Shame A Novel Novels & Stories

"Apology not accepted." Then, I slowly pulled my collar up to reveal the insulting letters branded onto my skin. They still hurt after being freshly tattooed, but it was nothing compared to the throbbing pain in my heart. I shot daggers at Evan and spoke my mind, "Since you’re not going to resolve this properly, I’ll do it myself." As I was leaving, I heard someone talking behind me. "Claire is the only heir to Fisher Corporation. She’s not going to scorch the earth just to get revenge, would she?"

I could never talk openly about what happened to me to anyone, besides being humiliating; it is embarrassing and shameful. "What point? I just don't want to talk about myself to a person I don't know. You are the mother of the man who sells women and you treat this as if it were normal! - I let out between fruit and sighs, I wanted to feel relieved, but all I felt was shame."

The light had shifted across the room by the time her lashes fluttered. A moan slipped from her lips—barely audible, but laced with pain. And then: panic. Her eyes flew open, wild and glassy. Her head throbbed violently. Her arms—bound. Her legs—naked and exposed. The leather cuffs cold against her skin. The shame of helplessness settling like lead in her chest. Brielle’s breath quickened. Her pulse thudded against her throat like a snare drum. Then the toilet flushed. She froze.

It has been replaced with concern and worry. The two of us made our way to the den discussing though the link what exactly we were going to tell Dad. All the times we had done things with Heather and been caught, I had never been ashamed of what we had been doing. Embarressed at being caught, oh most definitely, but never ashamed. This? All I feel is shame, disgust and disappointment in myself. Shane POV

The word felt inadequate for the revulsion churning in my gut, but I had no better way to describe the shame coating my skin like oil. The betrayal stung, sharp and insistent, but the shame was worse.. a deep, corrosive thing that ate at my sense of self. I had prided myself on my intuition, on my ability to read people, to navigate the shark-infested waters of the business world with my instincts intact.

the mother whispered back. Wow. What a great way to escape death. So many people still wanted me dead. I stood up, gathering my mud-soaked dress with me. I stumbled forward, I didn't forget to look back at Nerien before making my way through the crowd. They parted for me, watching as I bathed in shame. I kept walking, not knowing exactly where I was going because I literally didn't know my own hut. But I kept moving anyway, stomping on the ground like it had personally offended me.

“From the attic they always locked me in, from the beatings, from the lies. I came to Newyork to build a new name, a new life. But now they found me. And now they’ll destroy everything I’ve built.” The confession spilled out in pieces, jagged and sharp, each word cutting her as she said it. She could see flashes of the attic again, the rusted lock, the suffocating darkness, the stale smell of dust and fear. Her voice wavered as she forced herself to keep speaking, as though if she stopped, the memories would consume her. She folded into herself, sobbing into her hands, shame dripping from every tear. Her body shook violently, her shoulders jerking as if she were a child again. She could not

I had felt every eye in that room and how they measured and recalculated me. I had knelt down for someone who already planned to humiliate me. I pressed my palms against the mirror, fingers splayed, breathing hard. Shame came first. It always did. It crawled up my spine and settled behind my eyes. It told me I should have known better. That I should have stopped it. That I should have walked away and let the project burn rather than allow myself to be seen like that. Reduced. Exposed. Brought down to the floor by someone who did not even raise her voice to do it.

Palmer’s POV There is a peculiar shame that settles over you when the person you once trusted becomes the architect of your fear. It’s quieter than anger and heavier than grief — a slow sediment that layers itself under your ribs until you forget what it feels like to breathe without pressure. I found myself living inside that shame.

I looked down at my bandaged hand, the throbbing pain nothing compared to the shame that was now consuming me whole. The shame was a hot, heavy blanket, smothering me. I leaned back into the chair, my head in my hands. My mind was a war. On one side was this gut-wrenching regret, picturing the look on Sheila’s face when she found out about that other girl. I’d been such a bastard. Such a colossal, stupid jerk.