Confess Novel Novels & Stories

The mark of my betrayal. Gasps ripple through the air. Gerald’s is the loudest. “I need your confession,” he says, voice steady but trembling with the effort to stay calm. “Now.” And I break. Words spill from me like molten iron, searing everything they touch. I confess. Every lie, every act, every secret. The crowd’s whispers slice like knives, their gasps spreading like wildfire, feeding on my shame. But I keep speaking. I need to. It’s the only way I can beg for judgment; death or forgiveness.

] [And since we're already broken up, you have no right to even say something like you're disappointed in me. I sent the message, then tapped open my contact and blocked the number. The screen went dark and I went back to scrubbing the sheets. The next morning, my phone woke me up by vibrating more than a dozen times. Still half asleep, I opened it and found a long string of messages from my roommates, with a link at the top. The headline read: [Shocking news! The truth about Central University's wealthy heiress and her maid! Is the girl always beside Sophie an impostor?]

Ivan laughed but Wave looked at him with a death threat look. "Damn, I was just joking. I know you're not a womanizer like us. But we're totally different from you man. We're not loyal, just like you." Loony said and leaned back in his chair. "What the fuck, dude? I'm loyal. You're the only one who is not." Green disagreed with what Loony said. But they are really womanizers. Wave is not the only one who is not. "You sure? How about Mikhaella? Nimpha? Aisha? Veronica?"

Outside, everything was ice and frost Dorian’s version of safe. He had wanted her out of the city while the heat cooled. A dozen news cycles had passed since the trial, since the last arrest. But silence, she learned, was never safe; it was an echo chamber. She walked back to the desk. Highlighted the whole paragraph. Cut it. Typed again. “This book is not a confession. It is a record. Of power, of violence, of velvet and blood. And of the people who lived inside it some survived. Some did not.”

The air still smelled faintly of old books and the cedar sachets their mother used to tuck into drawers. Nathan closed the door. Cole turned the lock. Isabel stood between the two beds and let the cardigan fall. This time they undressed each other first. She watched as identical bodies were revealed—same broad shoulders, same lean muscle, same dark trail of hair leading down. When they were both naked the resemblance became almost unbearable. Only the scar and the ring remained as proof that the universe had not simply doubled one man.

I gestured to the seat they had just stood up from. “You had questions? What are they?” I asked, wanting to get it over with immediately. “Nova confessed to her crimes this morning,” Robert divulged. “Even if she didn't confess, there was no denying her crimes. It's all in the evidence we sent,” I told him.

My notebook lies open on the bed, pages scattered with scrawls that don’t look like journalism anymore. I stare at them, ink smudged by my own fingertips, and realize with a slow rush of shame—and something darker—that I’ve stopped writing articles. I’ve started writing confessions. Entry 1 “Pain is not pain when it’s chosen. It becomes something else. A doorway. A release.” That was Jennifer’s voice echoing in my head tonight. I had scribbled it down after watching her work with Leo, but the words feel like mine now.

I prayed that he wouldn't ask anything more about Hiro and his company… Lying to him was much worse than lying to police. “And what are you writing about…? I bet it's a romance,” he grinned. “Hahahaha…” my hysteria kept growing, “Actually… it's a criminal novel.” Now, I hoped that he wouldn't ask about the story. I could just picture a situation, when I tell him that I actually met my current boyfriend because I decided to described the crimes that he had committed inside my novel! “Really? What's the story about?” “Seriously?! Could you please stop bringing me closer to a heart attack?!” I asked inside my mind.

“Let me guess. You got too comfortable sharing a bed with someone who didn’t keep your secrets. They found out about the book, burned it, and now you’re on the brink of impeachment. Did I cover everything?” “I’ll never get used to that freaky thing you do,” she murmured, moving toward a nearby table. There, a bottle of red wine and a single glass waited—remarkably pristine in this bleak environment. She poured the glass to the brim, then met his gaze. “So, now what?” “Everything leading up to them seizing the book is correct. But the part after that? A blatant lie. I anticipated this. The real continuation is on the counter,” he said, voice distant, as though he were bored with the confessio

Her confession today was different; not the usual petty transgressions of thought, but something deeper, more unsettling. "I… I have been having… impure thoughts, Father," she confessed, her voice barely audible. "Thoughts that shame me. Thoughts of… flesh. Of touch. Of wanting…" She trailed off, her cheeks flushing a deep scarlet visible even in the dim light. Father Michael clenched his fists, the cheap fabric of his cassock rough against his skin.