Margo Edith Agnes Novels & Stories

Mary Redferne A day before my wedding, Mr. McKinnon decided to host the most lavish engagement party for his son. I knew he did this intentionally, just a day before my own wedding, to ensure that their engagement overshadowed my own impending marriage. The McKinnons' ego was inflated by the perception of their wealth, and they sought to command respect and demonstrate their social standing. As the evening unfolded at Joshua and Clara's extravagant engagement party, I found myself standing alone at the bar, nursing a glass of sparkling water. The grandeur of the occasion was unmistakable, yet I couldn't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at my insides.

Edith signed to Agnes, Are you okay? “I am now.” Abigail and Edith sat beside Agnes. They both place the tray in front of them on the floor. And it startled Agnes that Abigail offered her own too. I thought she likes eating too much, she thought to herself. In return of their act, Agnes offered her pack of raisins. They were all cheery as they eat that Martha even caught them. She only reprimanded Agnes for stealing the raisins she was going to steal. She even confirmed if Agnes was the same culprit before, Agnes lied about it, and Martha went away after that.

Jake says nonchalantly, not looking at almost anything but his food. I stand up and head towards her when she looks right at me and smiles widely at me. I smile back almost not sure why she was so excited to see me. “Hello. You seem a little lost. Can I help you out?” I ask her as she smiles radiantly at me. “Well I was looking for you. Mary called me here. She told me all about you.” She replies as she keeps staring at my face as if she knows me very well. Do I know her? Do I have dementia?

“WHY HAVEN’T YOU BEEN ANSWERING YOUR PHONE?” I glanced at her lazily, raising one brow. “Because I’m saving the world, one community space sketch at a time.” Margo dropped down beside me, somehow managing to sit cross-legged with a weird kind of glamor that still looked graceful, even on the dusty library floor. Her hair was piled up in a messy-chic bun, oversized sunglasses perched on top of her head despite the indoor setting, and she wore her signature maroon leather jacket that always made her look like a ‘90s girlband manager.

I needed answers—no matter what it took. Maximum glanced at me carefully before asking, "Madam Margret, how did Agnes become pregnant with my wife here, instead of Stella, who was supposed to be her biological mother?" Madam Margret stared blankly for a moment, then responded softly, "Both the young mistress and Agnes were pregnant by the same man, Lionel. He was sleeping with my mistress and her most trusted maid. When he was caught, he fled, abandoning my mistress to face the entire Wilson family. After she lost everything, her heart grew cold—the once sunny, beautiful, kind mistress disappeared, replaced by someone I hardly recognized."

“I want to go and see her. Not today. Not without preparation. But soon.” “There’s something else,” Margaret said. She reached back into her bag and produced a second document, smaller than the first, a single page. “I found this in Agnes’s personal correspondence, separate from the archive. It’s a letter she wrote but never sent. I don’t know why she didn’t send it. I think, by the time she finished writing it, the person it was addressed to had already died.” She placed it on the table. The envelope was addressed in Agnes’s handwriting to a name Cloe didn’t recognise.

Made simpler, she does not want to fall deeply in love. However, that dream never through. When she met him, he tore the corroded walls apart effortlessly and erected a four lettered tower on her world. The foundation was hinged on an unknown silent strength. It was so easy for him to plant a seed in her; a seed of love, but he never cared to nurture it neither was he there when it grew. How hurtful it is. Grace Anslem was the first child out of two. A graduate of psychology from Lagos State University. She is based in Abuja

“I have the authorization signature.” My attention sharpened. “The payment to Agnes?” “Yes.” “Who signed it?” “The person was not an Ashford.” “Who was it?” "Grace." “Who is that?” “I am still researching her, but she worked at St. Catherine’s.” My hand tightened around the phone. “As what?” “A maternity nurse.” I looked at Chloe. Harris continued. “And Bella, she disappeared from the hospital’s employment records the same week Agnes left the Ashfords.”

It was Agnes, her message brief and efficient as always. **Agnes:** *On my way to the office. Let’s go over the game plan one more time before the meeting.* Anderson typed a quick response, setting his phone aside as he leaned back in his chair. He appreciated Agnes’s thoroughness—her attention to detail had been a crucial asset in preparing for this deal. But something about her intensity, her relentless drive, left him feeling slightly off-balance. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was a nagging sense that Agnes was holding something back, something he couldn’t see.

“Thanks again.” The waiter nodded and walked away. They talked about the last hurricane that hit south Florida that summer as they ate their salad. The waiter with the cart came back and cleared their dirty plates. “So, Margo, what do you do for a living?” Alec asked. “I’m an independent computer programmer,” Margo answered. “Oh,” he said with surprise. “It sounds exciting, but it’s not. I’ve tried to get her into something less boring, but she won’t listen to me,” Bobbi joked.