Andy Gibb Cause Of Death Novels & Stories

⚠️ Contains emotionally intense and mature themes. (R 18+) "Look at me, Hazel." Diego approached, his breath burning Hazel's ear. "I only ask for one thing... beg me." Hazel shook her head, her knees trembling. "No... you can't—" Diego smiled faintly, darkly, full of triumph. "If you beg... I will never let you go." Hazel Anne Quinn, 24 years old — a small-time journalist who no one takes seriously. Living a mediocre life, abandoned since birth, and writing erotica as a ghostwriter at night to survive. No one ever wanted Hazel... until Diego Ronan Blake appeared. A senior actor and tycoon at 34, a man who makes the world bow down and causes women to fight to be his. But Diego becomes obsessed with the one woman who avoids him — Hazel's grayish-green eyes, filled with fear yet a hint of defiance, make Diego lose control. For Diego, Hazel isn't a fantasy — she is a necessity. He wants Hazel as his, body and soul, and this obsession drives him to tear down the walls that have protected Hazel, only to rebuild them with himself at the center. Hazel can be afraid, can hate, can resist... but as long as she doesn't beg, Diego will never stop. Because once Hazel gives in — even just once — Diego will never let her go.

On my 18th birthday, my stepmother, Sheila Coleman, teams up with her secret lover, William Lynch, to kill me in cold blood. After that, she carves my femur into a bone sculpture and presents it to my dad as a gift. Dad loves the sculpture to no end. Thanks to Sheila slandering me in the past, he doesn't give a damn about me at all, even after finding out that I've gone missing. In fact, he even declares that he wants to cut off all ties with me. "Don't bring that brat up in front of me from now on! I hope that she dies out there!" But when he finds out that I'm really dead, he goes crazy from remorse.

Three years of marriage, and it all ends with two words. Sign it. He didn’t even look up when he said it. Just slid the papers across the table like I was another business deal to close. We weren’t supposed to fall in love it started as a contract, something practical, something safe. But feelings have a way of growing where they shouldn’t. For a while, I thought he cared. The quiet moments, the small things he remembered my favorite song, how I take my tea, the way I hate the rain. I thought they meant something. Turns out, they did. Just not for me. Every gesture, every soft word, was borrowed from a memory. From her. The woman who had him first. The one who left. The one who’s now back. So I signed. I smiled. I walked away. Not because I wanted to but because I had to. He doesn’t chase me. Not yet. But I can feel it the weight of everything unsaid still hanging in the air between us. Maybe he’ll realize what he’s lost. Maybe he won’t. Either way, this time, I’m not waiting around to find out.

RATED 18 This is NOT your regular puppy love Christmas story, fit for a casual road trip with friends/family. This book contains extreme s****l contents, every chapter another opportunity to dr*p your pants, and mindlessly daydream about the first time you got laid out of your senses. If this isn't your vibe, pick up another book this instant. But if you're ready to walk this sin with Lilian, who had thought all her life that she hated men until she arrived at her best friend's house to spend Christmas. Sit tight, watch the scenes roll out. Remember, don't scream too loud. *** I never knew I could crave a man this hard, until I agreed to spend the Christmas break at Sonia's, my best friend I wouldn't even trade for gold. "I have two daddies. Surprise!" her voice had trailed off with every other sound as I beheld my forbidden desires. The surprise isn't that Sonia had been brought up by gay fathers and I knew nothing about it until now , the surprise is: Why was I m**ning my soul out in the middle of the night of Christmas, at the mercy of Sonia's supposedly gay daddies while she slept downstairs. I continued to be consumed bare and r*w, and that was the best Christmas present ever.

For three years, Evelyn lived a lie wrapped in luxury. Her marriage to the cold and powerful Lucian Blackwood was supposed to be a mere business arrangement—a thirty-six-month contract to save her family from ruin. But as the days turned into years, the lines between duty and desire blurred. Evelyn fell for the man who remembered her favorite meals, protected her from the cold, and ensured her medicine was always at hand. She believed that beneath his obsidian gaze, a real heart had begun to beat for her. The illusion shatters on the night of their third anniversary at the Blackwood Estate. With the stroke of midnight and the smell of acrid smoke, Lucian presents her with the Decree of Divorce. The crushing truth is revealed: every gesture of affection, every moment of "domestic bliss," was never about Evelyn. It was a lingering habit from his past with Sarah, his first love who has finally returned to the city. Evelyn wasn't a wife; she was a rehearsal.

