365 Day Book Novels & Stories

How could someone be this perfect, despite his arrogant demeanor, he still looked devastatingly handsome. My words were lost somewhere between my lips, and my brain, as I stared at him blankly. I can't even imagine myself falling for him. "You will be paid monthly through out the duration of the contract." "How long is this contract?" I asked, gulping in saliva forcefully. I silently prayed it was going to be for a week, which I had no idea how I was going to survive for that long. He laughed, and it sounded like the Devil himself laughed. There was nothing funny. Was there something on my face? I reached out for my face with my right hand, and found nothing. Then realization struck me! He h

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Now that he had fallen, everyone who had suffered came forward with company secrets. I did not know who had filed the complaint, but I figured they must have had no other choice. After all, no one would risk their future like that without being pushed to the edge. Nonetheless, I was not surprised that people were eager to kick him while he was down. Then again, it no longer concerned me. I packed my bags, planning to travel with Mom's favorite necklace, and decided to visit our regular restaurant one last time. From a distance, I noticed a strange woman dragging herself along the sidewalk. She was not walking—more like she was crawling.

STELLA I stumble into the house at 3:00 AM. It’s dark and silence is eerie as expected of dawn. I wouldn’t expect active movement so early in the morning. I can’t quite put my finger on it but it is both comforting and unnerving. My head throbs and my blood is heated, being under the influence of alcohol. But the fire in my gut? That’s stone-cold sober. I don’t wait for the sun. I don’t ask for permission. I just clutch that manila envelope, wobbling further into the house. Why does the truth always feel like it's trying to snap your wrist?

Then, the kiss – a fleeting touch, a brand of possession, a silent acknowledgment of their precarious arrangement. Uno's words, a low murmur against her lips, were a cruel twist of fate: "Let's keep this 365-day marriage our secret. And don't worry, kissing you is the least I'll do." The veiled threat, the raw power in his voice, sent a shiver down her spine.

"It's not about work," Yoel said. He walked over, set a blue folder on the coffee table in front of me, and looked more serious than I had ever seen him. "It's a proposal." I picked up the folder, confused. On the cover, in bold print, a single line read, "Proposal for Establishing a Long-Term and Exclusive Lifelong Strategic Partnership with Ms. Nova Grayson." My hand trembled, and I almost dropped the folder. I took a deep breath and opened to the first page.

No evidence. I sighed and opened my eyes. The room had a slightly different color, and I was starting to get sentimental when the door opened. "Where the hell were you?" I asked, somewhat irritated. "I have a private life too, you know?" Damian said. I frowned. "You don't have a life," I said with a smirk. The rest of the day was filled with a ton of work to do: signing and stamping authorizations, and confirming silly deals with absurd vendors. Not only that, but it was simply a day I had nothing to remember, an absurdly ordinary Thursday.

Looking at him, you would think he was a gentleman. Ok maybe I am painting him out to be some bad guy. Yes, he is a ruthless businessman. You have to be ruthless if you want to survive the corporate world. Sometimes, I actually respect the guy. He built the Sinclair Empire at age twenty two and at forty eight, he is already retired, enjoying his money.

I've scribbled ideas across three pages already. Spicy ramen. Fire and ice. Sweet and sour. None of them feels right anymore. How do you plate betrayal? How do you season panic attacks? How do you garnish trust that's already been shattered? I bite my lip. Maybe agreeing to the hundred days had been a mistake. Maybe I'd simply been too exhausted to keep fighting. I flip another page, trying to focus on recipes instead of emotions. At least food makes sense. People don't. My phone vibrates on the vanity. I barely glance at it. But it’s enough for me to notice the message on the screen.

Her breath, even and unhurried. She passed a bookstore. The same one she’d power-walked past every morning for a year, late to a standup, coffee sloshing, brain already compiling the day’s failure modes. Today she stopped. She went inside. The air smelled like paper and dust and time. She bought a novel she’d seen months ago and never had time for. Six hundred and twelve pages. No table of contents. No appendix on scaling Kubernetes. The cover was a deep, useless blue. The synopsis mentioned a lighthouse. She didn’t even read the whole thing.