Cold Wife Novels & Stories

Santiago walked in and washed his hands before watching the two men negotiate. He added, "I heard that it's really cold in Waverly Village now. Without firewood and coal, a normal person won't make it through the night. I wonder whether one hundred million is enough?" He'd barely managed to finish his sentence before Zorion had hurried off.

the elderly woman says, and she smiles back at Anita as the young lady goes back inside to bring the keys to the old house. "I thought your mother and her brother had forgotten us. You know, Papa Nicole married a white woman that was against our custom, and she ran away after your mother and her brother's birth, but Papa Nicole refused to marry another woman even after they're all grown up. Now they've abandoned the house, and it looks old, but still neat, as we have been sweeping it." "Thank you, Mama," Anita says to the elderly woman. "It's nothing, my daughter. I'm Martha Johnson, and I'm married to the Johnson family. That time, your father used to bring you and your mother, you were ver

The loneliness tonight felt heavier than usual. I was never allowed to eat with them, so I'd grown used to eating alone in my room... like a servant. I was about to get water when voices drifted from the living room... Tonia and Aunt Martha were talking about Uncle. "I miss him so much. He should hurry back," Tonia said. "We need to take care of her pregnancy soon. She disgusts me, and who knows if she's thrown up in our food before? She's always vomiting." Ice filled my veins.

The frosting is a pale, jaundiced yellow, the sickly echo of a winter sun. The cold. The raw, biting cold. It's not just a sensation anymore. It’s a tenant in my blood, an uninvited occupant that has finally built its home in my bones.

The place was not a lush flower garden, but rather a private tactical shooting range, complete with a row of human silhouette targets made of steel lined up at the end of the area. Zizie Wilder walked across the field with graceful yet solid strides. Her black velvet gown swept the cement floor, creating a strange contrast in this place filled with the scent of weapon lubricant and burnt gunpowder. "Note this in your head, Helga," Zizie said without turning her body around. "Inside the Wilder family, name is everything. If you cannot defend your own name, others will step on you. Elzio, my big-mouthed eldest son in the hall earlier, is just one example of the many wolves in Neophile who love

Chapter 84: The Old Sawmill Luca and Ethan crawled from the icy creek bed, slick with black mud that clung to every fibre of their clothing. The cold had been brutal, searing their lungs, but the sludge offered a brief shield against Maxwell’s thermal sensors. Ethan’s ribs throbbed with each laboured breath, yet the cold had muted the pain just enough for him to move. Their bodies shook violently, teeth chattering, limbs trembling as if their muscles themselves had forgotten how to obey.

It was a hand, hot and uninvited. "Pervert!" I almost shouted. Every woman who commutes has faced something like this, and I was no exception. My skirt was short, perhaps too short. Bending over revealed my pink thong-covered privates, making me a target for those subway perverts. When I turned just slightly, ready to lash out, my breath caught. Reflected in the train window, the man behind me wasn’t a stranger at all. It was my father-in-law, Victor Collins, who had just arrived in Silverhaven.

The caption read: "Someone spent all day cooking so I could have a taste of home. Love you." I stared at the screen. In the corner of the photo, part of a hand was visible. It was Kian’s hand. The watch on his wrist was the one I’d saved up for months to buy him last year. The table was overflowing with food. Braised short ribs, garlic butter shrimp, and a steaming pot of Tuscan white bean soup. Even through the screen, I could almost feel the warmth oozing from the dishes. Then I looked down at my own table. The frozen ravioli sat there in its plastic container, frost still clinging to the edges from the grocery store freezer.

The cold is no longer just his. It’s changed. A new quality to it, a texture. It’s not the clean, empty cold of a ghost anymore. It’s a… sticky cold. A clinging, invasive chill that doesn’t just sit on my skin, it presses in. Like frost on a windowpane, but inside out.

With him, I lost my color. (Widows are supposed to wear only white and do not celebrate any festival and no sweets, in an olden era or in conservative homes which are rare at present.) I have nothing with me yet she was the one to get pitied. I don't care if their love is pure when I am being unjustified. I hate it. I lost my dance for what? To be some replacement? On the next day while I was working in the kitchen she came in to take water and I took the opportunity to ask her.