Fool's Gold Novels & Stories

"Him? the real grandson of Miles Langford, and the only heir of Skymex Group? When did you find the audacity and spout such barefaced lies?" That was when Jennie had an idea and leered at me in disdain, "Did you forget your meds again? Are you having another episode?" And behind them, Harold started to choke with tears. "It's all my fault. I knew James was crazy, but I had to bring him here…" Everyone around them were leering at me in disdain right then, as they clearly heard how that trio twisted the facts. Some of them were even scoffing loudly. "So James is just some bum sponsored by Harold? That explains that bum getup."

I turned it under the light, tilting it until I saw exactly what I was looking for. The faintest line along the edge — a seam where gold plating had chipped off, revealing dull brass underneath. Gotcha. “Real gold doesn’t peel,” I said softly, holding it up so everyone could see. “And real diamonds don’t reflect rainbow light like this. They reflect white. Pure white.” Gasps. Murmurs. A few phones came up discreetly. Ruth’s face went pale. Watterson’s smirk vanished completely. “Looks like your royal piece just lost its crown,” I added, setting it back down.

Mountains of wealth that would make Fort Knox look like a child's piggy bank. "Holy mother of compound interest," he breathed. He tried to stand, but his feet sank into the coins like they were quicksand. The weight of the gold pressed against his legs, his waist, his chest. Every movement caused more coins to cascade toward him, burying him deeper. "Help!" he shouted. "Someone help!" But there was no one. Just gold. Infinite, crushing, suffocating gold. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" The voice came from everywhere and nowhere—a susurrant whisper that seemed to emanate from the coins themselves.

The moment I said that, thunderous applause broke out across the room. “Now that’s a real expert. Way better than that fake ‘clairvoyant sight’ nonsense.” “That’s what a chief gold prospector looks like. She not only pinpointed the location, she even gave an accurate estimate of the reserves. Incredible.” Down below, Jane turned pale with panic the moment she heard me say there was gold beneath Thousand Isles Lake. She rushed to the front of the room, pointed at me, and shouted, “You… you clearly knew… “You’re lying! There’s nothing under that lake. You only said there’s a ten-thousand-ton gold deposit to make me look bad, didn’t you?

"There they are! That shameless pair! They hurt Rick and still dare to hold a funeral here? Hypocrites!" When they saw me, it was like they'd found their target. Anything they could throw came flying my way. "This is all your fault! You set him up!" Hard, cold objects slammed into my body. I tried to stop them, but a man lunged forward and shoved me hard to the ground. In the chaos, a heavy candlestick crashed against my head. My vision went black, and I passed out. In less than ten minutes, the enraged "fans" had reduced the funeral hall to rubble.

But the way people moved aside for him, the way even the other alphas stepped back, told me everything I needed to know. This was someone powerful. "Ten gold from the hooded bidder," the trader said, his voice suddenly nervous. Garrett's scarred face went dark. "Twelve." "Twenty." The hooded man didn't hesitate. Gasps ran through the crowd. Twenty gold pieces could buy a house. A farm. A whole herd of cattle. Garrett looked like he wanted to rip someone's throat out. His hand went to the knife at his belt. "Twenty-five." "Fifty."

Her heart hammered a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs as she stared through the dense upstate fog toward the blinding headlights of the silver sedan. She knew that name. *Aisha.* It wasn't the name of a corporate shell company in Delaware, nor a high-ranking coordinator within the upper echelons of The Consortium. It was a phantom moniker—a ghost signature that had appeared at the very bottom of the black-market transaction sheets she had briefly glimpsed on Dominic’s decrypted administrative terminal in Manhattan.

Chapter 170: The Golden Fuel The vial of quintessence felt impossibly heavy in Natalia’s palm. The thick, viscous gold fluid inside surged against the glass, pulsing with a raw, alchemical heat that instantly warmed her frozen fingers. It was the stolen lifeblood of Oakhaven’s mountains, the concentrated energy Malakor had used to forge an empire from the blood of slaves.

I drove rideshare for five years to support my girlfriend. Then a car put me in the hospital, and she pointed at me and said: "We're just friends." Overseas, hanging off her rich new boyfriend, she looked down at me and said, "Blake didn't mean to hit you. Quit while you're ahead, take the money, and get lost." I smiled, grabbed him by the hair, and put his head into the wall. After they deported me, the Ride-to-Real-Estate System woke up in my head. A few years later I was the richest man in the world, living off rent, and the gold digger came crawling back. "You got even more handsome." My new little sister laughed out loud. "Honestly, I'm jealous of her complexion. She lays it on s

By six-thirty, the morning sun had completely conquered the mist. The sea-fog dissolved into thin, wispy ribbons of white vapor that trailed away over the blue ridges, leaving the sky as clear and brilliant as a polished sapphire. The ocean below the cliffs turned from milky white to a deep, shimmering cobalt, its surface sparkling with millions of tiny golden light-points.