Emilia Book Novels & Stories

''Emma,'' She replies. I look down at the vegetables in the sink before thinking of the name Emma. How would an Emma be? Funny? Outgoing? Boring? Caring? I just feel like knowing something about her; so that I can actually decide whether it's a right choice to make or not—I've been fooling around and never thinking on being serious with someone.

That evening, Ian found Emilia in the family's private library, curled up in one of the reading alcoves with a novel and the kind of peaceful expression that had become increasingly rare since she'd started understanding the true nature of their family's political activities. At seventeen, Emilia retained the kind of natural empathy and moral clarity that their parents had spent eighteen years systematically eliminating from Ian's psychological makeup. She was everything he wasn't—genuinely caring, emotionally authentic, instinctively protective of vulnerable people rather than exploitative of their weaknesses.

she pushed it back to him. “You did the hard work yourself. I just pointed a few things out.” “Still. I’m grateful.” He nodded with a smile. “I’m glad I could help.” They talked for a few more minutes before Leo was called away. She watched him leave, feeling thankful that she had at least met a few kind people. Later, Emilia was sitting cross-legged on the bed when she got home, a small pile of threads in her lap and two wooden needles resting in her hands. She was frowning at them with full concentration, the tip of her tongue just visible at the corner of her mouth.

And with that Emilia slipped away, back into the party. Now alone, Delilah glanced at the sleek black book in her hand. According to the news, Emilia had made millions of Euros from the book sales. Everyone has been gushing about how hot, explicitly raw and delicious the book was. Emilia writing about sex and making millions from it was the last thing Deliah or anyone expected from her. Jax wasn’t giving her the kind of sex required to write such as heated erotica novel. Except she was cheating and getting that heated sex elsewhere.

“Who gave it to you?” “I don’t ask questions I want to live through.” His gaze dropped. “Please. Don’t say my name.” Before she could press him, he slipped out, the lock clicking shut again. Emilia stared at the book in her hands. The cover was plain leather, scuffed from years of handling. No title, no crest. Just a weight that felt heavier than its size. Her hands shook as she opened it. Inside, page after page of tight, slanted writing filled the ledger. Names. Numbers. Sums owed and sums paid. Her eyes skimmed frantically, searching for meaning—until her own name leaped from the page.

Emelia did not understand why the woman spoke so casually about a man as cold as Fredrick Camfrey like he was some toddler on best behavior. To her, the man was not only the coldest but the meanest. He was full of himself and she could never see him in the same light as the nana before her. Emelia did not want to break the pitiful woman's heart, hence she settled for the option of keeping her thoughts to herself. One year was all she had to put up with before the clock hit and she would once again be single and free as a bird. “Yeah…I do like reading,” Emelia replies reluctantly. She walks over reaching out for the books and unexpectedly, every book on the shelf was not only from her favorit

Emilia came again waiting patiently for her sister to say so "no I don't think so" "Jesus why?" the girl excalimed quite pained. "Emilia that's not how it works, but I do like him, I really do like him" However, at this point, it didn't really matter to Emilia, she just loved seeing her sister happy and couldn't wait to see the man she believed to be her so called Prince charming. "Is he your Prince charming?" Emilia asked. "No, not yet"

“You don’t know me.” Isabella’s smile faded slightly. “I know your mother did the same thing. She offered herself to my uncle to save her family. It didn’t work. She died anyway. And your father let it happen.” Emilie went still. I felt the shift in her. “You’re wrong,” Emilie said. “My mother didn’t offer herself. She fought. And she won, until someone betrayed her.” Isabella raised one brow. “And you think you’re different?” “I know I am,” Emilie said.

Hitting people is messy and inefficient and I pay other people to do that for me. I stop in front of Emilia's chair and look down at her. She tilts her head back to maintain eye contact and I can see fear in her eyes but she doesn't look away. Definitely smart. "How old are you?" I ask. "Twenty-three." "College?" "I graduated last year." "What did you study?" "I don't see how that's relevant." Carlos makes a strangled sound. "Emilia. Don't—" "English literature," she says, cutting him off. Her eyes are still locked on mine. "I studied English literature. Is that what you wanted to know?"

Emma said brushing the topic off. Emma led Caleb through the corridors of the grand house, guiding him to the bathroom. As they walked, Caleb couldn't help but steal glances at Emma, taking in her graceful movements and the way the moonlight illuminated her features. He couldn't deny the strong pull he felt towards her, even if she claimed to love Alex.