Harvard Ping Pong Table Novels & Stories

I'd been bonded to my mate, Brandon Blackstone, the Alpha heir of the Blackstone pack, for three years. But I'd never been allowed to attend his family dinners. Every full moon, I could only stay home alone. Brandon said it was a centuries-old tradition of the Blackstone pack. Only after passing a long probationary period, proving absolute loyalty to the pack and one's mate, would someone be allowed to attend the Alpha's family dinners. I'd believed him for three whole years. But now, I'd found three photos in his car. In the background, I could see a long table laden with a variety of fruits and delectable dishes. The Alpha and Luna raised their glasses beside the statue of the Moon Goddess, standing quietly to the side. And beside Brandon stood a beautiful she-wolf. Moonlight spilled down, and I could clearly see how close they were standing, their fingers tightly interlaced. That was when I finally understood. Not being allowed to attend the dinners was never about some probationary period. It was because Brandon, or rather the entire Blackstone pack, believed that the person qualified to stand beside the future Alpha would never be me.

Serafina Vale didn’t want love anymore, she wanted war and a husband to help her start it. Her ex-fiancé slept with her stepsister and proposed to her on camera, in front of everyone. So yeah—she needed to hit back, fast and publicly. With help from her best friend, Rhea, she was supposed to meet a broke model at a diner. Sweet guy, easy to handle. Just enough to stir drama and ruin the happy couple’s fairytale. But she sat at the wrong table and accidentally proposed to the wrong man. Dorian Everhart was the opposite of harmless. He was cold, unreadable and terrifyingly rich. He absolutely had no business saying yes. But…he did. He married her the same day with no questions asked or rules attached either. She thought she was the one using him. But he didn’t seem to bulge, and now, she’s starting to wonder, who really set this up? Why does her stepsister flinch every time Dorian’s name comes up? and why does he know so much about her family? What the hell does he want from her? And worse….why does a part of her want him to take it?

Ericka Matthews has been in love with her roommate for two years. The problem? Dominic Anderson made her sign a contract when she moved in: no romance allowed, or she's out. She's respected that boundary, hidden her feelings, and watched him from across the breakfast table every morning without letting on. Then Dominic kisses her. And immediately tells her not to kiss him back. Heartbroken and humiliated, Ericka decides to disappear. She has a backup plan, savings, and an apartment lined up. She'll be gone before he even notices. But when she collapses on campus and ends up in the hospital, Dominic is forced to confront what losing her actually means. The contract gets torn up. Confessions are made. And it turns out their mothers have been running a secret spy network dedicated to getting them together for three years. Now they just have to survive Sunday dinner with both families and Aunt Linda's unopened Christmas presents. A contemporary romance about two idiots who wasted three years pretending to be "just roommates," the meddling families who saw right through them, and the kiss that finally broke all the rules.

After my year-end bonus came in, I immediately transferred 10,000 dollars to my husband to buy New Year’s gifts for both our parents. I even told him to get the very best, especially that case of whisky for my father. On New Year’s Eve, I rushed home to have dinner with my parents. However, at the table that night, Dad, who had always loved his drinks, was sipping tea instead. I was confused. “Dad, it’s the holidays. Why didn't you bring out the liquor?” I smiled as I rose to my feet to grab the case. “Kevin went out of his way to get this. I heard it tastes amazing.” “Don’t touch it!” Dad slammed his teacup against the floor. His face was flushed dark red. “Zeena, don’t send this stuff anymore. I know it’s not easy for you to make money in the city. But even if our Collins family is poor, we still have our pride! People in the village are talking behind my back, saying I’m putting on airs!” I was completely stunned. I opened the bottle and took a sip, then froze for a moment. This was not whisky at all. It was just plain water.

My wedding starts at 12:00 pm on the dot. There are 58 tables, each table costing 8888 dollars. 120 bottles of premium liquor have been opened. 300 packs of top-tier cigarettes are unsealed. At 2:30 pm, all the guests have left the scene, leaving nothing but a huge mess behind. That's when a server hands me the bill. "It'll be 510 thousand dollars, miss." I'm left gobsmacked. "I'm a wedding guest, not the organizer." The groom is Charlie Humboldt, my ex-boyfriend. At the moment, he takes his pregnant bride, Sasha Fitch, by the hand while sneering at me. "Since you're here, you might as well foot the bill. Think of it as your way of compensating for my youth." Charlie's mother, Melissa Carlton, moves to block the door. "If you're not paying the bill, then you can forget about leaving. No one wants you anyway, so you might as well stay here and pay off your debt by working as a dishwasher!" As I stare at the shameless family, I dig out my phone quietly. What they don't know is that this five-star hotel is a gift from my dad to me.

