Blush Expression Novels & Stories

Outside the private room, Charlotte Riley overheard Zac Gibson say, “Charlotte is gorgeous, no doubt. But the reason I pursued her? She reminded me of Wendy Cooper. For years, I was just searching for traces of Wendy in her.” That night, she finally made the call she had been avoiding for years. “Dad, I’m ready. I’ll come home and go through with the engagement.” Later, when Zac saw Charlotte at a high-society gala—elegant, untouchable, and more dazzling than ever—only then did he realize the truth. And he completely lost it. * The night Charlotte walked away from her family’s arranged marriage, Sean stood by the window, swirling his wine, his expression unreadable. “Lottie, one day, you’ll come back to me willingly.” Rumor had it that Jersey City's most powerful heir, Sean Jasper, was cold, reserved, and indifferent to women. Charlotte believed it. Until she realized just how intense and unwavering his devotion truly was beneath that composed, self-restrained facade.

I suddenly got a call from the police, telling me I was involved in an abandoned baby case. My best buddy was holding me up as we rushed to the scene when Shirley Dunn, the girl who had asked me for directions last week, suddenly pointed straight at me. "That's her. I saw her this morning, holding her stomach, going into the restroom! Now the baby's been born, and her belly's flat!" I was completely stunned. Before I could react, she shoved the newborn straight into my arms. "This is your own flesh and blood! How could you abandon him?" The officer's expression was equally severe. "Miss, I understand that becoming a mother at 20 can be scary, but abandoning a baby is a crime. If you didn't want to raise a child, you shouldn't have had one." More and more college students gathered around, their stares stabbing into me like needles. Cold sweat soaked my back. My best friend suddenly burst out laughing. "Congrats, man! You're a dad now!"

At Sullivan Group's annual banquet, a female university student approaches Peter Sullivan and offers herself to him. The usually cold and distant Peter suddenly freezes because this young woman looks exactly like his deceased first love. He can't help but tease, "You're asking to be my mistress in front of my wife. Are you so sure you won't be thrown out?" The young lady lifts her chin, and her stubborn expression is identical to that of his lost love. "You two got married for business reasons and mutual benefits. Does she have any say over what you do? Peter, only you can save my mom. Will you do it or not?" She's right. I'm just a pawn in a marriage of convenience. How could I possibly influence Peter's choices? But then, I catch a glint of tenderness in his eyes that I've never seen before, and a self-deprecating smile forms on my lips. Maybe, instead of clinging on and being thrown out like trash, it's better if I give up my place willingly.

I am finally pregnant with a child after being married to Anthony Johnson, my husband, who has azoospermia, for five years. Emily Johnson, my 30-year-old unemployed sister-in-law who lives off her family, tears the ultrasound scan apart and angrily accuses me of carrying someone else's baby. She then takes out a notebook packed with detailed records of every time Anthony and I have slept together since we got married. "In the past three months, the only time you slept with Anthony was three weeks ago; other than that, he never laid a finger on you! If you're over a month pregnant, then there's no way that baby belongs to the Johnson family!" I feel incredibly angry at the thought of being eavesdropped on all this time, so I seek out Anthony and demand an explanation. He merely looks at me with a pained expression and says, "You should just produce the evidence if you're innocent, Madison—just like Emily did." I laugh out of sheer exasperation. If they want evidence, then the baby I'm carrying is the best evidence there is.

"I've transferred the three hundred-dollar rent to you. Thanks, Samuel." A contact named Misty has sent my husband, Samuel Tucker, a message on WhatsApp. I snatch his phone immediately, only to be stunned by what I see. "Rent? Samuel, you told me that this is the income you earn from your part-time job!" Samuel's expression freezes on his face. Then, he tries to snatch his phone back. "Darling, my brother has already passed away. It's difficult for Misty to raise two children on her own…" As I caress my tiny baby bump with a hand, I feel my heart sinking at his words. "Which residence is this rent for?" Samuel parts his lips hesitantly. A long time later, he finally tells me the residential area's name. I'm completely flabbergasted at that point. The luxurious apartment sitting in that particular area is an asset that my deceased parents have left for me. Also, the rent there is worth 10,000 dollars. Yet, Samuel has rented it out to my widowed sister-in-law, Misty Patterson, and her children for only 300 dollars!

