Isabel Magnolia Novels & Stories

A little girl with long dark hair, standing in front of the Abram estate, a ribbon tied at her wrist. Isabella stared at it for so long I thought she had stopped breathing. Then she shoved it back across the table, her voice breaking. “Stop it! Stop trying to make me someone I’m not! I’m not her. I’m not Marisol Abram. I’m Isabella, and that’s all I can survive being.” Her shout echoed, shattering the fragile quiet. She pressed her hands to her temples, shaking her head as if she could erase the images, the words, the weight pressing down.

The encounter left a lasting impression on Isabella, reminding her of the profound connections that can be forged through shared passions and mutual respect. Maria discovered that Isabella was not only the owner of an air charter company but also a successful businesswoman and a passionate advocate for women's empowerment. Her lingerie company was more than just a commercial venture; it was a celebration of the female form and a symbol of strength and confidence. Nadia shared the secret behind Isabella's success with Maria. "Isabella did the modelling of her products herself," Nadia revealed with a hint of admiration. "Unlike many other brands that rely on professional models, Isabella takes

I don't know if it's just me thinking like the horny bastard I am ninety-nine per cent of my time, but Isabella would throw her hair in a messy ponytail and still look exquisite. She's beautiful. Her skin isn't flawless like all of the girls or women I've fucked. Or the ones who I haven't fucked. Or the ones who throw themselves at me. Her skin is clean and it stands out. Then there's her fucking smell. I don't know how she does it. But she does smell like vanilla and lemon together. Combo would make a sane man go insane. I'd bet on my fucked up life that if Isabella Jordans wasn't my brother's girl, I'd have fucked her senseless by now. But that's it. She's his girl and she's off limits. I

The moving boxes still formed small barriers throughout the space, and the rug rolled up in the corner barely disguised the sense of disorder, but at that moment the apartment seemed like a refuge just for them, a secret stage about to transform. Isabela, kneeling on the sofa, wore a red dress that clung to the curves of her body, the delicate lace contrasting with her pale skin. Her ample breasts stood out under the thin fabric, her hardened nipples casting visible shadows, and her blue eyes, sparkling with mischief, couldn't help but sweep across the panoramic window behind the TV, where the phrase in red lipstick still glowed, defiant, provoking the neighbors.

Then, she walked into the ruins with Laya in her heels. The mage noticed the leftover marble on the floor. Even though most of the wallpaper was gone, whatever was left showed how glorious this castle must have been in the past. She knew that the only explanation to Magnolia’s magic was that she was a pureblood, but she could not explain how. She decided to wait for her new friend until she was ready to share more about her family instead of letting crazy ideas fill her mind—like Magnolia being an illegitimate child of nobles who could not marry for some reason.

Isaac had to hold his arm and pull him toward them for him to move. “Hi,” Isabelle said. “Hi,” Joel breathed. “You look... Beautiful.” Isabelle was wearing a pink-champagne and black, off-shoulder ball-gown, with the colour black fading in from her chest and fading out at knee-length. The dress and black heels had been her mom's pick, and she was glad she had taken the advice. Since there had been no time to make her hair, she had loosened her former braids and made a twisted halo. She wore little makeup (courtesy of Loveth) and a bracelet on her left arm.

Isabela. She was there—climbing the steps with a terrifying appearance. Her wedding gown was wrinkled, filthy, streaked with red stains, the hem torn. Her hair hung loose, tangled and wild, falling across her shoulders. Her makeup had melted into streaks, leaving her face like a deranged porcelain doll. A shiver ran down Celina’s spine. “Isabela…?” she whispered, taking a step back. The spurned bride lifted her eyes. In them burned a hatred so raw it was almost tangible.

Next to Beatrice, Lady Isabella Montgomery looked perfectly at home in her surroundings. She wore a simple cream silk morning dress that was likely worth more than a middle manager’s annual salary. Her blonde hair was neatly pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a flawless slender neck. “Such a shame you had to miss our morning tea ritual, Mavric,” Isabella said, spreading orange jam on her toast with nearly mechanical precision. “Aunt Beatrice and I were discussing the restoration of the rose garden on the east wing." "It seems the grounds have become a bit… neglected lately.”

And it was exactly the way Isabella had dreamed of since she was a little girl. She walked slowly down the short central aisle, her heart beating so hard it felt like it might leap out of her chest. In her slightly trembling hands, she held a simple bouquet of white roses mixed with wild lilies and a few sprigs of lavender she had picked herself at her grandmother’s house two days earlier. The delicate floral scent rose to her nose, calming her nerves just a little.

I might learn something useful about her father, Allen White, from the encounter. Isabel stood waiting for me in front of the cinema. I had to admit, she looked beautiful. She was wearing a stunning red dress that tastefully revealed her perfect figure. Her big blue eyes and high cheekbones were accentuated with subtle makeup. Her golden hair was shimmering in the neon cinema lights. But I could never like her the way I liked Lilith.