Half Circle Coffee Table Novels & Stories

“Maverick, you never loved me all these years, did you?” “Be good. You're just a substitute.” ___  Never did Valencia expect that what her crush thought of her was a substitute for another woman.  And never did she expect that the asshole would break the news to her after she gave herself to him a night before their wedding.  Unable to take in the heartbreak, Valencia fled on her wedding day.  Fast-forward to five years later; Valencia is now the anonymous owner of a company and the diligent mother of smart-ass quadruplets who think mom is the best and shouldn't be stressed. And the most important thing: Mom needs a capable boyfriend.  Someone dared to attack their mommy? Mom will face-slap, and if Mom can't, Quadruplet will!   A certain shameless man: ‘Darling, relax; I'll properly beat them up for you. After the beating, what do you think we should have next—a triplet or a sextuplet?’ Valencia: “….” Smartass quadruplets: Didn't you consider Mom to be a substitute? Scram. We don't recognize you!

I've been married to Elliot Graves, the mafia drug lord in NYC, for the past eight years. But today—on our wedding anniversary—I received a photo of him with my best friend, Lila, celebrating as if they were the ones married. And in her arms was my son, Owen. I stared at the image, then typed out two words in reply. “How perfect.” Half a hour later, Elliot stormed through the front door. His voice thundered through the hallway. “Why do you always have to be so bitchy to Lila?” Owen, my own little boy, shoved at my leg and glared. “Bad Momma,” he said. “I wish Miss Lila was my real mommy.” I didn’t flinch. I simply walked over to the drawer, pulled out the crisp stack of papers I’d long prepared, and dropped them on the table with a quiet finality. “Alright,” I said, my voice calm. “It’s all my fault. Now, can I go?”

In my past life, I was trafficked and gave birth to a son. When Noah Barrett turns six, I plan to take him and escape from the mountains. On my first attempt, I map out the route in advance and prepare to flee with him. But in the morning, my mother-in-law, Ruth Whitaker, blocks me at the door. She ties me up and locks me inside the shed. Then, she starves me for three days. On my second try, I secretly buy sleeping pills from an unlicensed village doctor and slip them into dinner. At the table, Ruth flips the table without hesitation and beats me until I am half dead. The third time, I take advantage of a village meeting and escape with Noah again. We hide in a concealed mountain cave. Neither of us makes a sound, yet Ruth finds us with ease. I am dragged back and locked away in the pigpen. Ruth takes a shovel and strikes me with it again and again. "You filthy bitch. You dare run off with my precious grandson!" Her eyes are bloodshot. With the final blow, she uses all her strength and smashes the shovel into my head. I collapse to the ground. My consciousness fades. My blood drains away, and I die. When I open my eyes again, I am back on the day I plan to escape the mountains with Noah. Suddenly, I can hear Noah's thoughts, his voice clear and dripping with viciousness. "Mom can't be allowed to run. Grandma says Mom is our family's slave. She's supposed to serve us for her whole life."

The appointment of Susan Moore as the Broadcasting Channel's executive director has forced out the station's more valued news anchor, sparking heated discussions throughout Hayworth. Susan herself is standing before me right now. She wants to sell her jewelry. As the manager of a luxury boutique store, I'm here to inspect the goods. "These are pieces my partner commissioned for me. I have so many that I'm tired of them." One of them is a diamond-encrusted necklace, featuring a pigeon-blood ruby in the center, worth a few million. There are also several similar gifts on the table, with the crocodile skin bag the least eye-catching one. I smiled. "Your husband must really love you." I set about verifying the purchaser's ID and signature as part of a routine procedure. However, I freeze in place at the sight of the name. "I'm not his wife," she replied, bringing the coffee cup to her lips. "We're just each other's first loves. He said he missed out on 15 years of my life, so he gave me 15 gifts. Isn't that romantic?" It is romantic, indeed. However, it's my father's signature. For 30-plus years, I assumed that my father was a dull man who had never once surprised my mother.

