Private Story Name Novels & Stories

"The Rossi family doesn't need a Don. We just need a Donna." As the only heiress of the Rossi family, this was the law that I had set when I received the Browning pistol—a pistol that resembles the ultimate authority in the Rossi family—from my Papa when he was on his deathbed. But three years ago, the police relentlessly investigated the money laundering business that my fiance, Lorenzo Moretti, was in charge of. If that business were to get exposed, the Rossi family's hundred-year-old legacy would be ruined. In order to protect my family's legacy and to allow Lorenzo to continue legalizing my family's businesses, I decided to become the scapegoat for all the crimes. On the rainy night of my arrest, I personally handed the pistol over to Lorenzo. "Protect my family for me before my return." This gave Lorenzo legitimate authority to run my family. He used the pistol to purge my subordinates and take over the family business. He even broke my law by announcing to the public that he'd become the next Don soon. An invitation with golden borders is soon leaked from the family's inner circle. Lorenzo's and another woman's names are printed on the cover. During a visit, my private lawyer says mockingly, "If you don't get out of prison now, the Rossi family might take on another man's last name for real." I just sneer in response. After that, I get bailed out of jail in advance and return home to celebrate Lorenzo's "funeral". But no matter how many times I scan my iris at the biometric scanner in the estate, the result always comes out wrong. A young woman, who's toying with the pistol, opens the door at that moment. The contempt and disdain in her eyes are plain to see. "Where the hell did a crazy woman like you come from? You came to the wrong place. This is my private turf, you know."

Five years into my marriage to Ethan Morgan, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. He'd bought a private island in my name. He'd asked me to quit my career to rest. He called me his queen. What he didn't know was that I never stopped designing — under a different name, a secret identity no one knew about. Not even him. Then his secretary left a review on my designer account, raving about the dress her "billionaire boyfriend" had gifted her. The island in the photo was mine. The man beside her was my husband. [He says his wife doesn't satisfy his real needs.] [Only if he didn't need an heir from her, she'd already be gone.] I was pregnant with that heir. And he would never know. I made one call: "I need a new identity. And a divorce agreement."

Every werewolf in the Blood Shadow Pack knew one thing—Nicholas Pendle, their Alpha, loved his Luna more than anything. When I complained about the summer heat, he led his warriors to conquer the Blue Lake Pack, just to build me a private summer retreat. When I longed for romance, he lit the sky with fireworks and said, "Julie, I swear to the Moon Goddess, I will never betray you for as long as I live." He planted roses for me with his own hands, then stood before the entire pack and vowed that I was the only one he would ever love. He had my name carved into every corner of the pack, and he granted me equal power—his Luna, standing beside him as his equal. But just now, from his briefcase, something slipped out. A lace dress, one that wasn’t mine.

I was treating some friends to dinner at the private club my cousin owned. When we wrapped up, I waved over a server. "Just put it on Nick's tab." The server nodded, but a manager I'd never seen stepped in to block her. Wearing a smile that never reached her eyes, she said, "Sir, Bosco is a members-only establishment. We don't offer tabs." I felt a flicker of irritation. "I'm the owner's cousin. Just let him know." She let out a sharp, mocking laugh and slapped a bill onto the table. Eighty-eight thousand. Exclusive suite atmosphere maintenance fee, ten thousand. High‑end social network filtration fee, twenty thousand. Spontaneous entertainment ambience enhancement fee, fifteen thousand. And a mess of other miscellaneous charges. Since when did Nick's place dare to bleed customers dry like this? "What's wrong? Can't pay and now you're trying to name‑drop?" She looked me up and down with an arrogant tilt of her chin. "I've seen plenty of our boss's relatives. Not one of them is as broke, pretentious, and shameless as you." Right in front of her, I dialed Nick and put the call on speaker. "Ten minutes," I said. "Make sure she disappears from my sight. Otherwise, I'm revoking your authorization for this club."

During summer break, I took my son, Luke Thorne, diving at our private beach. Ralph Foster, a hotshot TV actor, suddenly showed up with a whole entourage and barged in. "This is a private beach that Gloria personally secured for me to entertain VIPs. You two nobodies had better get lost right now!" He threw his weight around and even dragged my wife, Gloria Stokes, out as a threat. When he learned who I was, he went a step further and mocked me as a kept man living off my wife. I actually laughed. I was the head of the Thornes, the most powerful family in Frenkinston. Since when did I become some freeloading, useless husband? On top of that, Gloria's film studio and every bit of her backing came from me. But when Gloria arrived, she sided with Ralph and actually tried to force Luke to put on a show for some sleazy investors. Sneering, I made a call that only the head of the Thornes had the authority to make. "Shark Vanguard, clear Crescent Bay. Now."

