Novel & Cerita Cartoon Cat Mouse

I took a shortcut through the alley and watched Dante Marchetti put a bullet in a man like it was nothing. He saw my face. That was the end of my normal life. Within an hour I was in the back of his car being driven to an estate I had never seen before with gates that locked from the outside and a wardrobe full of clothes in my exact size waiting like someone had known I was coming before I did. He told me I wasn't a prisoner but a guest. He said people who wanted to find me were considerably worse than him and that his walls were the only thing standing between me and a conversation I wouldn't survive. Maybe he was right. The problem is the longer I stayed the harder it became to remember which one was true. Because the man who caught me in that alley wasn't the only version of him. There was another one that nobody else seemed to get to see. The one who stood alone in his dead mother's library looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. The one who had my cat brought to the estate because he heard me crying through a closed door and didn't know what else to do about it. The one who almost smiled when I threw a glass at his head. That version of him was the one I couldn't stop thinking about. I came here as a witness. I stayed as something else entirely. Somewhere between the locked doors, the candlelit dinners and the secrets we started sharing in the dark I stopped wanting to leave. The question was whether a woman like me could survive loving a man like him. I was about to find out.

“Accept it! You cannot fucking run away from me. You can NEVER escape me. It would be better for you if you just accept that your fate is with ME. You are mine!” Emma shut her eyes, sobbing quietly beneath him. She knew she could never escape him; she knew he would never let her go. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying. She swallowed her fear and looked back at him with tearful, defiant eyes. “I-I’m not yours! I can never be yours. I am just a maid who works in your house. Y-you have no right to claim me like this,” she fired back. It didn’t shock Alexander. It amused him. His fiery cat was finally baring her claws. “You are mine, Emma,” he murmured, his voice dark and absolute. “You were mine the moment I laid my eyes on you. You were mine when you opened that door for me. You were mine when I saved you from the guy at the party who almost ruined you… You are mine, and you will always be mine.” She heard the sharp sound of his belt unbuckling, her eyes widening in panic. She pushed him as hard as she could, but nothing could stop a monster from claiming what belonged to him. ___ Alexander King is a ruthless, powerful billionaire who doesn’t know how to love—he only knows how to possess. Trapped under his lustful eyes, Emma is pulled into a dark, controlling world. He will break every rule and burn the world down to keep her. But what happens when the cage is made of overwhelming desire, and the monster refuses to let go?

Within the circle, everyone knew I had been Leo’s most devoted, submissive admirer. For thirteen years, I chased him relentlessly, transforming myself from an uneducated, middle-school-dropout, illegitimate child of a wealthy family into an Ivy League economics master’s graduate. Only then did his mother finally acknowledge me, and I became Mrs. Smith. However, after the wedding, I no longer meddled in Leo’s company, cooked, or served him. While he stayed up late planning strategies for his first love, I traveled the world with friends. He would accompany her to Paris fashion shows, and I celebrated my cat’s birthday at home. I understood that a commercial marriage could never produce love. Everything I had poured my heart into was just my own foolish obsession. In my past life, I handled his company’s internal conflicts for him. Yet, he frowned, scolding, “You’re reaching too far.” I cooked soups for his stomach ailments, only to see him hand them off to his overworked first love, brushing it off, “She works harder than I do.” Even on the day I had a car accident, he lit fireworks across the city just to see her smile. I begged him, but he looked down at me from above. “Nicole, what we have is only a transaction.” Then, I opened my eyes and found myself back at our engagement banquet, watching him leave midway to comfort his heartbroken first love. This time, I did not chase after him. Instead, I picked up the microphone and said before all the guests. “Sorry, everyone. My engagement with Leo is canceled.”

My sister-in-law sent me a photo of her kissing my husband on the beach. Just a few minutes later, she deleted the photo and sent me a text saying, “Oops, sent to the wrong person. Lol.” I knew it was deliberate. It was never a mistake. She wanted me to see how happy my husband was with her. Clara was never my sister-in-law. Three years ago, my husband had lied about her, claiming she was his younger sister, and I believed him. But after five years of marriage, I discovered—far too late—that Clara was never his sister. She was his mistress, his childhood lover, the woman he had been sleeping with under the same roof as me while making me serve her as if she were truly my sister-in-law. And now what? He had lied again… said he was going on a business trip. Yet Clara had just sent me a picture—a cute, sickening picture—of my husband happily kissing the very woman he had once claimed was his younger sister. The photo carried a timestamp showing the exact time and location. It was real. There was no denying it. They were in Hawaii, on a beach, laughing, kissing, and having the time of their lives… while he had made me believe he was away on business. Without saying a word, I saved the picture and posted it straight to Instagram, captioning it: "Congratulations to my sister-in-law… on finally becoming the official wife.” Then I turned off my phone and went to bed. The next morning, after having breakfast with my cat, Lulu, and taking the warmest bath ever, I turned my phone back on—and froze. Over 200 missed calls were waiting for me. Notifications exploded across my phone. And it didn’t stop there—the number of unattended messages kept climbing past 250.

