Soft Yandere Mga Nobela at Kwento

"It hurts…" Joanna Horton clutched her swollen belly in agony, a deep, wrenching pain twisting through her that words couldn't describe. Terror filled her voice as she cried out, "It hurts so bad… Theo… please, save our baby…" But outside, there was only silence—except for the soft, steady sounds of prayers and chanting from the next room. That was where her monk husband, Theo Brook, was, praying for the soul of his long-dead first love. Ever since Sharon Cooper jumped off that building, Theo had been grief-stricken. He left everything behind and became a monk, never missing a single night of chanting for her. People said he had the heart of a saint, that he was devoted and had never stopped loving her. But they didn't know that just on the other side of that wall was Joanna—his lawfully wedded wife, the one he had once married in a grand ceremony. Joanna was burning up with fever, her eyes barely open, her face pale and tired. A few days ago, she had made Theo angry. Since then, no matter how much she cried out in pain, he ignored her. Another sharp wave of pain hit, and suddenly, a rush of blood spilled from between her legs. The baby inside her stopped moving. She knew then—her child was gone.

Ethan Carter, a socially awkward and bookish young man, moves into a run-down apartment in the city, hoping for a quiet and uneventful life. But his world is turned upside down when he meets his neighbor—Sienna, a mesmerizing, confident woman with an intoxicating aura. From the moment he lays eyes on her, he's smitten. She’s everything he isn’t—bold, beautiful, and effortlessly seductive. As Ethan struggles with his feelings, he begins noticing strange things: the way men come and go from Sienna’s apartment, the way she dresses provocatively at odd hours, and the soft, intimate sounds that seep through the thin walls at night. But he convinces himself that it’s all in his head. One night, however, the illusion shatters. When Sienna forgets to fully close her door, Ethan sees the truth with his own eyes—she’s with a client. The shock leaves him reeling. But instead of disgust, his fascination deepens. Why does she do this? Is there something more beneath her exterior? And most importantly—can love exist between two people from such different worlds? Ethan’s desire soon turns into obsession, and as he delves deeper into Sienna’s life, secrets unravel that neither of them are prepared to face.

“Why didn’t you tell me you are the mother of my kids, Emma?” His countenance is soft but stern. “It was a contract.” My voice falters. He didn’t choose fatherhood. She didn’t choose him. But destiny and betrayal leave them with no choice at all. Billionaire Alexander Willoughby built his empire on control. Then his grandparents stole his DNA to create the heir he never asked for. Betrayed and furious, Alexander vowed never to be manipulated again. Emma Johnson thought the surrogacy contract was simple: carry a baby, save her mother, keep her sister in school, and walk away. She never planned to meet the children she birthed. She never planned to fall in love with them—or with their father. Now, as the nanny to twins Bernard and Bernice, Emma’s secret has exploded. Alexander feels deceived. Emma feels cornered. And circling them both is Sophia, Alexander’s ex and Emma’s stepsister, who is determined to tear them apart and claim the life she thinks she deserves. Neither planned this bond. Neither wanted these stakes. But the twins they share will tie them together in ways neither can escape. When secrets ignite, pride shatters, and desire grows impossible to resist, walking away may no longer be an option. A story of power, betrayal, sacrifice and a love neither of them saw coming.

I was a violin prodigy. But to pay my mother’s debts, I was forced to give up everything. That’s when I met the man who would own me: Dante Moretti. He was the king of New York's underworld. The Don of the Moretti family. With a single phone call, fortunes were made. With a single glance, blood was spilled. The world didn't just bend to his will—it broke. And on that day… what he wanted was me. He gave me a five-year contract. A penthouse in a skyscraper overlooking all of New York. More jewels and gowns than I could count. Every night he needed me, I’d put on whatever lacy thing he picked out. We’d have sex. Five years. 999 times. There were moments—his sweat dripping on my forehead, his soft breaths inside me, the way he’d look at me—when I let myself dream he loved me. Then the video dropped. Him. On the street. Kissing another woman. I knew the truth. He was my keeper, not my lover. Everyone laughed. They couldn't wait to see me lose my mind, begging him to keep me. Instead, I turned my back on him. And married another man.

In Kieran Chase's eyes, I was not his wife. I was a non-performing asset waiting to be liquidated. When I got sick and asked for help, he became impatient. He said, "This is a minor problem. You can handle it on your own. No need to tell anyone." When I broke down in tears, he reprimanded me. "Losing emotional control shows weakness. It exposes the fragility of our alliance. I'll have the PR team teach you emotional management." Even when I called for help after a car accident, he hung up. "Nothing about you is important enough to interrupt a transaction worth hundreds of millions." I spent seven days in the ICU fighting for my life. On my first day home, I found Kieran leaning over another woman, his voice suddenly soft and coaxing as he convinced her to take her medicine. He opened his mouth to explain. I smiled bitterly and handed him the papers I'd prepared long ago. My tone mirrored his perfectly. "Mr. Chase, regarding our marriage project, the return on investment is unacceptably low after comprehensive evaluation. I'm formally proposing we terminate our cooperation. "Here's the divorce agreement. Sign it."

