Novel & Cerita Novel Upper West Side

It was a nickname rather than an accusation. "The stranger is teaching me to play chess," Isabella said. "I beat him last time." "He probably let you win," Elena teased from the front seat. "He did not!" Isabella protested. "I'm good at chess!" "I'm sure you are," I said, smoothing her hair. "You're good at lots of things." We arrived at our apartment. A beautiful place in the Upper West Side. Three bedrooms, high ceilings and a view of Central Park. I had bought it with my own money.

*** Upper East Side, New York Alessandra Walk the other way, Alessa. Stop following him. Stop going towards a man you know is not good for you. He is Danger incarnate. A mystery that should not be unfolded. But I wanted to-no- needed to know more. I needed to understand this deep sated fascination that I had for him and the impact he had left on me that one night.

245 West 163rd Street, Apt 4B New York, NY 10032. For a woman who loves to go after the rich and mighty she lives in the middle-class side of the city, how fun, guess she knows how to cover her tracks better than I thought. Well Sienna, time to pay you a little visit, you don’t get to go silent on me and not expect a reaction.

Merciless. And famously, dangerously sexual. The stories about his appetite for women were legendary among New York's underground circles. There was the socialite from the Upper East Side who'd tried to seduce information from him about a rival family's operations. She'd emerged from his penthouse three days later with cigarette burns on her thighs and rope marks around her wrists, her spirit so thoroughly broken that she'd checked herself into a psychiatric facility and never spoken of what happened.

“But you are twice my age, how come I get to call you by your name but you can’t call me by mine?” “I’m afraid so, but I would like to be called Mr. Willard, if possible. But you may call me whatever you like.” “Okay,” I sighed, getting into the car. Arthur shut the door behind me and then we were off. I watched the large skyscrapers pass us by as we made our way to the Upper East Side. This was a place I rarely came to. It was the richer part of town and not a place that I blended into. The car came to the reputable Delmore Tower. To think that this man owned this building was insane. This place declaimed the biggest A-listers and most powerful politicians. My staying here was something tha

Even when he grabbed a book to distract himself, the words blurred and refused to sink in. By one in the morning, unable to bear it any longer, he dressed again and headed out. This time, he drove himself to the Upper West Side. The area was quiet, the night broken only by the soft spill of light from a handful of townhouses. He cracked the car window and lit a cigarette, drawing on it absentmindedly. Smoke curled around him, sharp and acrid in the cool air. Halfway through the cigarette, he took out his phone and dialed Ava.

​SERAPHINA’S POV ​ Rejected Devotion ​​The smell of freshly brewed espresso did nothing to warm the arctic chill of the penthouse dining room. ​It was seven in the morning. Outside the floor to ceiling windows of the Upper East Side high rise, Manhattan was buried under a blanket of grey autumn fog. Inside, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of the antique tall clock in the foyer and the rustle of the Financial Times in Lucian’s hands.

The building was one of those old New York walk-ups in the East Village—narrow, brick, five stories of mismatched windows staring at each other across a skinny airshaft that smelled like garbage on hot nights and wet concrete after rain. His room was on the fourth floor, rear. Hers was directly opposite, maybe fifteen feet away if you measured straight across the gap. Close enough that he could hear her laugh sometimes when the windows were open. Close enough that the first time he saw her naked he forgot how to blink.

The morning light broke over the Hudson River, cutting through the heavy, charcoal-colored clouds and casting long, cold beams of gold across the polished oak floors of the penthouse. Vivian stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she watched the ant-like procession of morning traffic crawling across the West Side Highway. The events of the previous evening—the stack of frantic, erratic letters delivered from the Westchester holding facility and Julien’s desperate, delusional petitions for a court-mandated wellness check—still lingered in the air like a foul, persistent smoke.

Something closer to fear. I texted back four words. Where and when. She replied within a minute. Coffee shop on 5th and 82nd. One hour. The shop was small and overpriced in the specific way of Upper East Side establishments that existed mostly to be seen in, all reclaimed wood and brass fixtures, and Vivian was already seated when I arrived — no entourage, no audience, none of the performance I’d watched her deploy at every previous encounter. She looked, for the first time since she’d returned to New York, genuinely tired.