Innocent Anya Novels & Stories

I wont let anything o r anyone else harm her. Her innocence has help m e captive o f her. She i s A n Innocent Seduction . That has become m y Addiction. With all these thoughts, I kissed her head and finally fell i n deep slumber with the love o f m y life , sleeping safely i n m y arms. ****** Hlw there!! Hope you all are enjoying the story so far. Do share your views and plz do vote. It will surely make my day!! And do follow me on I*******m @author_priyaraj to know more about updates and stories.

"Siena. Leonard. Why are they in police custody? Why did you arrest them?" I folded my arms across my chest. "I didn't arrest anyone." Everett's eyes narrowed. "Don't play games with me, Anyta. I know you had a hand in it. Don't think I won't find out." I took a breath, steeling myself. "Think what you want, Everett. But I didn't do it." His laughter was bitter. "You expect me to believe that? My sister and my brother are rotting in a cell, and you—of all people—are suddenly innocent?”

And it seemed as if the skies answered her prayers, because she woke up one day, not knowing a single thing about her. She woke up, only being told of her name, age, and why she woke up without a single memory—because she needed a fresh start. She obliged and went by their rules. She trained for a purpose she wasn't aware of; she was just told to train until she becomes the best. And fourteen years later, she became the best. At ten, Divina Anastasia Elcort died and was reborn as Anna. That was when she started to make history.

"If you write one word about Louis Volterra, I will expose you. Your real name and your face and your little blog that your mother does not know about." She tilted her head. "How do you think the president would feel knowing the woman who exposed his mistress is a twenty-three-year-old girl with no journalism degree?" Nadia's face went pale. "Walk away," Anya said. "While you still can." She turned and walked back down the alley with her heels clicking against the stone. Nadia stood frozen, watching her go. Anya didn't look back. She walked to her car and slid into the driver's seat, her hands gripping the wheel. Her mind was racing.

“You have such a low opinion of me.” “It’s not like that,” he says softly but firmly. “That’s just how the industry works. You’ll notice it as well if you put yourself in my shoes. On the outside, it appears to be covered in gold, but the world in which my family lives is cruel.” “And I don’t know because I’m not a celebrity, right? Not yet, at any rate. I’m Anya Scott, the scholarship girl with no parents or accomplishments to be proud of.” “Please, Anya.” He grabs my arm. “I feel like a prisoner here. I don’t want to be without you. You know how much I care for you.”

A slow smile forms on Vance’s face, confidence returning far too quickly. “She’s not as untouchable as she thinks.” “No,” he agrees. My fingers tap once against the arm of the chair, soft and measured. Because that— could have been inconvenient. If I hadn’t already accounted for it. ⸻ “You know what the best part is?” Anya says, her tone shifting. “What?” “She won’t see it coming.” A faint smile touches my lips. Because that’s where they’re wrong. They think they’ve found an opening. They think they’re reacting.

"Give us one reason." "Because I've lost everything," Anya said simply. "My organization wants me dead. My entire identity was a lie. My sister..." her voice caught, then steadied, "...was genetically engineered to control me. Every certainty I had is gone. All I have left is the choice to do the right thing. That's my credibility: I'm the only person in this room with nothing left to lose except my humanity. And I'm fighting to keep that." The chamber fell silent. Alexei felt something shift in the room's energy, not trust exactly, but acknowledgment. Respect, perhaps.

Leaves fell in golden spirals, carpeting the paths where small feet had once run and where teenagers now walked with longer strides and heavier thoughts. Anya stood at the wide kitchen window, watching Elena move through the garden with a quiet grace she had only recently grown into. At seventeen, her eldest daughter carried herself with a blend of Anya’s determination and the collective strength of her three fathers. The acceptance letter from a prestigious program in narrative ethics and social justice lay open on the kitchen table behind Anya, a tangible threshold.

Mine. Anya came every northern summer flights routed through safe channels, her passport now bearing a name we all pretended was real. She arrived taller each time, sharper, the haunted look fading from her eyes. At seventeen she told us she wanted to study medicine—“to fix what Mama tried to break.” At nineteen she sent photos from anatomy labs grinning beside cadavers, no trace of the child who’d stood fevered in a burning hospital. She visited with stories: classmates, professors, late-night study sessions. She laughed freely now. She hugged us like family. She never asked about the swarm. Some graves stay closed.