Fiction Tragedy Books Novels & Stories

She entertained him and enjoyed his company as well but as the night was about to end, she drugged him and he passed out on the bed. Felix slammed the book shut. Perhaps, all women were the same. Even a fictional female character was as bad as the ones in real life. “What's wrong your highness, are you not enjoying the book?” Felix exhaled to get himself together, “I said I wanted a tragic novel not a woman-shows-she's-badass-by-hurting-a man-feelings novel.” “It is tragic. At the end, her lover was not who he portrayed himself to be. He ended up killing her.”

A pity. “Are you even listening to me?” I lifted my eyes from the book in my hand. The Mark of Exile. It was the sequel to The Corpse in the Fog—a crime story about a man killing the lover of the woman he desperately wanted. You could say I was taking notes of very effective and interesting ways to kill Zesa’s lover. I’d had enough of him impeding my happiness.

“Claire, it seems you are so busy these past few days. I barely see you here in the mansion,” her mother said. “I’m very sorry mother. I’m just having so much fun on the book I read. It has really a great story. So I always look for a place where I can be alone.” “Oh what story it is?” “It is titled, Against the Tragic Fate. It is the story where the lead character was given a chance to relive her life again and fight the tragic ending of her story in her previous life.” Claire lied.

I, the invincible hero of a power-fantasy novel, had actually transmigrated into the role of a pathetic simp side character in a trashy romance novel. Not only had this guy hidden his identity as a wealthy heir because he liked the poor heroine, but he had also willingly let her use his money to play the rich girl while chasing the college heartthrob, Matt Calloway. Back when I was the hero of the power-fantasy story, brainless plots were one thing. But did trashy romance novels not require logic either? As I trashed the plot in my mind, a crisp female voice cut through my thoughts. "Jacob?"

My ghost trembled on the verge of unraveling. I was dead. I'd been sold to the brothel, tortured beyond measure, devoured by dogs until nothing was left of me. And all of it—every last shred of suffering, every ounce of guilt I'd carried for "killing" my brother—had been one colossal, sick joke. A tidal wave of absurdity and bitter rage crashed over me. My spirit screamed in silence, howling, splintering apart. But when the crying was over, all that remained was a hollow, unfamiliar calm.

I only felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Dylan's tears fell. Suddenly, he looked up and lunged at me, grabbing my neck. "Fiona, it's you! You poisoned my parents! You killed them!" His grip was firm. Soon, everything went black before my eyes. Fear gripped my heart as my hands clenched tightly. Bernice rushed over, desperately trying to pull his hands away. "Dylan, stop! This has nothing to do with Fiona. In fact, she's been running around trying to help today. Don't be ungrateful!"

They must consider her to be a disgrace. “I killed him! The man that fucked my wife”. Fabian muttered. Then he let out an evil laugh. “You were supposed to make it look like it was real, but you went ahead and slept with her”. Fabian said out of frustration.

“I’ve hidden from many truths because I didn’t want to hurt my miracles. My family is the only lucky thing I’ve ever accomplished in all my years of living. Yesterday, I went to visit my best friend at her cabin, your godmother Gretchen, only to find her dead, and trafficked here by that Alpha Lucifer. Today, I’m still locked back in the old neighborhood that gave us the chance to start from zero. I bring nothing but bad luck to the only miracles I treasure. All I can hope is that one day I can live without suffering our survival.” Her confession weighed heavy. It wasn’t just about my pup’s death. It was the countless deaths she’d lived through, the guilt she carried like a second skin. She

The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, casting fractured patterns on the floor — much like my thoughts, splintered and jagged. I sat at the small kitchen table, clutching my cup of cold coffee, staring at the leather-bound book *Reflections of the Forgotten* open before me. The stories inside weren’t just tales — they were warnings, lessons written in sorrow and hope. Women who had lived as shadows, trapped in lives borrowed from others, fighting to reclaim their own reflections.

| The Encounter | TIME PASSED by without you even knowing it. The more you ignore the time, the faster it ticks. First day in College gone better as I expected. No hassle at all. I even meet new girlfriends which share the same interests as mine—Nena, a black American girl who loves coffee and books, Trix, a foodie blonde girl, and Evette, the fashionista. Though I was a bit left behind by being a sassy lady like Evette, still we share the same interests when it comes to putting light retouches on our faces.