“Congratulations, Catherine. You've just become my fiancée.” A sultry smile curved Hunter Thorne's lips as he watched me with his predatory gaze. He was the future Don Cartelli, the purest embodiment of danger, and I was about to become his wife. How was I supposed to know that the hot stranger I kissed in the club was one of the most fearsome men in New York?! Once I realized my mistake, I chose to stay away from him. My fate, however, had other plans… When my quiet little world began to fall apart, this notorious Mafia boss became my only salvation. I needed money and protection, and he needed a wife. This was supposed to be a simple deal, but nothing is ever simple with Hunter Thorne. He's the devil incarnated, and I've just entered his hell. This devil craves my body, heart, and soul… and I'm seconds away from surrendering every last piece of me.

The most powerful Godfather in the mafia underworld—Dante Costello—had an expensive diamond signet ring custom-made to fit my finger perfectly and sent straight to our home. He said that whoever could wear the ring would become the lady of his family. The Monroe family had long since fallen from grace. All that remained were four women. On ordinary days, we fought endlessly, tearing each other apart. Every single one of us wanted to marry Dante because marrying him meant preserving a life of dignity and comfort. In the first life, the fake heiress, Blair, secretly had the ring resized smaller and married into the family. Dante took one look at her, then had her thrown into the river to drown. “Not her.” In the second life, my cousin, Chloe, underwent plastic surgery to alter her fingers and force the ring on. Dante gifted her a staged car accident. “Still not her.” In the third life, my stepmother, Catherine, clenched her teeth and forced the ring onto her finger. Her blood hadn’t even dried when she married Dante. He coldly slashed her face, then locked her in the basement, where she slowly wasted away until death. By the fourth life, all three of them were terrified. None of them dared to marry him anymore, so they hurriedly pushed me forward instead. I put on the ring. This time, the size was perfect. Just when I thought my good days had finally begun, Dante stabbed me to death on our wedding night, his eyes burning red with madness. After my rebirth, the consigliere of the Dante family delivered the ring once again. This time, all four of us avoided it like the plague.

After my parents died, the family went bankrupt, leaving my brother and me with a large sum of debt. To pay it off, he became a haunted-house test sleeper, while I acted as a corpse on film sets. For five years, we worked tirelessly, not daring to rest a single day—and still, the debt wasn't cleared. By the end of the year, only 13 thousand dollars remained. Gritting my teeth, I signed up as a clinical trial volunteer. When it was over, I dragged 13 thousand dollars in cash, brimming with joy, to show my brother. But I found him frowning, on the phone. "Dad, Mom, Lily's doing well. Have fun abroad," he said. "She's stopped spending recklessly. The punishment ends next year." What? Our parents weren't dead? Our family wasn't bankrupt? The five years of hardship, every ounce of struggle—I'd endured it all as punishment for my love of spending. My smile froze on my face. My stomach churned violently. A mouthful of fresh blood spilled out.

When I was seven years old, my younger brother went into anaphylactic shock after sneaking a handful of peanuts. Outside the emergency room, my mother slammed my head against the wall over and over, her face twisted with rage. "If you had been watching him like you were supposed to be, this never would have happened! You should be the one with a ruptured stomach, not him!" After that, whenever my brother so much as caught a cold, my mother forced me to eat spoiled leftovers as punishment. I once prepared an elaborate feast. She flipped the entire table and made me crawl on the floor to lick it clean. When I said I wanted to study culinary arts, she poured hot oil over my hands. My father wanted to send me to vocational school to learn a trade, but my mother clutched my brother to her chest and wailed. "She destroyed her brother's health! She owes him a lifetime of service!" When I was fifteen, my brother's gluttony cost my father an important business deal. I took the blame without even being asked, and the furious client forced me to drink more than half a gallon of hard liquor. By the time I was sent home with a bleeding stomach, my father had already scolded my brother. My mother took out her anger on me instead, slapping me so hard my ears rang and my vision went dark at the edges. "You useless thing! You should’ve choked to death at that table! I get sick just looking at you!" I coughed up black blood. From my pocket, I pulled out a piece of sour candy that had gone soft and sticky. It was the only treat my mother had ever given me with a smile, back before my brother's allergic reaction. I put the candy in my mouth and swallowed it down with the taste of stomach acid. The candy was so sour it made my throat burn. Whatever came next, I just hoped I would not have to be my family’s garbage disposal again.

There was a ten-year gap between me and my sister-in-law, but we got along surprisingly well, especially given that we were both in an absurdly rich family. Then, one day, she came to me, bawling and clutching a photo in her hand. "Your brother is cheating on me! He has a family somewhere else! For more than ten years! I'm getting a divorce!" Crying, I showed her a message I got from my husband's mistress. "That bastard Christopher has a mistress! I'm leaving this home!"