Novelas y relatos de Marni Mann

he said and stood up, “c’mon let go say hi to the ladies” I wanted to argue but stood up and followed him. Jaxon had sat beside Maren, they were engrossed in a conversation. “Miss Maren” Mr Eamon called her, she stood up noticing me. Her perfume was soft, not choking like any other woman's. It carried a soft trance of lavender and floral. “This is Gideon Patton,” Mr Eamon introduced. “Maren Leander” she smiled and put her hand forward for a handshake. But I was busy judging her sense of fashion. A flower printed dress and jean jacket really, definitely not my type.

My silence told Marni she was right about my sex life, or lack thereof. Of course, that's just the reaction I'd expect from Marni, who by all appearances had an extremely active sex life. And why not? She was one of the most attractive girls on campus—not beautiful in the classic sense. "Cute" would probably be a better description, with her short red hair and a hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her chest. But her wonderful personality and sense of humor, coupled with her voluptuous figure, gave her an appeal that was a little hard to describe. She sort of reminded you of your best friend, but a best friend that you'd also like to fuck.

She gave him a little wink suggestively. "My name is Mariana Nickolas." She said, forcing her deep voice to sound sensual, walking towards him. Mariana was, without a doubt, drop dead gorgeous. For guys who fancied ambiguity, she was in no way as portable in size as Revanna. Her large breast was seductively packaged, making it impossible to ignore. She bit the tip of her lips as she went close to him. "So, why are you here, Revanna is not home at the moment. Seeing as you're here to see her."

The kind of person whose presence didn’t demand attention but earned it. “This is Marianne,” I said. “She’s an interior designer. Very good. Very discreet. And she has no connection to me or my name. She’s actually based here.” Celeste’s gaze flicked between us, wary but intrigued. Marianne offered a polite smile. “You have a beautiful space,” she said warmly. “I was invited to imagine what it could be.” From the portfolio tucked under her arm, she unfurled a set of preliminary sketches across the makeshift table.

someone exclaimed, prompting Danial to turn to face the source of the sound. "This is really Mr. Danial Christiano Wiratama, right?" exclaimed the man, who was none other than Marcello. He was seen with Devan, his cousin. "Are you coming too?" asked Danial. "Of course. After all, I am the managing director of Emmanuel's company," Marcello said, and Danial simply nodded. "Who is this woman? She's very beautiful; where did you find her?" asked Marcello. "None of your business."

“Maybe he felt sorry for her. I mean, look at her. She has a scar on her face and the bandages are still wrapped around her arms and legs. Like seriously… far from perfect.” A third tilted her head, gaze sharp. “Maybe he was curious… did he sleep with you? enjoy your presence?” I didn’t respond. Silence, I reminded myself. Silence keeps you breathing. Then someone moved. A chair scraped softly against the floor as a girl slid into the seat beside me, close enough that I startled despite myself. “I’m Maria,” she said quietly. “You don’t need to worry, I am not going to hurt you.” The room stilled.

I stared at the drawing - the raw, chaotic documentation of my wife’s morning. I think sometimes I forget how difficult it is for her. Marissa wasn't just "Mummy." She was the C.O.O. of Masemann Books. She was a woman who used to command boardrooms with a single look, who managed budgets worth millions, who organised book launches for international bestsellers. She thrived on competence and control.

She was a few inches taller than me with looks any modeling agency would kill to get a hold of. Her bright blue eyes roved over my disheveled self and her freckle-dusted nose crinkled like she’d smelled something rotten. “Wait, you’re the Yosemite bitch Ronan dragged back.” My hackles raised, and a rumble emitted from my throat. “Watch it,” I warned. She just smirked in satisfaction. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and focused on Marni. “What is she doing out of her cage?” Marni lowered her head in a submissive gesture. “I was told to show her around.”

Because she is not named in the filing and I want her name kept out of every official record until we understand the full shape of what our father built. Maren Voss is a small woman in her late forties with close-cut grey hair and reading glasses pushed up on her head and the specific unhurried energy of someone who has walked into difficult rooms for thirty years and stopped being impressed by any of them. She carries a slim document case and she looks at me first when she enters, the way everyone has been looking at me first today, and I am very tired of being the first thing people look at when they walk into a room.

POV: Eira The room had no windows. That was the first thing she noted when the woman in the charcoal suit. She told me her name is Maren, she had finally offered, no last name, no handshake — led her through a side corridor of the Blackwood estate annex and into what appeared to be a private legal suite.