Molasses Flood

I stretched lazily on the bed, much like a contented kitten, before opening my eyes. Hovering above me was a face that could have been sculpted by the gods—a handsome, well-defined face with sun-kissed golden eyes. My first groggy thought was that Cara had finally brought home a decent, well-groomed man for a change. But…. Why is he in my room? I abruptly shoved him away, ending the spell. "Get off your asshole!" With a scowl on my face, I got up quickly. “Was personal space not mentioned by Clara, huh?” I spoke in an irritated tone. “Clara?” He turned and casually picked up some papers from a nearby table, settling down with an annoying smile. “And who might that be, if I may ask?” He doesn’t even remember her? Asshole “Well, if you must know, Clara—” I started, but my words faltered as something shiny caught my eye. What is..? Then my memories began to flood back. —it’s a damn golden sofa. Shit. Brain Freeze. ~~~ Growing up as the oldest kid on a Chicago farm was no picnic for Mary Johnson. Her folks, good ol' Mr. and Mrs. Becky Johnson, were salt-of-the-earth types, who worked hard on their small farm not far from the gritty backstreets of Chicago. They taught Mary and her siblings the value of hard work, self-value. But as much as Mary loved her family, she dreamed big, but those dreams took a backseat when she needed to step up and help support her family. Then, out of the blue, fate threw her a curveball. A chance in the US came knocking, and Mary didn't hesitate. And then she crossed paths with the Blacks – New York’s high society, dripping with wealth and power, who offered her a deal she couldn’t refuse.

From high school to my sophomore year in college, I've been in four relationships. None of them lasted, obviously. Boys my age just don't know how to treat a girl like me. I turned twenty, two weeks ago, and decided to swear off love until this hunk of a man walks into our film class. The stranger who I rocked during my birthday party. Well, I thought I only rocked him but memories of that night flood me upon seeing his face. His hands on my waist, my back to his chest, his mouth on my neck. And then...one of the club's rooms. Oh my God! "Good morning everyone, I'm Professor Christian Lambert but you can just call me Professor Lambert. I'll be taking you on international film studies from now on." His gaze ignores all the students in front of me and lands on me. My body warms at the intense memory of us together during my birthday party. As if thinking about the same thing, his face splits into a mischievous grin. Rumors soon begin to fill the campus about the professor. Five years ago, his ex-girlfriend mysteriously disappeared but was later found a month later, in a man's shirt. It was the professor's DNA that was found in her hair and because there was no evidence, he went scot-free. I planned to keep my distance from him after hearing the rumors but... ****** "Hey, little birdie" Professor Lambert corners me after one of my lectures. "I couldn't stop thinking about you after that night." I swallow hard and avoid his piercing brown eyes. Is this right? He's my professor and a rumored killer but...why is my heart beating so fast?

Sienna Calder swore she’d never touch her father’s world—Dorian Ashford, shipping mogul and billionaire king, left her mom to rot while he built his empire. She’s there to curse his grave when he dies, not to claim a dime. But his will traps her, naming her co-heir to his $50 billion legacy alongside Roman Valtieri, the brooding, hard-edged protégé who’s clawed his way into Dorian’s shadow—and now into hers. They’re to run the empire together or lose it all, and Sienna hates him for it: too slick, too close, every look a spark she doesn’t want. Then a letter from Dorian’s cold hand ignites the fire—he was murdered, and Roman’s name’s scratched beside the truth. A silver key and a vial of blood—hers, his—drag her deeper, promising answers locked in Ashford estate.But the walls crash in fast: Ezra Locke, a scarred snake with a grin like a blade, wants that key, and he’ll drown the place to get it. Roman’s her lifeline—gun drawn, hands steady, pulling her from the flood—and she loathes how his touch burns, how his voice steadies her when the water’s at her throat. Caught between rage and a pull she can’t name, Sienna fights the heat growing with every near miss—Roman’s too damn solid, too damn close, and she’s torn between shoving him away and pulling him in. The empire’s crumbling, the cliff’s falling, and Ezra’s not the only shadow circling—something darker watches, waiting. Love’s a gamble when blood’s the stake, and Sienna’s playing with a deck her father rigged. Can she trust Roman’s hands to hold her up, or will the crown they’re fighting for crush them both in its ashes?