Reading Nook Under Staircase Novels & Stories

"How can you say that about me, Nathan? I never had a kid!" Aaron Fuller protests. My wife, Jenny Green, stands protectively in front of him. "That's enough! You can't slander Aaron just because you're jealous of him. Just you wait, Nathan. I haven't settled the score with you for calling Aaron this afternoon and insulting him!"

I get into an online relationship with a rich scion named Oliver Radcliffe, who's apparently from Canverly and loves showering me with riches. The only bad thing about him is that he's too clingy and is very prone to jealousy. So, I decide to break up with him without giving him any preamble. Poor Oliver breaks down in tears. He claims that I've stolen his heart and that he hates my guts. I already find him insanely annoying, so I refute, "I was just toying around with your heart, you idiot!" Later on, I travel to Canverly on a student exchange program. But that's when I get kidnapped to a grand estate. There, I scream at Oliver angrily, only for him to smile dotingly at me. "I can't understand what you're talking about, but I think you're just acting cute around me. Will you do the same thing when I use too much force on you in bed tonight?" Oh no, I've screwed up this time! I can't believe I've attracted the attention of a lunatic!

I have a histrionic personality. On top of that, I'm extremely attracted to good-looking people. Otherwise, I wouldn't have endured Caleb Johnson's sharp, vicious tongue and picky preferences for 99 days just for his looks. But one day, I overhear him telling his best friends—a guy with the top grades in school and the school bully—to seduce me. That way, I'll take the initiative to break up with him. I clench my fists, feeling the way my hands tremble. No, I'm not trembling out of sadness… I'm doing it out of excitement. Finally, I don't have to stare at just one handsome face! Marcus Thorne looks so hot with his gold-rimmed glasses. Meanwhile, there's Asher Prescott with his tanned skin and wild personality… Mmm… I want them both…

When our marriage contract expired, I found out I was pregnant. Charlie Newman’s voice was icy. "If it’s a boy, we’re even." I asked quietly, "And if it’s a girl?" He paused–then said coldly, "Then we keep trying until you give me a son." I sighed. Three years of marriage couldn’t compete with the need for an heir. However, one night, when I went downstairs for water, I saw him kneeling in the attic, eyes devout, voice trembling. "Merciful God, please grant me a daughter. If you hear my prayer and make my wish come true, I will give generously to your church and serve you faithfully all my life."

After I married into a rich family as my older sister's stand-in, my powerful husband didn't touch me for six months. Then I overheard his friend. "You chased her ten years just to marry her, and you still won't touch her?" He looked down, smiling bitter. "I have a problem... I'm scared I'd scare her off." That night I stormed into his room and slapped the divorce papers on the nightstand. "Two choices—sleep with me or sign." He ripped the papers apart and pinned me to the wall, something wild breaking loose in his eyes. "Third choice... I make sure you can't get out of bed tomorrow."

I suspected my husband was a detached ascetic. Every night, he'd skip to the backyard, muttering prayers under the stars instead of sharing our bed. When I slipped into something slinky, he'd frown and clutch his prayer beads like a lifeline. Now I was done with the cold shoulder, slapping a divorce agreement in his hands. That was when his thoughts started leaking into my head. "She touched me. Her hands are like silk. I'm dying to kiss her. When is she gonna be okay with me being a snake? I just want to cuddle her." "A snake?" I thought. "Does that mean he's packing two things? I have to find out." I leered at his chiseled frame, practically drooling. Before divorcing, I needed to test his things and my limits. I tripped purposefully and fell onto his toned pecs, ready to test the waters. "Whoops!" I gasped, setting the stage.

In a music competition show, my rival unexpectedly played the melody I had in my mind before I could. Shocked, I confronted her, asking why she plagiarized me. However, she turned the accusation against me and said, "You said I stole your work, but do you have any proof?" However, I was unable to provide any concrete evidence. Thus, I was labeled as a bully and a plagiarist, ultimately meeting a tragic end. Even in my final moments, I couldn't figure out how she managed to steal something from my mind. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on that same stage. Seeing that my rival was about to play her part, I stopped her and said, "This time, it's my turn to go first."

I'm the female protagonist of a spicy novel. One day, the system tosses me into an innocuous novel to be reformed. What a joke! I turn to the male protagonist. "Hi there. Want to make out?" He has me thrown behind bars and accuses me of molesting him. Much later, he does even naughtier things than the male protagonists in spicy novels do.

I quit and dipped. City threw a parade. Only Jenna Blake—my oh-so-gifted junior who claimed she could "see through killers' eyes"—lost it. At her celebration banquet, she went full drama queen: "I owe everything to Kate Mercer. Please, bring her back!" I laughed. Cold. Not happening. Last time around, I was the hotshot detective. But every clue I found? She dropped it first like she read my mind. People started saying I was washed. So I went all in—three months, no sleep, cracked a massive trafficking ring. Led the raid myself. She beat me there. Again. Place was cleaned out. Boom. She's the city's golden girl. I'm the clown with no game. Pressure got ugly. My head snapped. I died chasing the last scumbag. Then—bam. I woke up. Same day. Raid morning. Round two.

It's 11:30 pm. Home alone, I decide to order some takeout. When the map shows the delivery guy is zero miles away, I receive a call from him. I pick up, only to hear unsettling silence from the other end. I hang up, annoyed. The next moment, the guy texts me, "Sorry, I'm hearing-impaired and unable to speak. I called to notify you to pick up your food as soon as possible. I can't explain things over the phone, and I apologize for that." Then comes another text. "You must've been waiting for a long time. I've left your order at your door, so please pick it up as soon as you can." Just as I prepare to open the door, I see bars of live comments—reminiscent of livestream chats—floating right before my eyes. "Don't open the door! That dude isn't a delivery guy at all! He's a murderer!" "He called you to check if you're a woman living alone!" "Seriously, why are all thriller story protagonists always so dumb? The delivery guy is obviously suspicious, yet she still wants to open the door."