Massive Unscramble Mga Nobela at Kwento

A little something called self sabotage. Self sabotage; behavior or thoughts, especially of an involuntary or unconscious nature, that are harmful to one’s own interests or development. Liviana never thought of herself as being so reckless, so careless. So, why was it that whenever the threat of having her mask ripped away arose, she turned into this villain? She would scream, thrash, threaten. And then, when none of that worked, she would plot. She would rewrite her character, stopping her dance as, instead, she glared. She stopped the entertainment, dropping the act and putting an end to her puppet show, and she would emerge as someone new, someone unrecognizable. Someone that they wouldn’

I stared at Lilian's messages over and over again, rereading every word. Lilian was not the type to say things without a reason. Did that mean there had been something suspicious about my father's accident all those years ago? The more I thought about it, the more pieces seemed to fall into place. At the time, my father had been running the Smith Group. My uncle had been forced to step aside despite his resentment because he simply could not compete with my father. The shareholders trusted my father and had little confidence in my uncle.

The pasta Seren preferred with the specific sauce that required no onions because Seren had strong feelings about onions and had communicated them clearly. The scrambled eggs that required the precise amount of butter that Seren had specified in their second lunch and which Margaux had written down because she was not going to get it wrong twice. And the thing Seren called grandma bread a specific kind of sweet bread that Margaux had made on the third lunch from a recipe her own grandmother had given her forty years ago and which Seren had eaten three pieces of and declared the best thing she had ever had and which Margaux now made every Tuesday because Seren had decided it was a Tuesday lun

➳ Wearing a cheerful smile, Madeline strolled around the neck of the woods. It was the Mystic Moon's annual Fighter Day, a day dedicated to celebrating the strength and courage of the Pack's warriors. The pavements around the territory were decorated with banners and graceful archways, blooming flowers of all colors were planted all around the land, and a joyful aura flowed through the atmosphere. The men engaged in friendly fights to refine their skills, while children ran and played together in the distance.

On the very next line beneath Portia's elegant script, she wrote in her own gentle, flowing handwriting: No matter how big the storm, we never let go. Portia looked down at the words, her eyes glistening. Under the canopy of the glass greenhouse, surrounded by the warmth of thousands of fairy lights, the future no longer felt like a terrifying battlefield—it felt like a beautiful promise they were already living.

She even dried them outside, remembering her mother's advice: "What better way to kill germs than with the scorching sun?" As she prepared a special meal for supper, her mood leaned towards spaghetti and meatballs, a dish she excelled at. Rose finally came back at four, and Marianne ran a bath for her. After dressing Rose in her nightwear, Marianne started putting the food away in warmers and setting the table. She took Greg's offer to ask for whatever she wanted on his way back, requesting a vanilla milkshake and a burger with extra cheese and mayo.

And it was as if I was poured with a very cold water that woke up my whole being, when I read the flash breaking news on a morning TV show. "Avianna Alejandro having a sex scandal with a famous businessman... for money?"

I cleaned up the breakfast plates, arranged the leftover fruit neatly on the counter, and straightened a few things just to keep my hands busy. Then my phone buzzed against the table. I frowned, wiping my hands on a towel as I picked it up. The number was unfamiliar—unknown. Curiosity sparked through the haze of fatigue. I hesitated for a second, then swiped the screen open. A single message glowed back at me. Hi Macey, can we meet?

Taking the shortest shower known to man, I pull in my clothes—a nude knitted sweater, my jeans as old as time, a coat with a few holes, and a scarf around my neck to protect me from the chilly morning air. I quickly head out, giving one last look at the rose on the table. Good morning’ I greet the doorman, checking my mailbox, and I immediately spot my check for yesterday in the pile of bills. I grab all of them and spot the water bill, the light bill, and a letter. I frown, starting at the single envelope. Looking around, I frown. There’s a fancy F drawn in gold in the middle of the envelope; it looks like it went in the wrong box, because why would I receive something so fancy?

"I'll just apologize to him tomorrow." "So what do you have," Trix directed at Marcus, rubbing her hands together. "Ah," Marcus fumbled through his pocket and pulled out a clear bag. "Nothing right now except this really. I bought of off a gypsy of sorts, said it was organic. I tried it and it didn't do sh*t though," Marcus said. Trix grabbed the bag and observed the powder. As she held it towards the sunlight, it sparkled like the stars. "I'll take it," she said stuffing it in her pocket.