Who Dies At 'The Last Party' In The Novel?

I died on my birthday, but neither my parents nor my husband noticed. They were too busy pouring all their attention into planning my twin sister, Esme Shaw's, birthday party. While she was surrounded by people helping her pick out a gown, I was tied up and thrown into the basement. With what little strength I had left, I forced my broken fingers to press in the code—9395. It was a signal my husband, Edwin Grant, and I had once agreed on. It was a straightforward way to call for help in the event of danger. I never thought I would actually need it one day. But when I sent it, he didn't believe me. His reply was cold, "Claudia, just because I didn't take you shopping for a new dress, you've decided to put on a show? "You can still wear last year's gown. Stop making trouble. I'll see you at the party later." What he didn't know was that Esme had already shredded that gown into pieces. And what he couldn't imagine was that the moment after he hung up, I was already gone. So, when the celebration began, I never appeared. But when everyone saw the birthday gift I had prepared for Esme ahead of time, the entire room lost its mind.

She ran from a killer. She fell for his enemy. Zara Okafor was Lagos's most celebrated ballroom dancer until she watched her fiancé, Senator Emeka Okonkwo, execute a man in cold blood and smile. She ran. Changed her name. Buried the girl who believed in fairy tales. Now she teaches waltz to wealthy widows in Abuja, invisible and safe. Until he walks in. Dante Nwosu doesn't enter rooms—he claims them. Ruthless heir to a blood-soaked empire, he needs a dance instructor for his sister's wedding. What he wants, he takes. And he wants her. Zara recognizes the danger in his eyes—the same cold calculation from the night her world ended. She refuses. He persists. One dance. One contract. One month. But Dante isn't just a powerful stranger. He's the son of the kingpin she escaped. Her old fiancé now a powerful senator knows she's alive. He wants her silenced. Dante should hand her over. He burns the world instead. In the space between a waltz and a war, the man everyone fears has a fracture in his armor and she's the only one who knows where to strike. The enemy of her enemy becomes obsession. The reason she stops running and starts fighting. But love in the dark doesn't come clean. Every truth is a chain. Every secret costs blood. And the final dance—where the music stops and the guns come out—demands a price neither can afford. Some dances you survive. Some you die for. This one might be both. The Last Dance… Dark Romance. Mature Content. For fans of enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity, and heroines who fight back.

On my birthday, Connor Simpson's first love jumped off a building due to depression. She died on the spot. Connor blamed everything on me. I never celebrated my birthday again after she died. After the murderer electrocuted me for more than ten hours, they forced me to call Connor. "Connor, it's my 25th birthday today. Can you come over and spend time with me?" However, Connor did not notice anything unusual. His voice was laced with venomous iciness. "Clarisse Winter, Audrey wouldn't have died if it weren't for you. How dare you ask me to celebrate your birthday? If only you were the one who died." I heard him coaxing a woman on the other end just before he hung up on me. That low and gentle tone was what I loved to hear the most in the past. That night, the murderer cut my body into countless pieces, packed them in bags, and threw them in front of the police station. Connor was summoned back overnight. He spent two days and two nights piecing together the body parts, but he did not realize that the dead person was the wife that he hated the most.

I watched Ryan die. So how is Ben wearing his face? Six years ago, I watched my best friend--and secret crush--splatter all over the pavement. He died. I saw him. Yet, in the back of my mind, I've never stopped looking for him. Seeing him in crowds, in the classroom, in my dreams--and my nightmares. It's cost me everything--my identity, my sanity, and maybe my life. So when I walk into class to see a man who looks exactly like Ryan standing before me, I freak out again. My therapist tells me to stay away from Ben. He's no good for me. I'll end up back in a padded room. But I have to know the truth. Is Ben really Ryan? That's not possible. But Ben has scars--real ones and metaphorical ones. If Ben is Ryan, why doesn't he just tell me? Is he trying to drive me crazy? Or worse--is he trying to kill me? The Boy Who Died is the first romantic suspense novel from bestselling romantacy author Bella Moondragon writing as B. Moon. If you love romantic suspense, are a fan of Colleen Hoover, Gillian Flynn, Christopher Greyson, or Paula Hawkins, you won't want to miss this page-turner!

When my dad, Jake Snow, is on his deathbed, his final wish is to meet my girlfriend of eight years. I call Nancy Miller 67 times, but she doesn't bother picking up. Only after Dad passed away did she finally send a half-hearted text message. "We're in lockdown mode for the project. I can't leave now. Once things ease up, I'll definitely visit Mr. Snow." I hold Dad's hand that has gone cold. My fingers tremble as I type, "Sure." That very night, I come across a video. Nancy is clad in a red dress at a riverside restaurant overlooking the river. She is holding a cake, standing beside another man. The caption reads, "Four years after graduation, I finally get to stand beside you again. Happy birthday, Sean." Everyone is busy congratulating them in the comment section. I even recognize some of the names. Someone asks, "Are Nancy and Sean finally getting their happy ending?" I stare at the screen, my heart clenching like someone's squeezing it from the inside. Then I reply, "Yeah, I guess so. I just didn't know I was the one left out until now."

For five years, I paved the way for my wife, Samantha Cole. After helping her resolve the company's troubles one last time, I called her and asked, "Darling, I'm so cold. Can you come home and hug me?" On the other end of the phone, Samantha had only just pulled herself away from a moment of intimacy with her young lover, Oliver White. When she finally answered, her voice was impatient. "Joshua Davidson, will it kill you to stop being so dramatic?" Indeed, it would. I slammed the phone down and then died on our bed. Later, Samantha—the woman who had kept me trapped in that lonely house for five years—held my portrait in her arms and finally learned what regret felt like.