Michael Peterson Novel Novels & Stories

One Year Ago Alexander Peterson drove back home with his secretary. He had left an important document behind and had to pick it up. He was the CEO of Evans Mechanics. He made it into the list of the first twenty successful entrepreneurs in the country. Despite his success and marriage, one of the luxuries he enjoyed is women. His infidelity was a tale a toddler could tell. His girlfriends did not mind his marital status. They flaunt their bodies for his fame, looks, social status, riches and possibly a position at his firm.

An old Heartwell trait. I could write the statement. I could see it. Gracious, wounded, dignified. One perfect paragraph that would make the kind editors sympathetic and the cruel ones bored. I’d spent my whole life learning to hand people the version of me that cost me the least. My hands actually itched for it. “You’ve written it in your head,” Michael said, not looking up from his screen. He had changed clothes. Of course he had. Somewhere between gunfire, fake dating and discovering a dead billionaire’s client code, the man had found time to put on a fresh black shirt.

"But what does this have to do with Michael? Why did you disappear? Why didn’t you come to us sooner?" Michael’s face twisted with shame. "Because I thought I could fix it. I thought I could stop it by writing the book. But I was wrong. The more I wrote, the deeper I got, the closer I came to uncovering the truth. And then... then I started seeing things. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I could feel it—the presence. It was like it was watching me, waiting. It’s been trying to take me for years, but I didn’t realize how close I was to the edge until it was too late."

I jumped; I hadn’t heard him come upstairs. “It’s a new historical fiction set in the Scottish highlands. I picked it out at the bookstore this morning,” I said, my hand over my heart. Michael smiled, then kissed the top of my head, “I meant to ask you how your walk went today, but it sounds like it was successful. Sorry I was so wrapped up in my own stuff when I got home.” “You don’t have to be sorry about that. I’m here for you whenever you need me. Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, already seeing a big difference in his attitude.

Meanwhile, tension had escalated between Troy and Michael, who was still at the restaurant. "I hope you're not playing games with this project, Mr. Peterson. Remember, I've invested a significant amount of money to get this project off the ground. If it fails, I doubt you can repay the funds I've already provided!" Michael's tone was harsh and condescending, a stark contrast to the warm and humble businessman Troy had initially known. This was their first time collaborating with Callista Corp. "Mr. Lewis, I, Troy Peterson, never play games, especially when it comes to business," Troy responded firmly.

This Dickweed nearly destroyed the only thing I had left of her. I can't believe he was about to kill us until I agreed to be his, "pet". I don't even know what that means, besides the fact it's something sexual. Do I just fuck him when he needs relief? I mean, he said "his" pet, so I assume he's not going to pass me around to all his men...right? "We're almost home, Mama." Mama. Why does every time he call me that, my stomach clenches? What the hell is wrong with me? How could I possibly get aroused by my father's murderer?

Peterson throws an apologetic look at Julia. Julia crossed her arm and looked at Peterson with an intense eye as if she was studying his face. “Is there another Peterson in this house? Do you have a twin?” She is sure that they had a small talk in the garden. She is not hallucinating or what. It’s really Peterson she had met at the garden. Peterson shook his head and replied, “I am an orphan and I don’t have any family. Ma’am Julia, I think you need to see a doctor. I heard from madam Jemiah you have amnesia.”

A New Pet for the Mafia King. I stared at the title. " A pet." Something owned. Controlled. I had laughed when I first picked it up at the library. Thought it was just another dark Mafia fantasy. But now? Now, it felt too real. Because I was also a captive to him, And the worst part? I was falling for my captor. For Damien. The door swung open. I gasped, raising my head up to see Damien right there. Dark eyes. Cold. Wild. Warning. Unfriendly.

I worked it out on page thirty Whodunnit, and the idea of reading another two hundred pages to have the author confirm it is less than enticing. Michael is flipping through some magazines he found somewhere in the house, but doesn't seem too interested either. It's nothing exciting. We're just hanging out.… But it's comfortable, natural. How do I tackle this one…? "You know," I begin, "while I was in the City a couple of days ago, there was some very odd gossip going around." "Oh?" says Michael, glancing up from a page where a blond girl with an unlikely looking figure.... .... fucking Photoshop....

Emma’s pov The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over Michael’s luxurious apartment. I woke up alone, the previous night’s events still fresh in my mind. The tension from Michael’s urgent departure to help Jessica lingered, making me feel uneasy. The smell of toast and coffee wafted from the kitchen, drawing me out of bed. I walked into the kitchen, finding Michael preparing breakfast. His apartment was nothing short of a palace—high ceilings, elegant furniture, and a stunning view of the city skyline. Everything about it screamed luxury and opulence, a stark contrast to my more modest living conditions.