Dirty Story Novels & Stories

Instead, he intertwined our fingers and whispered, “Don’t let me lose you again.” “You won’t,” I said. “Not this time.” The next morning, I woke up to chaos. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Notifications. Messages. Missed calls. Damien came out of the shower, towel around his waist. “What’s going on?” I turned the screen toward him. Headlines screamed from every corner of the internet: Cross LEGACY EXPOSED ILLEGAL EXPERIMENTS LEAKED ONLINE BILLIONAIRE HEIRS ACCUSED OF COVER UP

Aside from his relationship with Lydia, which everyone now knew about, Drake had pretty much been an open book. The lowest paid of the employees, a male named Issac, who worked as a recorder, slid his phone out of his pocket, slyly turning on the video recorder, before positioning his phone in his hand, where the camera could see Dianne, Drake, and Lydia, but no one could see the phone. He knew if whatever argument they were having continued, that the media would pay big for the story. The Whittenberg Scandal, as Drake and Lydia’s relationship was being called, was a major hit with the society pages lately.

“This is it, Elara. Once this goes live, there’s no turning back.” Elara nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. “I’m ready.” At exactly 9:00 a.m., the article was published. The headline was bold and damning: "The Puppet Master: How Daniel Stokes Orchestrated One of the Biggest Financial Scandals in History" The article laid everything bare—Stokes’s involvement with Lydia and Cassia, the shell companies, the fraudulent deals, the manipulation of the Hawthorne family fortune. It was a masterclass in investigative journalism, meticulously detailing every step of the conspiracy and exposing the true scope of the corruption that had destroyed Elara’s life.

Well, I could use that to my advantage. I dialed a familiar number. “Derrick,” I said cooly when the line connected, “How's my favourite tabloid vulture?” “Demi. You know I'm busy,” Derrick replied. “Well, whatever it is, I'm sure you're not too busy for a career-making story.” “What do you have for me?” “The Montgomery’s boy. A secret wife. On Petty Island. Getting Cozy.” A pause followed. “You're joking.” I laughed. Good. Now, he was interested. “I never joke about scandal, Derrick. I'll send you the photos.”

I sat at the bar, nursing my third whiskey, the ice clinking every time I swirled the glass. The place was loud but I barely heard it. I raked my fingers through my hair and pulled out my phone again, thumb scrolling through the trending tab even though I knew I shouldn’t. Every headline was about us. “Hazel Montgomery and Alan’s Sex Tape Scandal Rocks Billionaire Family.” “CEO Caught on Camera in Kinky BDSM Room – Company in Chaos.” I leaned forward, elbows on the sticky bar, and kept scrolling.

I click the email open, and my pulse decides to audition for a death metal drummer position. The attachment loads with the speed of dial-up internet circa 1995, which gives me just enough time to contemplate whether it’s possible to die from anticipation alone. When it finally opens, I realize death might actually be preferable. A leaked document. The kind that gets buried by powerful families or starts actual wars. The kind that makes grown men weep and seasoned PR professionals consider career changes in pottery. A scandal involving Alexander Madrigal. My breath catches in my throat like I’ve just been punched by the universe itself.

Sighing deeply, the young woman reached for the diary and opened to the first page, her fingers running across the brown colored paper absentmindedly. She reached out for the blue pen on the dresser, her body slightly quivering in anticipation as she silently contemplated shutting the diary like she usually did, only this time she didn’t want to do that. Only this time, she actually had a story to tell. Sighing deeply again, Natalie uncapped the pen, and for the first time ever, she wrote in the diary; Dear Diary, I met someone today.

Dad exhaled deeply for a second and held me by shoulder and said, "Chris... Let me explain it. Eva… She ran away from here at the last minute…" I shrugged off his arms and said in disbelief, "No… This can't be true…" with the force I kicked the wooden chair, it shattered on the wall into pieces. "Calm down, Chris. If you like it or not, this is the truth. She left a letter for her parents explaining that she was not sure about the marriage. "

Alex's POV Another useless idle day spent in a boring office full of paperwork and awful bosses who treat me like trash. I was far too annoyed, far too stressed, as I began searching BDSM clubs, submission, and someone else taking control of your life. Somehow it sounded wild yet tugged something within me. The Vault was the name that kept popping up. That was the secret spot where real Doms played rough.

A woman with a slight southern accent answers, and I lay it all out his medications, routines and triggers. They’re responsive. She promises a team will be dispatched within hours. By evening, he’s settled in. Blissfully unaware. And me? I’m glued to my phone, following every story popping up concerning us. Dante said he’d fix it. But it’s only getting worse. Every tabloid, every gossip blog and I*******m page is milking it dry. But one story in particular is climbing faster than the rest. > Staged Kiss? Inside the PR Stunt That Hides the Real Scandal.