Fabricating Stories Novels & Stories

“Cassie, you’re not betraying anyone. You’re protecting them. Sometimes lies are the scaffolding we build around truth until it’s safe to stand.” The words sank in. I reached for my notebook. “Fine. Let’s build.” We worked for hours, voices low, the glow of my lamp stretching shadows long across the walls. Jennifer dictated, I scribbled, and together we spun a tale Adrian would salivate over: whispered arguments behind closed doors, Victor pulling rank in the middle of a scene, Leo threatening to walk with a handful of loyalists. We even invented a late-night confrontation in the mezzanine, a clash of words so vivid I could almost hear it echoing in the empty lounge.

And if he could find those… He might be able to build a fake leak. A decoy. Drop it before the real one. Rewrite the narrative. Rewrite the clock. Rewrite the game.

“Well… They just wanted to know.” My lips widened. “Then come closer.” I filled his head with stories that were both true and not, exaggerating my first meeting with Jay. He gobbled everything, eyes wide, gasping when it called for it, and smiling when he felt it was cute. I didn't know I was such a wonderful storyteller until I started spinning the lies. “Wow. I bet they would shed tears just listening to your story,” he said when I was done with my lies disguised as the truth.

I fought the urge to trap that deep sound somewhere in my body. "My guess is that whoever told the story must have wanted it to sound less like a conflict and more like an inspirational story. They do all of that too much these days; every story is fabricated." The smile on my lips wiped immediately at his last words. my mind drifted to the story of his family, and I wanted to ask is yours too? Is your story fabricated just as you said? But instead, I found myself asking. "How do you know the real version from the fake, then?" It sounded like a double question, especially with the fact that my face had gone from a wide grin to a cautious stare into his eyes in a second.

“You have a handsome husband. I mean the father of your child and your hidden son with him. How did you manage to be away with them? It's been five years, you don't have regrets?” I was dumbfounded for a few seconds. How can I give her a response? The narratives were only made up. It was way more complicated than this. Lucas did not even argue with me the way I introduced them. Instead, he loves the idea. He told me that I could be the best writer if I started writing some fictional story. I just glared at him in return. He can't figure out that it's because of them. I am now lying to my neighbors and my staff and making up stories so our cases can't become more complicated. I don't know if

She has all the time in the world and seems to be on a one-woman mission to fill every second of it with garbage. One of QD's most recent hobbies is the collection of "emptistories," or "empty stories." These are essentially stock plots, removed from their characters and particulars. She secretly believes these emptistories will somehow give her an edge over the Creator God, though even she isn't sure of how exactly that might play out. This hobby is, in part, the primary reason that so many places and people have names from real-world fiction and myth, as she suggested them from material acquired from other dimensions.

“Now that… is valuable.” Finally. Someone who understands what opportunity looks like. He pulls out a recorder. “Tell me everything. The dirtier the better.” I inhale. Time to perform. I start weaving stories. Some true, but most of them are all bullshit stories. Little scenes of private arguments between Xander and me, exaggerated until they sound violent. Fabricated details about Olivia, painting her as manipulative, attention-seeking, desperate for fame. Invented messages. Invented confrontations. Invented secrets. Each word tastes like poison on my tongue. But it’s a poison I intend to spread.

I scrolled with trembling fingers, my vision blurring as I read the words that felt like they had been ripped from my private nightmares. The article was a masterpiece of cruelty. It claimed that ten years ago, I had fabricated my pregnancy to force Tristan into a marriage he didn't want. It alleged that when the "lie" was about to be discovered, I had faked a miscarriage and fled the country with a settlement, only to return now to "finish the job" and seize the company.

“How do you know?” “Just trust me,” Sebastian replied. “We know. Our stock prices are dropping, and our reputation is suffering too. It has to stop.” I listened quietly. “We want you to create a fake news story and send it through the normal process. Then we’ll watch to see if it appears in our competitors’ newspapers.” I stared at him while trying to understand everything. “What would I write about?” “Write about something valuable enough that someone would want to sell it. It doesn’t even have to be true. The more fake it is, the easier it will be for us to trace.”

“It’s ours. And unlike your ex, I don't write lies that lead to a slaughter. We build a story that makes them back the fuck off.” I took a deep, stabilizing breath, forcing the ghosts of my past life back into the dark corner of my mind. “Alright. Alright, dammit. What is our first attempt at creating a believable story? How do we explain the fact that the Ashbourne heiress suddenly dumped her fiancé for the Shadow King?” “We keep it simple,” Hassan said, leaning back against the edge of the mahogany desk, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “The best lies are built on a framework of truth. What is our public explanation?”