On the night of our eighth anniversary, I cooked everything Ethan loved. He didn't come home. I sat alone at the table until the food went cold. Then I did what I always did. I opened Selene's profile on the pack network. New post. One hour ago. A photo of Ethan, shirtless, building a fire in her den. Her hand on his shoulder. Her face turned toward the camera with a smile that showed too many teeth. The caption read: Grateful for old friends who drop everything when you need them. Even their marking anniversaries. I stared at it until my eyes burned. Then I liked it. Filed the bond-dissolution request. And started packing the trunk I'd kept ready for months. Ethan didn't believe it when he found out. "She's throwing a fit," I heard he told his packmates. "Give her three days." "I'll crook my finger and she'll come running back." "She always does." What he didn't understand was why I always came back. It was because I loved him. That was gone now.

Julian got exactly what he wanted, and it destroyed him. He spent weeks convincing himself that Elian’s pregnancy was a betrayal, a lie to cover up the shame of his kidnapping. He used Valentina to twist the knife, choosing her "purity" over the man who had actually bled for him twice: once in the dirt at sixteen, and again on a freezing floor at eight months pregnant. When Julian finally opened that door, the sight of the frozen blood broke the delusion. Seeing Elian’s limp body wasn’t the victory he imagined; it was a mirror reflecting a monster. Now, the DNA results sit on the bedside table a stack of papers proving the "impossible" truth. The baby in the plastic bassinet has Julian’s eyes, but he has Elian’s fragile spirit. Julian sits in the dark, listening to the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator keeping his husband alive. He holds the child he spent months disowning, feeling the weight of a life he almost extinguished. He’s the King of the underworld, yet he’s powerless to wake the only person who ever truly loved him. He has his heir, but his husband is trapped in a coma, and the silence in the room is the loudest scream Julian has ever heard.

My daughter was violated and killed, yet her death was ruled a suicide. After seven failed appeals, I kidnapped the chief prosecutor’s daughter. I tied the chief prosecutor’s daughter to an autopsy table and publicly addressed the prosecutor’s office in a live stream. “I performed the autopsy myself. My daughter didn’t kill herself. She was murdered. “I’ll give you seven chances. Release the actual evidence and name the murderer publicly. Each time a chance runs out, I’ll remove one of her body parts.” The chief prosecutor and his wife knelt on the floor. They begged me desperately to spare their daughter. “The evidence proves your daughter took her own life. Stop this madness now and let my daughter go. She’s innocent.” Viewers in the live stream called me insane. They said I had lost my mind with grief and was taking it out on an innocent person. I ignored their contempt. With a sneer, I picked up a scalpel and pressed it against the judge’s daughter’s abdomen. “The clock is ticking. Hurry up and reveal the true murderer now.” I knew perfectly well the real murderer was watching the stream at that very moment.

I was pregnant and due any day. Austin Revelstone, my husband, had a sugar baby named Tawny Sully. Each time they renewed their arrangement, money came into my mother’s special care account. One day, he stayed a little longer to talk to me. Because of it, he was one minute late for his date with Tawny. Tawny was upset. She threw a tantrum and threatened to terminate their agreement. She would only stay if I aborted my baby. So, Austin slid the abortion form and a check for three million dollars across the table to me. “Please, just sign it. We can always have another kid. If Tawny cries anymore, she’ll get wrinkles.” He looked calm and unbothered. It was as if he were just talking about the weather. I raised my head and looked at him in disbelief. I trembled for a long time. Then, I finally signed my name on the abortion form. I wiped my tears and gave the check back to him. I made one additional request. “Let’s make that fake divorce certificate real this time.” I no longer needed his financial support for my mother’s surgery.

At the dinner table, my mother-in-law slid a contract across to me, right in front of more than 20 relatives. "Just sign it," she said lightly. "Consider it a favor to me." I looked down. A home mortgage agreement for 150,000 dollars. Across from me, my husband's younger brother, Jim Canfield, watched with a grin. Beside him, my husband's eldest sister, Cindy Canfield, urged impatiently, saying, "Shirley, what are you waiting for? Just sign it." I said I needed to go home and talk it over with Howard Canfield first. My mother-in-law's expression darkened. "What? You can't even make this decision for your own marriage?" That night, I did not sign anything. Later, she sent a three-minute voice message in the family group chat, accusing me of being childish, ungrateful, and heartless. More than 70 replies followed—not a single one in my defense. A month later, I came home from work to find three men waiting at my door, there to seize the house. I pulled out my phone and checked the property registry. The record was clear. [Mortgaged. 150,000 dollars.]