I was setting up a weekend shopping list on the tablet my husband had just replaced for our home system. A notification popped up. He had forgotten to log out of a shared, encrypted family calendar— one I didn’t recognize. There was only one unfamiliar profile photo. I tapped it. A list titled “My Little Princess – Personal Notes” filled the screen. My Little Princess doesn’t drink alcohol—only mineral water or herbal tea. No late nights. She needs absolute quiet to sleep. She gets anxious easily—keep fresh white lilies in the house and her favorite vanilla chocolates on hand. I scrolled slowly, my expression unreadable. The final entry was bolded. Highlighted. “Next Wednesday: take my Little Princess to choose her wedding crown.” I closed the screen. Then I picked up my phone and called my husband. “Love,” I said gently. “Does your Little Princess prefer a classic European bridal crown… or something more traditional? I thought I could help you choose.”

At the Mercer family's annual dinner, I accidentally wore a couture gown that belonged to Lucian's late wife. The eight-year-old boy I had raised myself, in front of every key member of the Family, threw a glass of expensive red wine all over my pure white dress. He just stood there, his cold, condescending expression a mirror of his father's. "Don't think you can become the mistress of this house just by dressing like my Mamma." "I swear, when I'm old enough to take over the family business, I'll make you disappear for good!" The cold liquid soaked through the fabric, clinging to my skin. But I felt nothing. My heart had frozen solid the moment I signed my life away eight years ago. I looked at the child I had raised as my own for eight years. There was no anger. The faintest smile touched my lips. I leaned down and whispered in his ear, "You won't have to wait that long, my little lion. I'm leaving, and it will be very soon."

"I’ld love to see the expression on your face when I successfully trap you, taunt you and make you beg till you break." I whispered pinning Matteo to the wall. “And I’d love to see you try,” he shot back, struggling against me. I didn’t let him. He thought being older meant he had the upper hand. He was wrong. ~ ~ ~ ~ Matteo Hudson was Rowan’s first mistake, the coach who crossed a line he should never have touched, then walked away like it meant nothing. Now he’s colder, stricter, and determined to pretend it never happened… but Rowan remembers everything. Every look, every moment, every time Matteo lost control. And he refuses to be the only one carrying it. What starts as tension on the court quickly turns into something messier and impossible to ignore. Matteo keeps his distance, but Rowan pushes harder, forcing the past back to the surface. Because whatever they had didn’t end—it just got buried. And the deeper Matteo tries to hide it, the more Rowan makes sure it resurfaces.

“You can still walk away,” he said, his voice lower now. I shook my head. “I don’t want to.” Something in his expression softened, just slightly. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a second, neither of us moved. Like we were both waiting, deciding. His hand lifted, hesitating just slightly before brushing against my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “Last chance,” he murmured. I didn’t answer, I didn’t need to. I closed the distance instead. The kiss wasn’t soft. It was searching, deliberate. Like he was testing something, me. And I responded before I could stop myself. Before I could think. My fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the world around us slipped further out of reach. The hesitation was gone now. Replaced by something heavier, something I didn’t want to question. And this time, I didn’t think.

Leon Santoro's ex-wife and their daughter pushed me down the stairs. I lost the baby. Leon came to see me in the hospital. He sat beside the bed, his expression as composed as always, and said, "She's a child. She didn't know what she was doing. I'm sorry you had to go through this. I apologize for Rosalie." "That's it?" I asked. "Just an apology?" He turned to look at me. "What else do you want? Money? Stock?" "I can't exactly make Rosalie pay with her life for what happened to your child." Your child. Not our child. So he truly never cared about the baby I was carrying. He'd made a promise to his ex-wife Giselle: Rosalie would be his only child. When I told him I was pregnant, he'd barely reacted. Just a shrug and a flat "I know," like I'd told him the weather. Thinking about it now, I looked at him and asked quietly, "You're relieved, aren't you? Now that the baby's gone."