American Woman Novel Novels & Stories

Even though the atmosphere was quite cold between them, it was far better than being indifferent. "Poor thing, you still deserve another wife who can understand your needs as a husband. I mean, it wouldn't be wrong for you to meet this American woman. She is indeed a widow with two children. She is an honorable widow, you only need to return to America every few months. Many young men want her, but it seems she is only interested in you."

Isabella, on the other hand, seemed unbothered. "Me? A mistress? No, of course not," she replied lightly while giving her husband a sharp look. Elena was aware of that, but chose to remain unfazed. "I did, however, speak with a few mistresses. I listened to their stories without prejudice and, surprisingly, I learned a lot about them. So, one day, I decided to write a book about them." "Wow, that's truly interesting." She nodded as she sipped her wine. "Would you say that what they're doing is, to some extent, right?"

The first novel I read was by Louisa May Alcott; Little Woman, and then moved on to other feminist novels such as Handmaid's Tale and Pride and Prejudice—the book I'm holding right now. Well, I shouldn't be going around the library looking for a novel I like because what I'm supposed to be doing is taking care of a crazy bastard named Rhysand del Millero, who's on the phone. But I don't want to do that. I'd rather buy time with the books in front of me until the helicopter he's waiting for comes over to the bullshit he started. Damn, I hate this situation. I hate being stuck with a domineering, powerful man who loves to be heard more than to hear, and hates that I can't do anything.

His wife. He protected her from me. He chose her over me. Again. Always. Always. I turn away from the mirror. I can't look at myself anymore, can't stand to see the woman I've become, the woman who waits in silk nightgowns for a husband who never comes, the woman who gave up everything for nothing. The fire in the hearth has burned down to embers. The room is dark, shadowed, filled with the ghosts of every night I've spent alone in this bed. I walk to the window and press my forehead against the cold glass.

Alice winced. "I know. But......" Elsa stopped and breathed heavily. "Just don't tell him. Please" Alice nodded and urged her to go to bed. Like a baby Elsa nodded and went to bed. Alice stayed awake and tried to imagine the face she had seen in the car. She once dated a Mafia back in Texas. But when she got tired of the sick games she had to come back over here. She know what's it like to be a Mafia's woman. Even though she's no longer dating or in contact with her ex Mafia boyfriend, his enemies are still her enemies and that was why she learnt the way to protect herself before leaving Texas.

I paid for the dress and then went to my apartment and looked at the research for Anastasia. It was more work than my stepmother had let on. The research I’d done for her last week was just the beginning. I was basically doing my senator’s aide job without the benefits of going to the office or getting paid.

This was so hard to do. However, standing here now, staring at those same pair of arms that held her close on cold nights, wrapped around another woman so tightly, it made this a little easier. With that, she pulled out the envelope and tossed it on the table. Derek’s eyes shifted to her, and then he suddenly noticed the suitcase behind her, “What’s this Leah? What are you doing?”

“It’s not denial. I just… I want people to see her past the courtrooms. Past the graves. Past the pain.” “And fiction gives you that,” I said. They nodded. “Exactly.” River’s POV I started that night. A new document. Blank. Titled: The Woman Who Stayed It wasn’t about Rachel Greene, exactly. Not the one who died. Not the one who was erased. It was about a woman like her — same fire, same fear, same voice — but this time, she stayed. This time, no one silenced her. Excerpt – Chapter One (Draft) Her name was Mara.

Half of her big, round backside was sticking out. She wasn't wearing any pants; instead, she just had a little white thong with those sheer, skin-colored stockings over her long legs. The sight nearly made my nose bleed. It was breathtaking. I'd never been near a young woman this perfect my whole life. Even if she wouldn't let me do anything else, just letting me touch her for a moment would have added years to my life.

“You hit me because you thought I was weak. Touch me again and see if I do not drive my heel into your eye socket.” She shoved the door open and strode into the cool air of the boutique. She walked past the receptionist and stopped cold when she saw them. Bianca, Sophia, Carol, and Blair, shopping together, laughing, completely at ease. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Bianca had given the order. Of course she had. Rita forced her anger down just enough to keep her voice from shaking and walked straight toward them. “Blair Montgomery,” she said, the words sharp and cold. “When did you become Philip Armstrong’s wife?”