Amouage Memoir For Woman Novels & Stories

They were memories etched into her heart, reminders that her emotions had been real, despite the terms of a contract that claimed otherwise. Amara wandered through her apartment one evening, the rain tapping softly against the window. She picked up her laptop and stared at the blank page. Words hovered on the tip of her mind, fragments of the story she had promised to write—but every time she tried to string them together, her chest tightened. It was as if the story had betrayed her, turning her own experiences into a kind of torture.

He never touched any of it, always saying, "A gentleman stays away from the kitchen." I shook my head. "No need. She's your wife. It's only right that she lives there." Lisa raised her brows. "I've already humbled myself. Why are you still so arrogant? Besides, you can scold me if you want, but you and Anthony were husband and wife. How can you not even trust him?" I replied coldly, "Don't say it like that. I don't have a husband who pretends to have amnesia and brings another woman home. Let's part on good terms."

Amora rolled her eyes at the tug of heat, clicking her tongue every few minutes. “Do you all go through training or do they pluck you straight from pig farms now?” she muttered, sighing as if the entire kingdom was built on her back. The room was heavy with her perfume—cinnamon and gardenia, an artificial sweetness cloaking something sharp. Amora didn’t notice the way her maids avoided eye contact, or maybe she didn’t care. “I want every noble woman to weep in jealousy tonight,” she said aloud to no one in particular. “Let them see what a real queen looks like. Let him see.”

She glanced at the green book of her ancestor, and her lips formed a smirk when she remembered something she had read. She gazed at Amoux's face, and she noticed how peaceful he was. She caressed his face and slowly grinned. She couldn't believe that she would be Amoux's wife. Sometimes she thought that the Moon Goddess was too good to her and that she didn't deserve it. “Amoux, you know that I love you. Don't you dare leave our babies here in this pack? If something terrible might happen to them, I swear that I will kick your balls until they crack.” Leah slowly stood up, and she prepared everything the bag might need.

It was the familiar, settled warmth of two women who had broken bread through every restructuring, every divorce, and every triumph. "What are you going to wear?" Amara asked around a mouthful of pastry. Selene blinked. "That's your question?" "It's an important question," Amara insisted, brushing flakes from her lap. "Five hundred women. A raised stage. The story of Selene Voss told by Selene Voss for the very first time." She held her half of the croissant with both hands like a shield. "What you wear matters." Selene looked down at her tailored cuffs, then back to the window.

She was dressed in a Chanel suit and carried a Hermès bag, but neither could conceal the exhaustion and resentment etched across her face. The moment she stepped into my office, she flung a stack of photos at me. "Caleb Hatcher! Look at what you've done. Look at what you've turned Lucy into!"

Amaia sincerely stated. "You asked me awhile ago what am I doing here... Well, let me answer that question as well. You see, I want to give this book to the woman who has been on my mind and my heart for the passed two years. I want to make her fall in love with me for real, and not just for reel." Kei explained, while giving the book to Amaia. Amaia gasped softly when she read the title of the book. "My Girl, Amaia."

J'étais Gentleman et pour moi ce n'était qu'un jeu oubliant qu'un jour mon passé fera surpasse Jean-Marie Vianney 💲 #La #colère d'une #femme #amoureuse 💲 🎀#Auteur : Judi le Romantique Plume 🎀 🖌️--------Épisode 2 -------🖌️ ______________ Au supermarché______________ La route n'a pas été facile mais 20 min après j'étais déjà au supermarché. Après mes achats j'étais à la caisse

Pregnant. Monroe leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she whispered, already outlining a feature in her mind. ‘The Muse and the Mogul: A Tale of Power, Passion, and Paint.’ --- Liam’s penthouse was too quiet. He poured a drink, sat by the fireplace, and stared at the flickering flames. He remembered the first time Amara laughed in his arms. The first time she challenged him in a room full of yes-men. The way her voice steadied him when his father died.

She walked in without waiting for an invitation, pouring herself a glass of water from the carafe. "I’m just tired," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Tired is a word people use when they don't want to admit they're bothered about something." Regina said as she sat across from me, her eyes sharp. "You haven't been to the library in three days, Amaya. The staff also says you’ve barely touched the new Dior gowns.” “Oh. Those gowns” “Do you not like them, Amaya?” “I do” “Then what is the matter? What’s bothering you?"