11 Birthdays Novels & Stories

Eric Clapton never expected his ex-wife would move on overnight, and be living her best life. His friends have always mocked him for marrying such an ugly woman. When his mistress showed up, he couldn't exercise the smallest patience to stay married to Liana. "My mind is made up, Liana. Let's get a divorce. $90 million and the penthouse in Rochester will be compensation for your mental damage. Is that enough?" Eric put down the envelope and pen on the pillow beside her. Liana sat up, eyes glued to the man she has dedicated three years of her life to. "Is that all you have to say and offer?" She asked, her eyes holding a trace of detachment. Eric was stuck in thoughts. This was unlike the fragile and indecisive woman he married. Liana smiled as she gazed at his unreadable expression. "I can see you're really prepared for this, you know. This is obviously the first time in three years since you returned home before 11:00 pm, Eric." She added, her lips curling up into an enigmatic smile as she decisively scribbled her signature on the papers. The next morning at the courthouse, she held the divorce papers, her fragile heart tearing apart as she watched her ex husband smiling when he walked away, his hands carefully wrapped around another woman's waist while they strode to his car. Seeing him replace her so quickly was really heart wrenching, but right there, she saw another man who just got dumbed by his fiancee at the crucial hour, and without hesitation, she walked up to him and proposed to replace his fiancee. Now, what will Eric do when at the moment of his regret, he realised that she didn't only move on, but she's now his boss's wife?

For three years, I slept with my father’s head of security behind everyone’s back. Last night, with one hand at my throat and the other under my dress, he finally asked for a name, a future, something real. “After graduation,” I whispered against his mouth. “Let me finish my defense first. Then we’ll tell them.” “No.” By then I was shaking beneath him on the leather seat. “Then sooner. On my birthday next Friday. I’ll stop hiding then... Cassian, please—gentler...” That seemed to satisfy him. His mouth softened against my skin, and his voice dropped low against my ear. “Good girl. I just want you too much.” The next afternoon, I met my best friend for tea. The moment she opened the passenger door, she spotted the torn foil packet caught beside the seat and lifted a brow. “Bourbon cherry?” she said, already grinning. “That’s our company’s unreleased line. So this is what you’ve been hiding.” I snatched it up and shoved it into my bag. “It’s not public yet.” She frowned. “That’s the strange part. We only sent those samples to a handful of VIP clients.” Then she pulled out her phone. “I did a product follow-up with one of them yesterday, and his private account was basically a shrine to his girlfriend.” She turned the screen toward me. I only looked once, and my whole body went cold. The man in the photo had a line of Latin script inked low across his abdomen. I knew that tattoo. I had kissed it the night before. My fingers started shaking as I opened the private account Cassian had never shown me. April 4. The conservatory. Me and him. April 7. The upstairs studio. Me and him again. April 11—last night. A six-second clip in the back of the car.