National Velvet Novel Novels & Stories

Basira stood before him in the same way, till at last she cried out, “A second confusion!” Zastar, greatly amused, blinked some time with his sound eye; at length ho said, “Sir Novoveski, a friend and subordinate of our Geswer, and this is Lady Ladder. Tfu! I wanted to say Yezorkoy.” Sir Adam recovered readily; and because lie was a soldier of quick wit, though young, he bowed, and raising his eyes to the wonderful vision, said, “As God lives! Roses bloom on the snow in Ketling's garden.”

’ As Zach and Rachel drove to the mansion, they had no idea the troubles awaiting them. As the family meeting began, all the family members began presenting their gifts to grandma Kent. “Grandma, here’s a diamond broach worth one million dollars,” “Grandma, I have brought some expensive clothes from Paris worth five million dollars,” “Grandma the mayor has sent you gifts worth three million dollars,” everyone was in a hurry to present their gift to Grandma. The last two people to present their gifts were her oldest grandchildren, Rachel and James.

To be continued. Do you think is Scarlett saying correctly? What will happen further? If you like this book please add tit o your libraries. Till the next time With love Purva Narang (Your Author)

"Dear Ryan, I hope this letter reaches you because I have something important to say. Right now, I cannot say much in it as I am afraid that I will be tracked. For now, what I can say is that do not trust anyone. Including those who are close to you as you might not know who is the betrayer amongst them. You might think that I am a strange person but beware of my words, sire. The worst is to come and no one will be spared including those whom you love. In this box, is a red book. Keep it safe as It will help you in the future. Make sure you do not give it to anyone. And I mean on one. When the right comes, I will visit you. Until then, be safe. Sincerely, Your, well-wisher. What the fuck was

And I was grateful—I had no desire to stand in the freezing night hoping for a taxi. The car arrived almost immediately. Black. Polished. Windows tinted just enough to feel discreet. The driver stepped out and opened the door without a word. I offered him a small, polite smile and slipped inside. The interior was quiet. Dark leather seats. Subtle luxury. A faint, expensive scent in the air. On the small center console sat a bottle of champagne, still sealed. I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe. Trying to return to myself. To something normal.

Whenever he saw someone carrying a child, he would stop them. He muttered endlessly, as if trying to cough the name "Ellen" out of his throat. Once, he grabbed a pregnant woman and was beaten by her bodyguards, his ribs broken. He lay there for three days—then crawled back to the same place again. That day, I was at the underground trading market with my current husband, Vincent Denaro. He was the heir of a powerful northern family—handsome, composed, and utterly devoted to me. His fingers tapped lightly against a newly arrived crate of weapons.

She glanced back down at the leather-bound book resting on the floorboards beside her. The empty pages seemed to stare up at her, daring her to turn them. With a trembling hand, she picked it up again, the leather warm against her palm. She knew she should get up, should finish unpacking, should do something practical, anything to distract herself from the throbbing between her legs. But she couldn't. She was hooked. The anonymous writer had become a guide, a seductress whispering secrets into her ear, and Pinky was a willing student, desperate to learn every lesson.

“Is she testing us or threatening us?” Vincenzo smiled faintly. “In Palermo, it’s the same thing.” The convoy stopped. Cathedral steps loomed above them. Matteo opened the door. Lucien stepped out into a city that smelled like iron and incense. The Capella Nera was exactly what the stories whispered—an ancient chamber beneath the cathedral, built before the city itself was properly mapped. Its black stone walls were carved with forgotten crests, its vaulted ceilings stained by smoke and shadows. There was no electricity—only oil lamps, hanging low and flickering like nerves.

Every handshake, every smile was a calculated move. Halfway through the evening, a woman approached — tall, silver hair, diamonds that could fund small wars. “Mr. Whitlock,” she purred. “I didn’t expect you to bring company.” “Mrs. Greaves,” he said evenly. “You remember Elara Vale.” Her eyes flicked to me. Recognition. Pity. Maybe envy. “Ah yes, the infamous bride.” I smiled sweetly. “Infamy looks good on me.” Alexander’s mouth twitched — approval disguised as restraint.

My eyes strayed from the women to the clothes and jewelleries on the bed. I was definitely living in a fucking Billionaire Romance novel…without the romance. Because, what in the hell of a twenty-first century fantasy was this? “You might end up meeting an executive or Mr Holland's important client at the office, so we picked a few dresses that would make a statement,” Mrs Timothy said at my bewildered expression. What should I expect next? Lights, and cameras? A fairy Godmother. “How often does Carlton do this?” I asked suddenly. Mrs Timothy frowned.