My name is Dylan Reed. I’m a senior college student on the track-and-field team.

My mate, the supreme Alpha of the wolf pack, vows to be faithful to me for life. Yet on our anniversary night, I catch the scent of another woman on him. Later at a gathering, he holds my hand and gazes at me with tender affection. He promises that I'm the only one he'll ever cherish in this life. But moments later, I catch him outside the private room with his lover, who is wrapping herself around him. He's bragging to his friends about their thrilling hookup. It's only after the family elders whip him within an inch of his life with silver-laced whips that he finally begins to understand. When he cries out my name in his fevered delirium, something shifts. He's finally learning what it means to truly lose someone. His grandfather calls me, begging. "He's dying. Please, come see him one last time." I keep my voice calm. "That was his choice." He doesn't understand that some betrayals can never be forgiven. Not from the moment they happen.

For three years, I slept with my father’s head of security behind everyone’s back. Last night, with one hand at my throat and the other under my dress, he finally asked for a name, a future, something real. “After graduation,” I whispered against his mouth. “Let me finish my defense first. Then we’ll tell them.” “No.” By then I was shaking beneath him on the leather seat. “Then sooner. On my birthday next Friday. I’ll stop hiding then... Cassian, please—gentler...” That seemed to satisfy him. His mouth softened against my skin, and his voice dropped low against my ear. “Good girl. I just want you too much.” The next afternoon, I met my best friend for tea. The moment she opened the passenger door, she spotted the torn foil packet caught beside the seat and lifted a brow. “Bourbon cherry?” she said, already grinning. “That’s our company’s unreleased line. So this is what you’ve been hiding.” I snatched it up and shoved it into my bag. “It’s not public yet.” She frowned. “That’s the strange part. We only sent those samples to a handful of VIP clients.” Then she pulled out her phone. “I did a product follow-up with one of them yesterday, and his private account was basically a shrine to his girlfriend.” She turned the screen toward me. I only looked once, and my whole body went cold. The man in the photo had a line of Latin script inked low across his abdomen. I knew that tattoo. I had kissed it the night before. My fingers started shaking as I opened the private account Cassian had never shown me. April 4. The conservatory. Me and him. April 7. The upstairs studio. Me and him again. April 11—last night. A six-second clip in the back of the car.

The day before the semester began, my childhood friend Daniel Carter asked if he could borrow my private jet. Thinking he'd finally changed his ways, I agreed without a second thought. A moment later, he transferred a single dollar, calling it rent because he couldn't stand the thought of freeloading. The quirky amount said more than words ever could. I smiled and accepted it. On the first day of school, I kept things low-key, taking a cab back to campus. But when I arrived, there it was, my private jet parked right in the middle of the quad. The jet had been decked out in bubblegum pink, and students crowded around, their eyes shining with envy. My heart leapt. For once, I thought Daniel had finally figured it out. Beaming, I braced myself for his surprise. But as I drew closer, my smile froze. Sitting barefoot in the pilot's seat, my seat, was Clara West, the campus' queen bee.

My brother Christopher owned a boutique on Fifth Avenue. I'd gone in, picked out a few pieces, grabbed a silk scarf on the way, and was heading for the door. The clerk behind the register stopped me. "Ma'am, we'll need you to settle this now." I looked up. Her name tag said Yvonne. Unfamiliar face. Probably new. I didn't think much of it. "Just put it on the owner's account," I said politely. "He knows who I am." She gave a little snort through her nose, eyes raking from my hair down to my shoes. "We don't run accounts here. You might have the wrong store." She pushed an itemized bill across the counter. Four hundred thousand dollars. I scanned the line items. Personal Style Consultation. Premium Fitting Service. VIP Client Private Service. Every single charge cost more than the clothes themselves. I let out a short laugh. "I'm a Whitfield. Christopher's my brother. Whatever this is, he can deal with it at home." Her smile got uglier. "Anyone can claim to be a Whitfield, sweetheart. Are you trying to skip out on the bill, or are you just trying to embarrass yourself?" I didn't bother arguing. I pulled out my phone and texted Christopher: [Fire the clerk named Yvonne in the next ten minutes, or I pull every dollar I have in this store.]