Father Names Novels & Stories

Although the chances of having the perfect partner like his cousin were so slim it was the last thing on his mind. There still seemed to be enough time to enjoy his bachelor life before settling down with one woman for the rest of his life. He shivered at the thought of married life but the idea of someone calling him dad made his lips stretch just a little. Calling his father “Dad or father” in the presence of other people was a privilege he was denied as he debuted into the business world. His father, Jozsef Martakis was a stoic and mad man, who ordered his son to call him Boss and it had stuck ever since. The word “Father” was like a foreign language on his tongue.

He mentioned some important names and Polly almost regretted it. She barely remembered a handful. His father’s name is Wade and his younger brother is called James. Jared has plenty to say about his father but didn’t say much about his brother. There were elders. He informed her what they’re usually on about, the things that matter to them, which don’t usually align with his.

They only wanted me for my last name; Trajano Christopher Trajano, my father, owns a multinational company in Philippines and is easily one of the most successful businessmen in Asia. Each company wanted me because having Christopher Trajano's son work for them was an achievement in its own, but using my father's name to excel was not how I wanted to start my professional life.

He looked at me with the expression he used when I laughed at something he had said, like he was quietly, privately pleased with himself, like he had been aiming for it and was not going to admit that. "What about your father's name?" I said after a moment. Kian was still. "No," he said. His voice carried something underneath it that I did not push. "Okay," I said. "My grandfather," he said after a moment. "His name was James. He was a good man" I looked at the ceiling. "James Donovan," I said. “I don't know… it kinda gives me the ick. No offense.” “Hey. That's my grandfather's name we talking about.” He said sternly but I could hear the laugh in his voice.

he said, his voice all low and gravelly, like it was made for whispering dirty secrets, “you know why I called you here, Elena?” I shook my head so fast my hair whipped around, my mouth dry as fuck. “No, sir.” It just slipped out, all polite and shit, because what else do you call a guy like him? But oh man, the way his lips curved into this smirk—it was dangerous, promising all kinds of trouble. “Don’t call me sir,” he said, pushing off the desk and taking a step closer. I could smell him now—that rich, spicy cologne mixed with something uniquely him, making my head spin. “You can call me Daddy… or Adrian.”

she asked, catching me a little off guard. I cringed a little at the name. Graham & Son. It was a bad pun, but the name had been in the family for generations. Since my great granddad had founded it, passed it down to his son, my grandfather, who in turn passed it to my father. I was next in line, because unlike his predecessors, my father had no sons.

“Also, can you put a shirt on? Please?” The last thing I wanted to process before coffee was a full view of my father’s chest muscles. He turned, eyes flicking over me, and then just gave me this long, unreadable look. “What?” I asked, a little defensive now. “Are you going to keep calling me Jude?” He asks gently. I froze. My hands went still on the counter. He seemed to read the hesitation because his expression softened. “There are other options,” he said gently. “Dad. Father. Papa. Baba.” He gave a small, almost teasing smile. “I don’t mind. You can try them on. See which one fits.”

I stared at those two letters until my eyes hurt, until the screen swam a little in the harsh hospital light. My father's name was Vincent. His father, my grandfather, had been dead for decades — that part of the family history had never been a secret, told and retold at holiday dinners like every other true and boring fact. There was no H anywhere on the official Storm family tree my father had shown me when I was still young enough to believe every word out of his mouth without question. I called my hospital contact back, the quiet ex-intelligence tech Marcus had connected me with days ago, before any of this had a name.

Lisanna took a deep breath, then she spoke. "Adam is Ricky's father's name. Don't you know his name?" "Adam? Ricky's father? I've heard of it once, but I don't care about his name. So I forgot his name. He is a father who is not well educated. So I don't care. I'm only interested in what he did to Adonis."

“He is looking at everything.” James made the sound. Not the laugh. The other one, the one that lived in the territory between the laugh and silence, the sound of a man whose father’s name had just been given to the son of the woman who had completed the work his father died trusting the long version to complete. “Our father,” James said. Not as reference. As the full weight of the name in the mouth of the man who had carried it since 1993 and was now hearing it given to a child born this morning.