Helena Rojo Age Novels & Stories

“He doesn’t love you either if he keeps running after every being and inviting them into his bed.” Helena laughed. “I never wanted Robos’ love and I never will. Why are you here Termla?” “Where are your children?” “I told you, I killed them already!” Termla watched Helena closely, the goddess’s face showed zero deception even though she was blatantly lying. 13 years ago Termla found of the children of Helena. Cleopoda. She was born as a princess to the Camelornian household. For years she watched over her until she began to suspect that Robos was suspicious of her movement. Knowing Robos and his intense hatred for the child of whom it was prophesied would be the death of him, including the s

The monster had only been sleeping. But Renata… so young, her son’s girlfriend’s closest friend. How could he? Helena sank into the wicker chair on the terrace, one hand pressed over her mouth to stifle the sob rising in her throat. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, but she fought them back fiercely. Not yet. No blind rage. She had to think clearly—for Cedric, for Selly, to stop this before it destroyed everything. With shaking fingers, she typed a reply:

He cried. I turned to Old Grandpa. “I don't have the time to prove my innocence, Allen was the one that cheated, I caught him in bed with another woman…on my way back to report Allen I got involved in an accident…the man in the picture, he was the one that saved my life,” I defended. “Accident?” Allen scoffed. “If there was an accident we would have heard about it, you are Maria Rodriguez, who doesn't know you and besides you don't have a single scratch on your body.”

It's all I need. "Ain't I always fire though sweetheart?" "Of course you are darling, but this time you hit different, moaning another girl's name with me? Baby she better be fine!" Helena always had something to make me laugh, but she's not wrong. Helena is fire! She's the kind of lady you hit once and remember it for a life time. She has this black American coffee black shiny skin with her afro playful hair well displayed and braided perfectly. With round delicate eyes, she's like fine wine only for the experts.

“Arabella, are you not working today? Or are you not feeling well?” Arabella shook her head and said, “I’m going to America for a business trip with President Garcia.” Gardening was a favorite pastime of Helena, who was born in Willow Town, Calgary. Her hobby had allowed her to develop a gentle and quiet temperament. Serenity Rivera inherited Helena’s good temperament, so no one would doubt that the former was the daughter of the latter. Helena put down the shears and took the towel from the maid to wipe her hands. “Going to the United States on a business trip? That far? How long will you be gone?”

(Helena Mendoza) Helena had did it once, and knowing that she were able to do it once again in a different country and setting it made her rather enthusiastic.

Her red silk robe shimmered under the chandelier light, her blond hair swept into a loose chignon, like she had just come from a champagne bath and a victory. "Helena," she said coolly. "Back already?" Helena removed her coat and tossed it over the nearest armchair with theatrical nonchalance. "Milan was starting to bore me. Fashion Week is just recycled ambition in couture. Besides—" she walked to the bar without waiting for an invitation "—I heard whispers. Our little arrangement is unraveling." Victoria crossed her arms but said nothing. Helena poured herself a generous glass of Syrah. “You told me everything was under control. But Luna Reyes is not dead, not broken, not vanished. She’s s

“Uh, of course I do.” Helene looked at her. “You can’t possibly help her, and if you try, you’re doomed to fail. You haven’t even met her. You don’t even know about all her physical problems, much less her psychological problems.” “You’re right. I don’t. How old is Cecilia?” “She’s ten.”

The door opened before we reached it. Helena Varro was not what I'd built in my mind from the partial photograph and Holt's description. She was in her mid fifties. Composed. Professionally dressed in the way of someone who cared about precision rather than appearance. Her hair was short and gray and she wore no jewelry. She looked at me the way someone looks at a person they've studied extensively and are now verifying against their research. "You're taller than the surveillance footage suggested," she said. "You've had surveillance on me," I said.

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing." Only then did Helena notice the young woman standing beside him. She looked to be around 25. Her arm was linked through his, and she leaned against him with her entire body. Helena frowned before she could stop herself. Oscar wasn't the kind of man who fooled around. Or was he?