On the road, I met a woman unlike anyone I had ever seen before. Her name was Janet Smith. She seemed slow and almost childlike, yet she had been wandering alone for two years without ever going home. Even with one leg crippled, she had forced herself to climb the Highveil Mountains. This time, however, she was caught in a blizzard. Injured and stranded, she could no longer make her way down. As her vision blurred and her strength slipped away, tears covered her face. She placed a pair of small handmade clay dolls in my hands. "I'm probably going to die here," she murmured. "Please give these to my adoptive brother, Chester Graham." She was clearly at death's door, yet her smile was soft and unexpectedly serene. "Tell him I've seen enough of the world. I don't love him anymore. And tell him he doesn't need to worry. I'm not so foolish now. I won't cause trouble for anyone again." Chester? At the sound of his name, I stood rooted to the spot. In Riverton City, everyone who worked at the harbor knew him, the so-called Ship King. Right before I left for the mountains, news of his engagement had been everywhere.

For seven years, my husband told me I was the problem. He said I was too much, too soft, too broken to give him a child. I believed him, until the night of our anniversary, when I found two pink lines on a test… and found him on the study sofa with my best friend. She was pregnant too, his baby. She had been pregnant for months, I did not scream, I did not cry in front of them. I picked up my things, walked out with nothing, and never looked back. I built a new life in a city where nobody knew my name. I found a home. I found work I loved. I found a man who looked at me like I was never broken at all. Months later, my ex-husband showed up, begging me to come back now that he knew the truth: the baby was his too. He wanted me back the moment he realized what he lost. He was too late. I did not need his name. I did not need his money. I did not need him. While he lost everything he built on lies, I built a life that was finally, completely mine.

On our wedding anniversary, I wanted to drive out and buy a cake to celebrate. But the moment I got into the car, I noticed the driver's seat had been pushed forward. There were also a few bread crumbs scattered inside. I called my husband. "Has anyone been driving my car lately?" His voice carried unmistakable guilt. "My cousin borrowed it yesterday for the whole day. Why?" His cousin was six-foot-three—twice my size. More importantly, he was severely allergic to wheat and avoided pastries like the plague. I let out a soft laugh, hung up, and drove straight to the bakery my husband had been frequenting lately. Inside, a sweet-looking girl was chatting and giggling with her coworker. "So what if I'm short? I have to move the seat all the way forward when I drive, but at least someone spoils me!" The moment she saw me, her carefree smile vanished, replaced by panic. I crossed my arms and tilted my head as I looked at her. Lucas had always told me I was too tall—not quite his preferred type. Looks like he'd finally found himself a petite little lover.

"Show me exactly how much you crave this, especially when it’s someone you’re supposed to loathe." One hundred nights. One hundred different men who know exactly how to push you to your absolute limit. This isn’t romance. This isn’t love. This is the dark, intrusive obsession that keeps you up at night, the kind of heat that floods your mind when you think you’re finally alone. Stepbrothers who corner you in the steam of a shower. Priests who hold you captive at the altar. Mafia dons who command your attention and leave you desperate for more. The coach who swore he’d never cross that line—until he shattered it. Every forbidden, unspoken scenario you’ve ever entertained, brought to life in raw, unapologetic detail. No soft touches. No gentle whispers. Just heavy hands, sharp words, and the kind of intensity that leaves you undone. Fair warning: This collection doesn't hold back. Power struggles, public tension, and total surrender. If you prefer your stories sweet and romantic, look away. But if you want to be completely overwhelmed by men who don't ask for permission—because they’ve already decided that you’re theirs… Pick a night. Any night. You won’t be the same when it’s over.

To prepare for a baby, my wife, Daphne Sinclair, suggested we start working out together and keep each other accountable by tracking our daily step counts. While I was away on a two-week business trip, she ranked first on our Fitbit leaderboard every single night. Then one day, my neighbor suddenly sent me a video. The location tag showed it was filmed right in the parking lot beneath my apartment. "Bro, impressive. Your wife's even hired a personal trainer for her workouts now? That Maybach suspension really hits different." In the video, a pink sports bra I had never seen before hung from the driver’s side window. The car rocked rhythmically, accompanied by Daphne's restrained yet excited breathing. I dialed her number. "Where are you?" Her voice turned soft and coy. "On the treadmill, sprinting. Honey, I'm working so hard for our baby." "Really?" I chuckled. "You've worked so hard the entire neighborhood knows about it." Holding the phone, I said slowly, word by word, "Open the door. I'm bringing you a towel."