Second Lady Book Novels & Stories

A roll of white paper caught her eye. Upon opening it slowly, she knit her brows in annoyance; it was no wonder it hurt, as the paper was wrapped around a pebble. Fortunately, it wasn't bleeding, though she was sure a bruise would form. Her slender fingers unfurled the paper, and she read the hurried handwriting: [If you want to know what you’ve been seeking, meet me on the second floor at night!] “What does this mean? Which second floor is she talking about?”. Monica rolled the paper back up and hid it in her fist. She headed to her room, wondering about the location mentioned in the note, certain it couldn't be in her own house.

She exuded a serene glow, a quiet confidence that stemmed from the knowledge of the miracle she carried within her. The seven-month mark brought with it an array of emotions, both exhilarating and challenging. I witnessed moments of joy and excitement, where Princess Golder’s laughter echoed through the palace halls, filling each corner with an infectious happiness. Other times, a hint of exhaustion would flicker across her eyes, a testament to the physical demands of nurturing our child.

Mrs Jones gave a curt nod before she took her seat opposite Madeline. The butler walked in next with a glass of water. Madeline smiled as she took the glass and sipped some before placing the glass on the side table. “Are you comfortable Ms. Collins?” Mrs Jones asked with her legs now crossed and having her red heels from Hermès latest collection on display. “Very well Mrs Jones. I've been briefed about your birthday coming up in less than a month and I have some designs to show you.” Madeline passed her tablet to the butler who passed it to Mrs Jones.

Nevertheless , I crack the door open a bit and exhale lightly in relief as I see a small petite woman. “Y – yes?” I stutter , opening up the door wider. I watch the pretty maiden scanning the room through the door way , as if she was searching for something. When he eyes do not find it , a look of disappointment drowns her beautiful brown eyes. The woman takes me by surprise when she begins to look at me from head to toe ; disgust is clearly evident on her face. The once disappointed look now turns into one of resentment and hatred directed at me. I pretend not to notice it as I give her a kind shy smile , however my assumptions on her dirty looks that she has given me were proven right whe

In the span of a few short months, they had lost all three of their children. The mansion that had once been filled with laughter was left with only two living corpses. Every day, they sat in the apartment I had rented, where the traces of my life remained. An old desk, a few worn textbooks, and an empty box that had once held the tie clip. My mother held the box in her hands, running her fingers over it again and again. "Jordan, I received your birthday present." My father stared endlessly at the contract for the artificial heart that I would never use. Silent tears slipped down his face.

The second he burst through the front door, Vittorio’s heart didn't settle. Instead, it plummeted into a bottomless abyss. The penthouse was terrifyingly empty. It was spotless, sterile, and felt exactly like a high-end property waiting for a new owner. There wasn't a single trace of Isabella left. The photo wall that she used to cherish so much was completely bare.

“For training.” I smiled despite myself. “Tell her thank you.” The maid hesitated. “Actually…” “What?” “She said not to thank her.” I frowned. “Why?” “You’ll understand later.” Strange… very strange. That evening, I wandered into the library again, this time not to read but because I wanted silence. I returned yesterday’s books. The librarian smiled nervously. “I found something else you may enjoy.” He placed a slim volume before me. It wasn’t about kings or bloodlines or prophecies. Its title read; Forgotten Women of the First Kingdom.

Called her on the particular Tuesday that had become their Tuesday, the rhythm of it as established now as any other rhythm of her life. "The second book is finished," she said, when Chisom answered. A pause. Then: "Say that again." "The second book is finished," she said. The silence that followed had the quality of someone receiving something and needing a moment to receive it completely before responding. "Adaeze Okonkwo," Chisom said. "Yes," Adaeze said. "Two books," Chisom said. "In two years." "Yes." Another silence.

We stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. The woman staring back at me wasn't the frightened girl who had once wondered how she would survive. She wasn't the wife who had once begged a man to reconsider. She wasn't the woman who had left New Orleans carrying her children and little else. She was Naomi Jackson. A CEO. A mother. A woman who had built something people respected. The elevator doors opened. I stepped out. My heels struck the marble floor again.

The woman said this before leaving. Even though everyone was worried, some people were afraid that the new president would remove them from their posts, while others were just holding their collective breaths. When a black Maybach pulled up to the main door of the Grayston Group, all eyes were fixated on the driver and his passengers. A driver went down to the ground floor to open the door for the newly elected president. When the door opened, the first thing that could be seen was a 6-inch black heel. A woman! The new president is a woman! Before they even got a glimpse of the person’s face, everyone’s eyes widened in surprise.