Malia Morris was a struggling freelance model, but her life turned upside down when Timothee James, a famous CEO of a modeling agency offered her to disguise as Bianca Wilson, the top-model in the country. Timothee was desperate to save his crumbling company and the only option he have is to marry Bianca Wilson but she was secretly suffering from a deadly disease. However, Malia bore a perfect resemblance to Bianca that their charade became more convincing but Malia found herself falling for Timothee. Will their fake marriage become real? But what if the love of his life awakens from her coma? Will Malia able to hold onto Timothee's heart when his greatest love returns?

She's the editor-in-chief of a new magazine that's supposed to publish exclusive behind-the-scenes photos and news from a reality TV show. He is a bachelor who got tired of waiting for life to give him a love and decided to participate in a TV show to find a bride. Their lives intersect, therefore, but this is not the first time. And the past has left its mark!

“You’re my first everything, Lacey.” Jonathan’s piercing grey eyes seemed to hold Lacey captive. “My first kiss…The first woman to ever make me feel this way…I love you.” A public divorce from her husband leaves Lacey Thalmes with nothing. When her friends convince her to go to a party to forget her worries, she ends up sharing a steamy kiss with CEO Jonathan Taley. Except Lacey doesn’t find out his identity until two years later, and their re-meeting is not exactly rosy. Cold-hearted Jonathan Taley cares about two things only: his company and his younger brother. That is, until Lacey shows up in his life.

After Celine Anderson let her newly-promoted assistant take credit for my billion-dollar project for the ninth time, I handed in my resignation letter. I also refused to show up in the same place as her. Whenever she was interviewed by talk shows as a public figure, I would switch off all the screens in the building. I also got the security guard to stop her from entering even if she brought me a cup of coffee in the middle of a tornado. To see me, she purposely rescheduled three virtual meetings with foreign companies. So, I immediately bought air tickets to leave the country. I blocked her everywhere and formatted the hard disk that contained all of our memories from the past decade. When I was twenty, I studied with her in the university library. When I was twenty-five, I ate the cheapest bread with her when she first started her company. When I was thirty, I finally knew how to let go of things that no longer serve me. On the ninth time I was accused of sleeping my way up, I came across a photo of her and her assistant kissing. Meanwhile, I was sitting at our dining table with food that had turned cold. It turned out that our decade-long relationship had been a joke. However, it was fine. It was not too late to come to my senses.

The air in the Parisian haute couture salon smelled like money and fear. I’d waited six months for my wedding dress. Now, it was draped over the shoulders of Sofia Ross—the trending influencer, and my mafia fiancé Vincent Cassio’s god-sister. The salon manager was sweating bullets, his eyes darting between me and the man lounging on the velvet sofa. Vincent Cassio stood up. He adjusted a fold of the diamond-encrusted train on Sofia with a casual flick of his wrist. “Her premiere next week needs a statement piece. She’s borrowing it. Pick something off the rack and stop making a scene.” His tone was flat, final. Under the crystal chandeliers, Sofia admired herself in the full-length mirror, a triumphant smile on her lips. I looked at my reflection in the same mirror, wearing jeans and a soaked trench coat. I looked like a lost tourist. Suddenly, the entire past year of planning felt like a sick joke. I didn’t yell. I just felt cold. Numb. I slipped the five-carat engagement ring off my finger. It hit the glass coffee table with a sharp, final click. “You’re right, Vincent. I don’t need this wedding dress. This wedding… I don’t need it either.”

"I can't let you free" The mafia boss whispered harshly. Then he pulled back and I was freezed in my position. However I managed to recover from my paralyzed state and with enough courage I asked. "What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice low as I gulped. My hazel eyes was briefly locked with his ocean blue eyes. "Oh nothing!! but you saw us killing Ashar." Oh so that guy's name was Ashar.. "I didn't see anybody killing anyone." I lied curtly. "Oh really!" His eye brows lifted up. "then who is this?" He pointed towards the laptop which was placed on the coffee table. I took a step forward towards the table and knelt down to get a clear view. And....... Oh my me!!! I was sooo doomed.. My pathetic life.. I wanna cry so loud... Oh god!! Why?? Why me?? It was me in my black dress standing in front of garage and my face was clearly seen in the screen. Sweat trickled down my forehead as I gulped hard while seeing the laptop screen. It was hard to believe but it was me. I was damn screwed up. THE MAFIA'S CAPTURED SLAVE