not sympathy money.” I nodded. She sat back slowly, ey

Aria POVThe book club offer should not have meant as much as it did. It was one deal. One line in an inbox. One quiet yes from a group of strangers who had decided, for reasons I did not yet understand, that I was still worth reading. But after days of being reduced to a headline, it felt like oxygen. I spent the rest of that afternoon moving through my apartment with a kind of restless energy I had not felt since before everything burned. I opened windows I did not need to open. Rearranged cushions that were already aligned. Checked my phone too often, just to confirm the email was still there. Then I did something impulsive. I texted Tracy. Sleepover? She replied in under a minute. On my way. The excitement that followed surprised me. I planned it like a small event. Not because it mattered, but because I needed something ordinary to anchor myself to. I changed the sheets in the guest room. Lit the vanilla candle I always saved for guests. Ordered groceries I did not nee

Obviously because I already told them I’d be there and as a premium client, I get these fancy treatments and all. “Sit,” he said, not looking at me. I did. He turned then, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “You’ve had two heart attacks,” he said plainly. “Your cardiac muscle fibers are weakened. Your body compensates until it cannot.”He pulled up scans on a tablet. “And the tumor,” he continued, tapping the screen. “Still stable in size. Still inoperable due to location. Which means the headaches are expected.” I clenched my jaw. “The drug we’ve been researching is not ready,” he added. “And I will not test it on you prematurely.” “Surgery,” I said. “Not an option,” he replied. “Risk outweighs benefit.” Silence settled between us. “So what,” I asked finally. “I just wait.” “No,” he said. “We manage.” “First,” he said, scrolling through my chart, “we escalate your medication.” He explained that the current analgesics were no longer sufficient. He would switch me to a strong

Alex POVI did not leave the café directly. I drove for five minutes first. Long enough to be certain no one was watching my patterns. Long enough to make sure the route blurred. Then I pulled over and called my driver. “Pick me up,” I said. “Come with a new car and Send the other car home.” I gave him a different landmark than the café. Security was not paranoia. It was habit. It was not that I believed my driver would betray me. If he ever did, he would not go free. But I had no appetite for unnecessary drama right now. No loose threads. No overlapping circles. The Rolls Royce arrived quietly, like it always did. I slid into the back seat and let the door close behind me. The silence inside the car was immediate and complete. Thick carpeting. Soft leather. The kind of comfort that did not announce itself but insisted on being felt. No wonder this car cost a fortune. I leaned back and closed my eyes. The day replayed itself without permission. Jane’s name circled in red.

Alex POVI did not react. Years of training had burned that instinct out of me. But something shifted in my chest anyway. Not shock. Recognition. “Explain,” I said. “She leaked the photos,” he replied calmly. “Directly. Intentionally.” He paused. “She wanted them to be found.” I leaned back. Jane Brewk. Of course. She had been everywhere before Aria arrived. Panels. Interviews. Think pieces. Award shortlists. She had mastered the art of being adjacent to brilliance without ever becoming it. Until Aria. “Before Aria,” Joe continued, reading my silence accurately, “Jane was the most visible literary voice in her lane. Not the best. But the most present.” Visibility is currency. And Aria had disrupted the market without even trying. “When Aria’s manuscript started circulating,” he went on, “Jane lost three invitations within two months. One book club deal. One speaking engagement. One long term brand partnership.” He slid another document forward. “All of those went to A

Alex POV By the time the lawyers filed out of the conference room, I was already regretting the lack of sleep I had last night. My head throbbed, not the dull, manageable kind, but the sharp, insistent pressure that sat behind my right eye and pulsed like a warning. The kind that made light feel louder than it should and voices scrape against the inside of my skull. I loosened my tie the moment the door closed. The room felt too warm. Or maybe my body was just tired of pretending it wasn’t under siege. I walked back to my office in silence, ignoring the greetings, the subtle glances, the careful distance people kept when they sensed a storm they were not invited into. My palm pressed briefly against the wall as I passed my assistant’s desk. Just for balance. Just for a second. That was new. Inside my office, I shut the door and leaned against it longer than necessary. The city sprawled outside the glass like it always did: confident, loud, indifferent. I crossed to my desk, ope

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