99 Percent Mine Novels & Stories

Mya sat at the café table long after the initial swell of tears had subsided, her hand still pressed over the test results like the paper might vanish if she let go. The numbers were burned into her memory already—99.9998%—but she couldn’t seem to stop glancing back at them, as if reassurance were something she had to drink in again and again.

It was like the first gift he ever got for her. The speaker: Here comes the final jewelry. My eyes grew wide. It looks so….rare. Green Demantoid Garnet Sterling Silver. "Anyone bidding?." A Scottish woman: 30 million. Is she fucking kidding me?. Oh no. No way, I wanna get it but don't have enough. My husband wants to give it to his ex- miserable girlfriend. The old man: 50 million. Everyone murmured. This man is fucking crazy with jewelry. I do not think I can afford that much. I only have my husband's money.

She continued, “Secondly, I want ninety percent of the Jordown Company’s shares!” She offered him 70 percent before and he turned it down. In return, he tried to plot against her? Of course he had to pay the price. Max’s pupils dilated. “Ninety percent?! Charmine, you’re asking too much!” “So, ninety-one percent then?” Charmine asked languidly. Max gritted his teeth. “What’s the difference of giving everything to you then? Do you have to do this?” “Ninety-two percent,” remarked Charmine as she toyed with the tablet in her hands, exuding an in-born authority.

I sent the coordinates in a second message, then forced myself into my car, driving faster than I’d ever driven in my life, hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to ache. The city thinned quickly as I approached the industrial district, warehouses growing sparser and more decrepit, the polished glass and steel of downtown giving way to rusted metal and crumbling concrete that hadn’t seen proper maintenance in years. I found the location exactly where the coordinates indicated, a massive shipping warehouse with broken windows and a single door standing slightly ajar, rain beginning to fall steadily now, soaking through my jacket within seconds of stepping out of the car. My phone buz

I ran my hands through his hair screaming his name. "Yes.. yes.." I groaned as he grabbed my ass. He turned my body around and started to thrust my body from the back. He squeezed both of my breast hard and he released himself inside of me. He turned my body around and kissed my lips hard. "M.I.N.E" He smirked.

Just the one left behind. But it was okay. After this… there’d only be one chance left. One more, and then she’d be gone. Smoke filled her lungs, fire closed in. Her vision blurred—until she couldn’t fight it anymore. And finally, she passed out in the flames.

A small nail scrapped my elbow and i yelp in pain. Once i reached down i opened the back door of basement and passed out of the house. I started walking casually to the other lane. I know round the corner meant four lanes down, it was our code when we were kids. No car was visible, aarav said a car will be waiting for me. "May be i am early." I whispered to myself and wait near the phone booth. JACK'S POV.. I was working in my office of my massion, there was an extremely Important shipment of 100 girls to LA. These girls were specially demanded, they were the daughters of important people, very important people. I don't want anything to go wrong. Just everything to the point.

It was a photo of him in his hospital bed, holding the tiramisu. The caption read: “Thanks, Annie. This is the best comfort dessert ever.” Underneath it, Annie had left a smiley face. I shoved my phone into my pocket, heart hollow. It had been ninety-nine times or maybe more than that. However, whatever the number was, it was time to let go.

Counted the exits. Measured the distance between him and the doors he'd never reach. When it was his turn, his legs buckled halfway up the stairs. He hit the stage hard, a jarring shock of pain shooting up his side. Gasps rippled through the crowd. A predator’s excitement thickened the air. Zane forced himself to stand. He would not cry. He would not beg. If they wanted to own him, they would have to work harder than that. The blinding lights made his skin prickle. Sweat slid down his spine. He heard the auctioneer’s voice booming through the cavernous room: "Lot Eighty-Two. Male. Age twenty. English-American descent. Healthy. Certified. And obviously—a work of art indeed."

electricity, running straight to my chest. He must feel the way I stiffen, the way my pulse races under his touch, because his expression softens. "I'm sorry," he says, voice lower now, quieter, like we're the only two people in the café. "I didn't mean to push." He releases me slowly, deliberately, and slides a small black card across the table. His name embossed in silver. A number. Nothing else. "Think about it," he murmurs. "It comes with... perks. More than you'd imagine. Working with me could change everything for you."