Basil Hallward Dorian Gray Novels & Stories

"We will discuss your business tomorrow. For now, enjoy the hospitality." "You are too kind," Dorian said. He bowed again. But as he turned to leave, his eyes lingered on Emily’s white streak of hair. "It suits you," Dorian whispered. "The mark of the abyss." He walked out. The heavy doors closed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "I don't like him," Emily said, rubbing her arms. "Neither do I," Ethan agreed. He looked down at Julian, who was still clutching his leg. "And neither does the King."

The solarium was a glass-domed cage on the top floor of the townhouse, designed to capture the rare London sun, but today it only served to magnify the grey, oppressive morning. Dante stood by a pedestal holding a marble bust of some long-dead Blackwood patriarch, his hand resting on the cold stone. The air was thick with the scent of forced lilies and expensive coffee. ​Evelyn was already seated, her tablet propped against a silver cream pitcher. Beside her sat the Governance Officer, a man named Halloway who looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

His eyes scanned the room for the celebrant. Ramona wanted small talk and to flaunt her designers. Sylvia wanted only to escape, afraid Dorian might be present. The Bowers were millionaires,reserved and calculated. Everyone saw Dorian Bowers as calm and measured, but Sylvia knew better. He had been ruthless since their teenage years.

As I watched Dorian carefully apply the ointment to Celeste's wounds, I stood there deep in thought for a long time. Finally, I asked, "Your Highness, are you really going to give up your title?" For a moment, the room went silent. Finally, Dorian forced a faint smile, looking at Celeste with deep affection that he could not hide. He said, "In this lifetime, I only want to live for Celeste." I froze in shock, wondering if he had been reborn, too. Just then, I caught a fleeting glimpse of imperial purple robes beyond the doorway. However, the figure had already vanished.

I reply. He is quiet for a long moment. "He is two people," Dorian says finally. "There is the version that exists in rooms like the gala, composed and patient and generous with exactly the right people. And there is the version that exists at home." He pauses. "I spent twenty three years with the home version and I can tell you that the patience is real but the warmth is not. There is no warmth. There is calculation dressed as warmth and the difference is only visible if you live inside it long enough."

He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet hall. "Does anyone have any questions regarding the theme of vanity?" Adrian asks, his voice steady, betraying none of the physical discomfort he is enduring. A girl in the third row stands up, adjusting her glasses. "Professor, do you think Wilde intended the portrait to represent the subconscious mind?" Adrian nods, grateful for the distraction. "An excellent interpretation. The portrait serves as a mirror to Dorian's soul, yes. It captures the moral decay that his physical beauty hides." He answers politely, keeping the discussion academic, safe. He avoids looking at the back row, but he can feel Ryder’s eyes on him, a burning gaze tha

The lecture hall in Hawthorne Hall smelled of old wood, chalk dust, and the faint metallic tang of rain blowing in through the half-open windows. Professor Julian Hale stood at the podium, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the tiered seats as he dissected the moral ambiguities in The Picture of Dorian Gray. Late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, catching on the silver at his temples and the crisp lines of his navy button-down. At twenty-eight, Julian was one of the youngest tenured literature professors at the university, known for his rigorous seminars and the quiet intensity that made students lean forward in their seats. He wasn’t flashy. No dramatic gestures.

The second I stepped in, the world outside vanished. Dorian ordered drinks immediately, tossing his card to the bartender like he owned the place. “To Hailey,” he toasted, “soon to be Mrs. Blackwood, the woman too hot for hell.” I laughed, clinking my glass against his. “Cheers to bad decisions.” We danced, we laughed. For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to freedom. Lila swayed beside me, hair sticking to her forehead, her laughter bright and wild. I felt a prickling on my skin. Like someone was watching me.

“I fear war is upon us.” “We just don't know what game they are playing.” He replied. What is Dorian Gray of Grimshade pack up to?