Martha Stewart Novels & Stories

(THIRD PERSON POV) Martha O'Connor stood outside the Williams' gate for a full five minutes before she pressed the buzzer. Her hands were shaking. She had put on her best dress, the navy blue one that George always said made her look like a movie star. She had done her hair carefully, put on makeup, tried to look like the kind of woman who belonged in places like this. But standing here, looking at the massive iron gates, the security cameras, the intercom that felt like it was judging her—she felt small. Smaller than small.

“Then you pretend too. Don’t give her the satisfaction of control. Run your firm with confidence and keep your eyes open. Danielle’s here for a reason—but if she’s on a mission, we’ll be ready.” *** That evening, Charlotte sat across from a striking woman with long brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. Martha Skylar. Late twenties. Former personal assistant to Prince Charles Steward. Charlotte smiled warmly. “The last time I saw you, you were just two years old in your father’s arms. Now look at you.” Martha returned the smile politely. “Fresh from the UK. How’s America treating you?” “Busy, fulfilling. I have three children now,” Charlotte said proudly. Then her tone grew serious. “But I

“I just didn’t want to relive a past that hurt too much. But it seems no matter how far I run, it keeps following me. And now, it’s threatening to destroy everything I’ve held onto for years.” I pressed a hand against my chest, as if trying to keep my heart from shattering completely. Mrs. Evans blinked, her face clouded with confusion. “What are you talking about, Martha? What past?” I swallowed hard, forcing the lump in my throat down. I had kept this secret for so long, and now, I had no choice but to let it all out. “I’m Martha Stewart, Mrs. Evans,” I confessed. “I’m the girl Peter abandoned years ago after my parents’ death. The girl he stole everything f

The lighthouse is supposedly haunted by one of the lighthouse keepers, Ray Stalls-" Katherine's heart stopped as she read the name. Ray Stalls? But how...? Katherine read on eagerly: ...Supposedly haunted by one of the lighthouse keepers, Ray Stalls. Stalls took the post of lighthouse keeper in 1923, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday according to Merytonburg City Hall's Book of Records. He held that position until 1925, when he tragically committed suicide with his lover. It had been rumored that he held a secret affection for one Tracy Bloom, the daughter of a wealthy shipping magnate, and that she returned the young man's feelings. The rumors also incurred that permission for their

Something memorable. The debate went back and forth. Home versus hotel. Private versus extravagant. Sentimental versus symbolic. I stayed quiet, listening, watching Mother more than anyone else. She hadn’t said much, but her eyes told me everything. She was overwhelmed—in the best way. Loved. Surrounded. Still adjusting to the fact that this many people were planning something just for her. Then Scarlett spoke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to be heard. “What about the yacht?” The room stilled for half a second.

"Marco! Stay with me! You're not allowed to die!" Her eyes were blood-red. All she could do was beg. "Don't close your eyes. Just hold on a little longer. A donor kidney is on the way. I'll save you. I'll spend every last dollar my family has if I have to. I'll make you healthy again. Please... just hang on. "This is what I owe you..." The woman who'd always looked down on everyone was now begging me to live like a stray dog. But I knew the truth. I wasn't gonna last much longer.

Even walking a few steps makes her tired. "Martha, is it okay if we film this interview?" Bart asked politely. Martha nodded. Neilson prepared the camera in front of them. When he's done, he gave the signal. "Good afternoon my dear followers and friends. This is Bartholomew Carter, broadcasting live with another of Salazar Simmons' victims, a woman he impregnated and left unsupported, Martha Stewart. Martha, how did you meet Salazar Simmons?" Bart started the interview.

Martha, the lofty superstar, was now speaking with a noticeable hint of entreaty. That sight alone filled both Roxy and Hester with bitter distaste. They knew Martha's true nature—she possessed an inherent, deep-seated arrogance. Yet now, facing Ashton, she was utterly transformed, reduced to the stereotype of a woman completely blinded by love. "Go ahead and tell me, then," Ashton said, his voice laced with a newfound gentleness. He thought that Martha was undeniably a stunning beauty, no less captivating than Roxy or Sylvia. She naturally possessed an irresistible allure, which explained how she had enchanted countless admirers and carved out her own path through the cutthroat entertainmen

But I had not forgotten the dirt. I turned away from the balcony, stepping back into the cavernous, mahogany-lined expanse of the royal chambers. Martha was standing near the massive four-poster bed, her calloused hands carefully smoothing the invisible wrinkles from the heavy, midnight-blue silk of my ceremonial gown. She wasn't wearing the severe, threadbare black uniform of a terrified servant anymore. She wore a tailored tunic of deep indigo, marking her as the Head of the Royal Household a position of

"Martha, it’s just a plate. Besides, you work so hard. You cook all his meals, so you deserve some help." She hesitated, then sighed. "You’re kind, Miss Ariana. But Mr. Logan has strict rules." I shrugged. "Well, he’s not here right now, is he?" Martha’s lips twitched, as if she wanted to smile but was holding back. "You’re not like his ex-fiancée," she murmured. That caught my attention. I leaned forward slightly. "Oh? Ex-fiancée? What was she like?" Martha gave me a knowing look. "Glamorous, high-maintenance, and only interested in his status and billions. She never once stepped into this kitchen."