Who Are The Main Characters In Superbloom: How Technologies Of Connection Tear Us Apart?

On day two of Matthew's so-called business trip, I was wiping down the counter when I said, "Auri, play some music." Instead of music, a syrupy voice chirped, "Sure thing, my Baby Moon. Oh, and Matthew, don't forget Bibi's birthday surprise tonight." I froze. The speaker blasted some random playlist, but all I heard was 'Bibi.' Matthew Kein was my husband. So who the hell was Bibi? I called him. "Did you mess with our smart speaker?" A beat of silence, then his fake laugh. "Oh, a buddy dropped by. Probably logged his account in. Why?" I laughed back like I bought it, then hung up. Two taps later, I was scrolling the login history, already hailing a cab to the company tied to that mystery account.

Post - Apocalyptic Horror | Action | Yuri Harem | 18+ | Rated R | Mature Content | Slow Pace It started with a kiss I don’t remember giving. A rooftop. A moan. Someone’s fingers buried in my hair like they belonged there. A mouth on my throat that said I tasted like something they lost in another life. I wasn’t dreaming. The city was already cracking beneath me. Power grids flickering like dying stars. Tech failing. Screens static. The sky bruising in strange new colors. Everyone said it was coincidence. Collapse. Noise. But I knew better. The moment I felt her breath on my skin — even if I couldn’t see her — I knew the end had already arrived. And I had something to do with it. Ten butterflies followed me after that. Not literal ones. Not always. They shimmered in my periphery. Each the wrong color. Each too vivid. Each drawn to me like heat to blood. They touched me in dreams. They watched me when I undressed. They whispered without words. I could taste their want. Some called me cursed. Broken. Unstable. But the truth is simpler. I’m blooming again — and they all feel it. They don’t love me. They remember me. They remember what I used to be — what I still am, underneath the silence. One of them burned me with just a kiss. One broke my spine with kindness. One slid her hand under my shirt like it was always hers. One cries when she touches me. One never speaks, but her eyes dig. One wants to keep me. One wants to ruin me. And one just wants to finish what we started. They think I’m choosing. I’m not. My body already did. And now the bloom inside me is turning darker.

I'm the type who has the urge to overshare my life with him. It can be anything, be it the flowers blooming by the side of the road, the unpleasant coffee I end up having, or the sunset I've seen when I'm on my way home from work. Heck, when I think of Edwin Howell all of a sudden, I can't resist texting him at all. His replies are always short and perfunctory, though I suppose they count as a form of response from him. Hence, over the past six months, I've relied on these cold-sounding yet present replies to give me enough strength to deal with the engagement party, go wedding gown shopping, and choose the wedding venue all by myself. Somehow, I've managed to hang in there till the week before the wedding. But five days before the wedding, I discover an AI program that's installed within Edwin's computer. It can categorize every single sentence that I've sent to Edwin and extract the keywords. Then, it'll draft the most perfunctory responses that will never go wrong. If I miss Edwin, the AI will reply, "Mm-hmm." If I feel aggrieved, the AI will reply, "Got it." When I try to vent my frustrations to Edwin, the AI will reply, "Don't make such a big deal out of it." It turns out that Edwin isn't the one who has been responding to my need to overshare. The thing is, he has been texting another woman nonstop in another private chat. They talk about anything and everything under the sun, from exchanging simple good mornings and good nights to asking, "What are you having for lunch today?" and "Do you wanna go to the beach someday?" Finally, I realize that Edwin isn't the silent type who keeps his love in. If anything, he's the flashy type who will proclaim his love anywhere, anytime. It's just that… his love has never been mine to have. As for me, I've finally made up my mind to stop spending my life waiting for a response that will never come.

In the chaos and quiet of her 30s, a woman reflects on the loves that shaped her, the heartbreaks that undid her, and the tender spaces in between. Through fleeting romances, almost-loves, and the weight of expectations—family’s, society’s, and her own—she navigates a world where connection is currency, vulnerability is rebellion, and self-discovery never comes easy. Told with wit, warmth, and raw honesty, this novel is a journey through modern love: messy, magical, and sometimes maddening. It's about the people who entered her life, the ones who left, and the version of herself she’s still becoming.

Charlotte Hartwell built Hartwell Industries from the ground up. Every late night, every sacrifice, and every success made the company more than a business—it became her life’s work. So when the powerful Blackthorne Global offers to buy her company for the fourth time, Charlotte is prepared to do what she’s always done. Say no. Darrien Blackthorne isn’t used to hearing that answer. As CEO of one of the world’s most influential corporations, he’s convinced Charlotte’s company deserves the resources to become something even greater. He isn’t trying to destroy her dream—he wants to help it flourish. But the more time he spends with the brilliant, fiercely independent entrepreneur, the less certain he becomes about where business ends and something far more personal begins. Caught between them is James—a man whose connection to Charlotte is deeper than either of them realizes. As long-buried secrets begin to surface, strange coincidences become impossible to ignore, and an unseen force quietly weaves their lives together. What began as a corporate acquisition soon unravels into something far older, far more dangerous, and far more magical than any of them could have imagined. With betrayal hiding behind a trusted smile, loyalties tested at every turn, and destiny refusing to be ignored, Charlotte must decide whether protecting the company she built is worth risking the future she was never meant to face alone. Some lives are changed by choice. Others were Entangled by Design.

The last thing Valentina Serra sees before she dies is the crack in the ceiling above her bed. She is 45 years old. She is not unhappy. That, she realizes in the last seconds of her first life, is the most devastating thing she could say about it. She opens her eyes in a university lecture hall in Barcelona. She is 20 years old. Her notebook is open, her pen is in her hand, and she can feel — with the precision of someone who has lived an entire life — exactly how much she is about to waste if she does nothing. She does something. Armed with 25 years of memory, Valentina sets out to close every loop she left open: the military commission she dismissed, the marketing career she let others architect for her, the relationship she stayed in long past its expiry date, and the mother she visited but never truly knew. One by one, she reaches for the life she talked herself out of the first time around. But the two people closest to her — the friends who have always been there, always supportive, always first to suggest the safer, smaller option — are watching. And when Valentina begins exceeding the quiet ceiling that they built for her, Isabel and David begin to coordinate. Then there is Ethan Cole. Washington D.C. Investment sector. Five years younger, which bothered her the first time. He will walk into her life again in Barcelona, and this time Valentina already knows what the long dinner and the careful conversation and the late-night walk along the Passeig de Gràcia will mean — if she doesn't talk herself out of it. She is not going to talk herself out of it.