Fuck, look at you,” he growled, backing her against the desk, voice low and rough. “Sitting in my class every day with that innocent little smile while your pussy’s soaked for your brother’s best friend.” She whimpered as his hand slid up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher. “Tell me, baby,” he rasped against her ear, teeth grazing her pulse, “how many times have you touched yourself thinking about your professor bending you over this desk and ruining you?” Her breath hitched. “Too many…” He chuckled darkly, fingers teasing the edge of her panties. “Good girl. Because tonight I’m going to fuck you so deep you’ll still feel me when you’re sitting in my lecture tomorrow, trying not to moan my name in front of everyone.” --- He teaches by day… and rules the road by night. Fleeing New Orleans was supposed to be Nirvana Hale’s fresh start. She was finally going to meet Adrian Cross; her brother’s best friend and the voice that had comforted her through her darkest nights. But the man waiting for her in New York is a stranger. He’s the lethal enforcer of a notorious motorcycle club, a man who treats her like a burden to be locked away. Just as Nirvana begins to hate the man she once adored, the world shifts again. On her first day at Rodrigo University, she walks into her lecture hall to find Adrian standing at the podium. In a crisp suit and glasses, Professor Cross is composed, brilliant, and completely off-limits. Now, Nirvana is trapped in a dangerous game of cat and mouse. By day, he's the teacher who refuses to look her in the eye. By night, he’s the biker who makes her pulse race.

Elena had once believed that silence could mean safety. That a gentle hand and a warm cup of tea placed quietly on her desk every morning could be a form of love. Lucien was never cruel—not in the obvious ways. He remembered how she liked her eggs, noticed when she swapped her perfume, and sent flowers on days he knew she wouldn’t expect them. He raised her like one would raise a pet—softly, without question. And Elena, foolish in the way only the very lonely can be, mistook his quiet affection for devotion. She told herself he was reserved. Mysterious. That love didn’t always wear its heart on its sleeve. But when the old flame returned—the one who spoke his language without needing to try—Elena saw it. The difference. He looked at her like a man who had found his lost religion. And Elena? She had simply been convenient. No tears, no scene. Just papers on the breakfast table, beside the eggs he cooked perfectly. She didn’t accuse or beg. She only asked for freedom. He didn’t sign. He chuckled. A soft, dismissive sound. “A cat raised indoors doesn’t know how to survive on the street, Elena. You’ll come back." But she didn’t. She disappeared, like smoke—except she didn’t vanish, not really. She lived. She wore colour again. Laughed at bad jokes. Let strange men hand her coffee and ask for her number. Lucien? He watched. He watched her become someone without him. And it drove him mad. The night he cornered her outside the gallery, rain in his hair and desperation in his eyes, he looked like a man undone. "Elena," he breathed, "please. Look at me. Just once." She did. Calm as ever, and her love already gone.

I've been married to Salvatore Falcone for seven years. He's a mafia Don who drills raw terror into everyone's minds. While I'm the Donna whom he has announced to the world, in truth, I'm just a mistress who serves as his human shield that can warm his bed on the side. Salvatore has betrayed me countless times over the past seven years. The first betrayal occurred when he took my ring off on our first wedding anniversary and gave it to one of the escorts in the clubhouse on a whim. The second betrayal occurred when I collapsed in the kitchen out of exhaustion. Instead of saving me, Salvatore blamed me for not preparing the hangover tonic for him in time, so he had someone dump iced water onto me to wake me up. The third betrayal occurred when I suffered from massive bleeding when I was five months pregnant. When I begged Salvatore to go to the hospital with me, he told me that he was keeping Valentina Caruso, his childhood sweetheart, company while her cat was getting fixed. For 2500 days, I swallowed all of my grievances, agony, and tears. Last night, at the banquet of our seventh wedding anniversary, Salvatore had taken Valentina's hand and sat her down on the Donna's throne that was meant to be mine. At that moment, everyone looked forward to seeing me humiliate myself. This was the 101st time he betrayed me. After the banquet was over, Salvatore didn't even bother looking me in the eye. He just said icily, "Don't forget that you're only a mistress to me despite our marriage." At the crack of dawn, Salvatore wakes up with a hangover. He tosses his soiled shirt at me out of habit. "Wash this shirt immediately. I'm going to wear it tonight." As I gaze at him, I caress my belly, which is slightly swollen. "Sorry, Mr. Falcone. This is no longer my duty." Salvatore most likely has forgotten that we've signed a contract when we first got married. The clause states that we will get divorced seven years later. Today is the third day before our contract comes to an end. I toss the marriage certificate and the pregnancy report into the shredder on the spot. In three days, my unborn baby and I will disappear from Salvatore's world permanently. This time, I will never look back.