Chronicles Of The Going Home Club の小説・ストーリー

No wonder Tim could be so utterly deranged as to dig up his mother’s grave just to frame me. As it turned out, the whole “death” was a lie. I sent Sarah a message. “Tim’s mother isn’t dead. The truth is in the email I sent you.” Whether she chose to read it or not was no longer my concern. My flight was booked for three days later. Summer had done the booking. When Sarah returned home, she saw me packing. Half my clothes had been thrown away, and a small portion had been boxed up and shipped to South City.

Someone with sharp eyes caught sight of the watch and gasped in disbelief. “Wait, isn’t that the limited edition ‘Heart of True Love’ watch from the Lowe family’s collection? There’s only one in the entire world! How the hell does he have it?” Cara suddenly grabbed my wrist and yanked it toward her. Her eyes widened when she spotted the nearly invisible logo etched on the back of the case. “George, did you steal this from one of those auction lots?” I pulled my hand away, my patience wearing thin. This was getting ridiculous.

It had been nearly half an hour since I arrived, each passing minute weighing heavily on my nerves. The G&A Club held a notorious reputation as a playground for the wealthy and influential, where the elite came to escape their responsibilities and indulge their desires. I couldn't shake the gnawing fear that Alfred might be just as promiscuous as the messages had described him to be. Doubt gnawed at my mind, casting shadows over the tender moments we had shared.

In just a few short years, they'd amassed billions of dollars. Three years ago, Alfred had launched an investigation into this syndicate after receiving a tip-off. However, he'd mysteriously disappeared soon after. All Maya ended up finding was the body of a colleague who'd been with Alfred during the investigation. The police formed a special task force, gathering all case information related to the syndicate and tracking every single lead. Eventually, after three years, they received word that the head of the organization could very well be conducting their business at a clubhouse in Burwich, the city neighboring Greendale.

RASHIDA ummuraf6 SPECIAL THANKS A BIG THANK YOU TO ALL MY READERS. YOU ALL MADE WRITING WORTHWHILE FOR ME. Thank you so very much. Please tag your friends so they can join the rollercoaster. Guys please leave your reviews let's know what you think about the whole story Thank you once again for reading the Homewrecker. We meet again in my new story. THE GRIMORE The cover and blurb is in the next chapter so do check it out.

"Believe me, please..." I didn't turn around. "Dante Ricci," my voice was steady, "you don't even know what love is." "You only love yourself." I walked out of the courthouse into the blinding sunlight. Marco was waiting by the entrance. "Don, all matters for today are handled." I nodded and got into the car. "Also," Marco handed me a file, "the remaining members of the Ricci family want to see you." "They want to pledge allegiance to the Moretti family."

Some lines even alphas should not cross. Rain beat against the tall windows of the pack house, turning the glass black and silver beneath the storm. Thunder rolled over the mountain, low and angry, shaking dust from the beams above us. The council hall smelled like wet wool, old wood, wolf, and bitter smoke from the fire struggling in the hearth. Fifty wolves stood around the edges of the room. Maybe more. I did not count them. I could not make myself look at all their faces. Because every single one of them was watching my life fall apart.

I never expected to see Sean again, and certainly not at my personal fashion exhibition. He had lost a lot of weight, and his presence was worn down. When our eyes met, there was a strange look on his face, something between a laugh and a sob. It was almost absurd. By then, though, my heart had fully healed. I could once again stand beneath the spotlight and speak to the audience, with poise and confidence that had always been mine. I had already climbed out of the lowest point of my life. So, I named this exhibition “Rebirth”, a celebration not just of my work, but of my own revival.

But I knew it hadn’t. Over the past three years, the time Cicio Russo spent alone with me had grown shorter and predictably shorter. He would rather stay in the grand study, where he dealt with all his family business, facing those dull shelves with bulky books, than come home to be with me and my everlasting warm company. The meals I reheated again and again, the lights that stayed on night after night—it all felt like they were telling me: He was not coming back. One night, Cicio came home late and paused for a moment when he stepped through the door.

Mom chimed in quickly, "Yeah, Suzy, don't pick a fight with her. She hardly ever comes home, just for New Year's. They can crash in the guest room, and you guys take the master." Our place did not have any fancy floor heating, and out of all three rooms, the guest room was the only one without a heater. With the mercury dipping below freezing, how could Mom stand for that? Suzy snorted, "Doesn't she have her own place? Dragging her kid back to her parents' for the holidays, isn't she worried about the gossip?" I shot up from my seat, fuming, "Since when do I need your okay to come back to my own house?"