Novel Upper Westside Novels & Stories

We pull into the basement parking of Sofia's apartment complex, the concrete walls enclosing us in a dimly lit cavern. Following her lead, we ascend to the second floor, traversing a corridor adorned with nondescript doors until we reach the one at the far end. Nestled in the upper echelons of London's East Side, the apartment complex exudes an air of sophistication and exclusivity.

Even the car’s side mirror could reflect the saliva flying and Juma was so disgusted but he raged as soon as the man called him a son of the Upper City. Upper City was the estate or part of the city that ranked only third from where Juma lives and it was known to shelter filthy rich people. The class of people living there rivaled the wealth worth of the top paid entertainers of the country, journalists, business men or even prominent figures like governors, senators or even other foreigners.

Zara’s POV Fifth Avenue was a canyon of broken glass and expensive shadows. Without the rhythmic pulse of the traffic lights or the neon glow of the designer storefronts, the street felt ancient, like a Roman road reclaimed by a silent, predatory wilderness. The blacked-out Upper East Side didn't roar with the chaos of the Bronx or the fires of Hell’s Kitchen; it simmered with a cold, aristocratic terror. Here, the looters were fewer, but the private security details were twitchy, their flashlights cutting through the mist like erratic searchlights from a watchtower.

Atlas had given her nothing but kindness and respect, even if Anais was a whore. She watched the city go by as they made their way to Atlas’ house. Anais thought about the places she had lived in her life and nothing compared to what she was about to enter. Atlas must have a nice apartment. There was nothing middle class about the Upper West Side and Anais knew that she was going to be in a place that was even nicer than the lounge at the club. That would be her new home for however long this alpha decided to keep her. Anais swallowed down her unease and held Cas' hand more tightly. She had wanted a mate and pups, but she didn’t think she would ever get them, let alone like this.

I let myself cry for three more minutes. Then I wiped my face one more time, put the car in drive, and headed toward Aria’s place. ———- The apartment building was in the Upper East Side. Doorman. Marble lobby. The kind of place that screamed old money. Not as big as Gavin’s penthouse. Nothing was as big as Gavin’s penthouse. But it was close. Fifteen floors of luxury condos that probably cost more per square foot than most people’s houses. The doorman…James, according to his name tag…recognized Aria immediately.

From my perspective the apartment was my guarantee of next year's housing. Although I hadn't seen Nox's apartment on West 77th, I was certain my little one-bedroom couldn't compare to it or to Patrick and to Cy's on the Upper East Side. Nevertheless, I liked it. With its wood floors, white walls, and a galley kitchen, it wasn't pretentious. It was cozy. From its large old windows, I couldn't see the park. Instead, they looked out onto a tree-lined street, and just down the block was Tom's Restaurant on the corner. I planned to tell Nox—eventually.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it up. ​Our eyes met in the reflection. He leaned down slightly, his breath warm against my ear. "You don't need to fit into my mother's world, Ruby. You are the event. Remember that." ​The drive to the Upper East Side was a silent, tense countdown. When the sleek black town car finally pulled up to the historic Ray townhouse, the sheer weight of old Manhattan money practically radiated from the limestone facade. This house had history, power, and walls that had guarded the city's tightest secrets for generations.

They had lucked out in many ways concerning the apartment issue. Rick did indeed own serveral apartment buildings in New York. But the only one suitable for their current needs was in Hell's Kitchen. It was a neighborhood close to the theater district, as well as Time's Square. The location was to the west, down south of Central Park. It had just undergone a massive renovation to bring it up to city codes. The only problem was that is was not furnished. And Larry Watters was no where to be seen. Apartments in the states were not normally furnished. Most Americans owned all of their own household furnishings.

To be precise, it was more to digest the food. It wasn't my fault that I over-ate. Andrew's food was simply too amazing. He had the talent for turning delicacies into gourmet dishes. It seemed like the Lambert family placed a lot of emphasis on raising intelligent children who could look after themselves. Westonwood was a new high-end neighborhood in Jinovy, and its strategic location was tinged with sophistication as it was situated between several prestigious institutions. The properties here were so popular and expensive that everything sold out as soon as it was available for purchase.

he paused, something in the pause that wasn’t quite an explanation, “in the area.” I looked at him. His building was on the Upper East Side. I was in Brooklyn. Nobody was in the area. I stepped back from the door. “Do you want coffee?” A beat. “Yes.” I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised by the answer. He came in. I watched him take in my apartment the way he took in everything, quickly and without making a production of the looking, and I saw it briefly through his eyes, the mismatched bookshelves and the good lamp I’d splurged on three years ago and the kitchen table with the ring from a coffee cup that I kept meaning to sand out and never did.