Staying Power Book Mga Nobela at Kwento

Harmony I was trying to prevent myself from shaking while I was staring at my laptop. I don’t know what to feel about a post on Friendbook related to me. While I was trying to calm down, I continued to stare at a photo posted with a mocking caption. It was me, standing on a stage while in the midst of holding back my tears. The caption says, "Wow, look at your dumb rich girl stuttering through a debate. Is that all you can do? "

The girl, who prided and found pleasure in coning sugar daddies with her late boyfriend. The fifteenth law of power…All great leaders since Moses have known that a feared enemy must be crushed completely, if one amber is left alight, no matter how dimly it smolders a fire will eventually break out. More is lost through stopping halfway than through total annihilation. The enemy will recover and will seek revenge. Crush him, not only in body but in spirit.

My mother finally lost her patience and let out a mocking laugh. “Suzanna, the Charlton family may not be as powerful as it once was, but three generations built this family from the ground up. Do not flatter yourself into thinking we cannot survive without you.” Suzanna’s expression darkened as she glared at us. I took my mother’s hand. Before leaving, I looked at Suzanna one last time. “Suzanna, we are over. Completely.”

he said. I smiled. “Me neither.” “And that makes staying feel… intentional,” he added. “Yes,” I said. “Not like inertia. Like choice.” Silence settled between us, not empty, not heavy. The quiet confidence of staying wasn’t passive. It was disciplined. It meant resisting the urge to leap just to feel movement. It meant trusting that growth didn’t always announce itself with noise or fear. A few days later, the panel organizer followed up with logistics. Dates. Travel details. Expectations.

I smiled to myself and returned to the reading, already rewriting the narrative in my head, already preparing for the next meeting, the next challenge, the next door someone would try to open without knocking. Power, I had discovered, wasn't loud. It didn’t announce itself or demand space. It simply existed, steady and undeniable. And as I sat there, pen in my hand, office quiet again, I knew one thing was certain. I wasn’t going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. This was my ground now. And always.

But the rhythm was the same—alive, indifferent, relentless. I passed a bookstore and paused. In the window, a display caught my eye. A stack of books titled Power Without Permission. My name on the cover. I stared at it longer than necessary. Not because I was proud. But because I remembered the girl who once believed power had to be granted. I stepped inside and bought a copy. At home, I placed the book on the shelf beside others—histories, theories, stories written by women who refused erasure. It fit there.

Why stay helpless when you can choose to be powerful? Have a great day, everyone! See you all in the next book! UPDATE: BOOK TWO is now out as a completed novel - The Rogues Who Went Rogue.

“I’ll drive you home. I’ll just get the car.” He was about to stand, but I held him down. “No, don’t bother. Walking distance lang naman `yung bahay ko.” “I insist. I couldn’t bare eat when you’re out there walking on your own. I’m just worried. Please, let me drive you home.” “I’m good on my own. Don’t let me ruin your dinner,” I bitterly said. “So, stay,” he said with authority, just like when we’re in the office. “Stay and eat with us.”

Jane's POV Before starting the day I knew today was bound to be one of those days where I just had to survive. I knew I would be late for my appointment because my car would act up, I would spend too much time in a queue to get a decent caffeine source and end up walking away empty-handed. But somehow I was here in front of a company, holding the creamiest of our expresso 'latte', and on time for my appointment. Guess my superpowers betrayed me today.

She looked toward the living room, the familiar clutter suddenly suffused with golden light, everything ordinary made strange and precious by those three words. Books were piled beside the couch, spines creased and pages nestled with torn sticky notes. A mug sat on the coffee table, the string of a tea bag dried and curled like a tiny flag against its chipped side. Her application notes still occupied one corner of the dining table, pages fanned out in nervous stacks—she had been too superstitious to put them away, as if hiding them would tempt fate to change its mind. She swallowed hard, the motion tightening her throat, a taste of salt and relief lingering on her tongue.