Nora Smith Audio Book Novels & Stories

I mutter to Hannah, before focusing on my book. He lectures for an hour, but it’s all gibberish to me. He goes way too fast, but nobody else seems to struggle. Lina and Charlotte are raising their hands every few minutes, along with a few others. I slump deeper into my seat, trying not to feel too hopeless. Liam, sitting next to me, taps my desk. "Hey, Nora?Come over this weekend," he whispers. "For what?" I ask. Two dimples appear in his cheeks. "Drinks, food, whatever you li-"

“You and the book nerd looked pretty cozy.” Otto’s jaw tightened. He slipped the card into his pocket before turning to face his friend. “Her name is Nora, and she’s a bestselling author now. You might want to show some respect.” Luke blinked, taken aback by Otto’s sharp tone. “Whoa, easy. I was just asking.” “Well, now you know.” Otto drained his whiskey and set the glass down with more force than necessary. “And for the record, I always thought she was smart as hell. That’s more than I can say for some people.”

I glanced around before carefully opening it. Your place or mine? I want to ride on that dick of yours and lick all your cum. I’m so fucking horny just looking at your lips, my sugar. I swear my soul died and resurrected instantly. “Idris, is everything okay? You seem lost.” I jumped. Ms. Nora’s voice. The note nearly flew out of my hands. “Yes, Ms. Nora,” I stammered, forcing a smile. “I’m just… resonating on your teachings.”

Then his voice came, colder than before. “And who told you we were more than that?” “Your beloved Kire, of course,” Nora replied. And this time, she turned deliberately to face the woman across from her. Whatever arrogance Kire had moments ago had melted. “The rumors are everywhere,” she continued. “But kindly tattoo it into her silicone-filled skull that a secondhand man masquerading as a god is not my type.” With that. She ended the call. No hesitation, just the calm stare of a woman who had already set the bridge on fire…

The connected call only carried the sounds of Jaime Walter and Derek Surrey’s pleasure. She did not seem to hear what I said. After an impatient click of her tongue, she hung up. I lowered my arms and stared at my mother’s decomposed body. My strength felt completely drained. Derek then sent me a series of messages. When I opened them, I saw videos of the two of them having sex that night. Their intimate sounds filled the room. Derek smiled in the video and asked Jaime, “You really are not giving him the miracle drug?”

Nora, I know you think you’ve won. I know you think you can just walk away into Damien Vance’s world and pretend the last seven years never happened. But I still have everything. I have your old personal journals from the house on Elm Street. I have the rough drafts of your early designs, the private financial tracking sheets you kept when we were struggling, and the personal notes you wrote about your family. I have already talked to a freelance publisher who is willing to buy the rights to the entire archive. They want the real story of Nora Vance—the desperate, broke artist who kept double books while her marriage fell apart.

“And the week after that. I’m not finished with you.” Nora walked out through the silent library as the first morning light touched the windows, thighs pressed together, body thoroughly used, already knowing the locked doors of the rare-book room would keep opening for her for a long time to come.

I say, in a quiet and obedient way, "I don't see any reason to say no. I am usually less busy than the other maids, if that is okay with you, Madam Lea." Nora's posture relaxes. She turns to her daughter-in-law, raising one perfectly arched silver eyebrow. "Well, Lea? Is it a problem?" Lea's knuckles turn white. She forces a smile so tight it looks painful. "If she is what you want, Nora, then of course. Why not?" Lea spins on her heel and marches out of the room. Nora doesn't take no for an answer. She never has. Looking at her reminds me of how this entire nightmare started. Before the crash, before the amnesia, I was Tara Smith—a rising fashion consultant in LA.

Nora was looking at Claire. She stood and looked at it for a long time. Then she put it face down at the back of the wardrobe shelf and closed the door. Ethan came back at half past seven. She heard the front door and then his footsteps below, and then Margaret’s voice low and brief, and then quiet. Nora was in the upstairs sitting room with a book she had not been reading for an hour. She stayed where she was and turned a page she had not read and listened to the house settle around his presence.

Dr. Sabine Marsh had chosen a location that was neither hospital nor office nor anywhere that suggested official business. A reading room inside a university library on the eastern edge of the city. Old building. Thick walls. The kind of space where sound died two feet from its source and conversations stayed exactly where they were had. Nora arrived twelve minutes early. She had not told Henderson. She had not called Ethan. She had kissed her mother's cheek, left Ada sitting with the letter and her coffee and her tomatoes, and driven across the city with the forensic pathologist's voice still sitting in her chest like something with edges.