Beatrice Bartoni Novels & Stories

Anything! “How do you know that though? Beatrice was always jealous of any women you had been seeing and Michael was lusting after her. Who’s to say that this wouldn’t have happened regardless of you developing feelings for her?” Bart shot back. Maybe… But either way, I have to own this guilt. There’s no way I can let her take that blame. Not even a shred! “Okay, stay here.” He said going into a side room. Bart came out of the side room several minutes with several scalpels. He placed two handfuls of gauze on a tray in addition to the bottle of the remaining Hypoxinate one.

"Back in your territory." Beatrice is an omega. They're shunned by society and can't hold any titles unless they're raised to the position of a gamma or beta. Here in the palace, they do the jobs no one wants to do — clean, scrub, help royals with chores they're quite capable of doing on their own.

He had my name, my fortune, and my legacy ahead of him. The intercom buzzed, breaking the silence. "Mr. Thorne, I'm so sorry, but your sister-in-law is here. She... she didn't have an appointment, but she's already past the desk." Before I could answer, the heavy oak doors swung open. Beatrice walked in, looking like a high-end assassin in a dress that was little more than a whisper of crimson silk. It was cut dangerously low, her heavy tits practically spilling out with every step she took. She didn't look like a woman here for a family visit; she looked like a woman here to stake a claim.

Beatrice had no idea when she started tearing up. “Hey hey, don’t you dare shed any tears!” Ri scolded. Bea tried her best to stay put, knowing how much effort her best friend put into making her look so good. But she knew that Rita was right! She had no time to mingle or party because she was always busy, working, and had a very good heart, enough to take care of her parents and pay off their debts and even give freely to her close pals. The dress was just a reminder that she hardly bought stuff for herself.

I know those heels. Beatrice Sinclair walks in the way she always walks into this house, like the deed is in her name and I am a guest who has overstayed. Grey coat, pearl earrings, bag in the crook of her arm, lipstick perfect because Beatrice is always perfect. She looks at me first. Then past me at the table. Her eyes move slowly across everything, the candles, the two plates, the full untouched wine bottle, the whole careful humiliating effort of this evening, and something settles in her expression that has never once in five years been sympathy.