Novels by Ayana Stories

The silence of the room was so profound it felt like a physical weight, pressing in on Amara, amplifying the frantic thrum of her own pulse. She swung her legs off the impossibly soft bed, her bare feet sinking into a plush Persian rug that felt like woven clouds. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to find an exit, but the sheer opulence of her surroundings was a gilded cage, terrifying in its perfection.The chamber itself was enormous, a testament to antique grandeur. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting hunting scenes and mythical creatures, their threads faded with centuries of sun. A massive armoire, dark and gleaming, stood against one wall, its carved doors hinting at untold secrets. A desk, impossibly large and ornate, sat by the windows, its surface polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the sunlight that streamed in. There was no clutter, no personal touches – just a cold, formal beauty that spoke of power and detachment.She moved towards the win

The scent of stale coffee and unfulfilled potential clung to Amara Voss like a second skin. Her life, at twenty-two, was a muted watercolor – all soft grays and faded blues, devoid of the vibrant splashes her art history textbooks promised. Mornings began with the screech of her ancient alarm clock, a jarring prelude to the symphony of financial dread that hummed beneath the surface of her existence. Lorenzo Voss, her father, was a ghost of a man, his presence in their cramped apartment marked only by mounting debts and an ever-present, suffocating shadow. He was rarely home, his apologies for his absences as thin and worn as the soles of her cheapest sneakers. Amara bore the brunt of his failures, working two part-time jobs alongside her university studies, her textbooks often smudged with grease from the diner kitchen or scented with cheap disinfectant from the campus library where she tutored.Her dream of painting, of seeing her vibrant imagination spill onto canvas, felt like a

There was a strange stillness in the Moretti estate the morning after she opened the west wing.The guards avoided her gaze.Bianca offered her breakfast but didn’t speak.Even Dante hadn’t come to find her.It was as if the house knew.Amara Voss was no longer just a pawn.She sat in the sunroom, sipping coffee she didn’t taste, the wind rustling through the ivy-covered windows. Her hands were calm, but inside, her mind was war.Her father had sold her.Her mother had lied.And Dante—He had known everything.But he hadn’t destroyed the files.He’d left the door locked—but not impossible to enter.Did he want me to find it?Did he want me to hate him even more? Or… did he want me to finally see the game board clearly?Because now, she did.And if this was a game…She was ready to play.---It started with Bianca.Later that morning, Amara found her in the greenhouse, trimming orchids with silent precision.“I need a favor,” Amara said.Bianca didn’t pause. “I don’t do favors.”“You d

The photo Alessandro gave her refused to leave her mind.Amara had stared at it for hours after the masquerade. The image of the bruised girl, the shadow of Dante behind her—gun in hand, expression unreadable—burned into her thoughts like acid.Is this the man I’m living with?She wasn’t naïve. She’d known from the beginning that Dante Moretti wasn’t just a mafia king—he was a killer, a man who ruled through fear, power, and precision.But there was a difference between knowing and seeing.Between rumors and proof.And now, a seed of doubt had been planted so deep it tangled around her bones.Who was the girl?What happened to her?Was she like me? Another pawn? Another woman he claimed—and destroyed?Amara needed answers.Even if they shattered everything.---It was just after dawn when she stormed through the west corridor of the Moretti estate. The guards didn’t stop her anymore. They’d learned—either let her pass, or deal with Dante’s wrath later.She found him in his private stu

The morning air was cool, laced with salt from the nearby sea. Amara stood at the window of her chamber, arms folded tight around her chest. The silence of the Moretti estate was deceptive. Beneath it, something always stirred—danger, secrets, and eyes that never stopped watching.But she wasn’t the same girl who arrived here trembling two weeks ago.No.The truth had cracked something inside her.She wasn’t here because she was weak. She was here because she was valuable. A pawn. A trigger. A legacy of betrayal.But even pawns can become queens—if they learn to play.And Amara was done being the hunted.She was ready to hunt back.---“Breakfast in the sunroom,” Bianca announced as she entered, no knock as usual.Amara turned from the window, dressed in a modest white blouse and dark jeans. No silk. No jewelry. Nothing Dante had given her.“He’s summoning me again?” she asked, voice like flint.Bianca smirked. “He doesn’t summon. He waits. And you go.”“Not today.”Bianca blinked. “E

Amara hadn’t left her room in two days.She refused to eat the food brought by the staff. Refused to speak to Bianca. Refused to even look at the dress Dante sent her—a red silk thing that looked more like a trap than clothing.Instead, she stayed wrapped in a gray hoodie and jeans, her mind racing like a bird beating its wings against a cage.The more she tried to make sense of this place, of him, the more confused she became.Dante wasn’t just dangerous—he was unrelenting. His silence could be as suffocating as his presence. And somehow, not seeing him these last forty-eight hours had made her more anxious, not less.She hated it.She hated that she noticed his absence.She hated that some sick part of her wondered where he was.But above all—she hated herself for remembering his touch. The way his fingers had brushed her lip. How he’d stared at her like she was something divine and doomed all at once.Get a grip, Amara. He’s not a man. He’s a monster in a silk suit.A knock on the