Stealing Writing Novels & Stories

As my thumb presses the power button, my eyes fall upon the message preview. My annoyance instantly evaporates, replaced by a cold, numbing shock. The blood drains from my face as I read the words. From: Unknown NumberMessage: “You have refused to pay me after I stabbed you to get what you wanted. This was a deal. If it is not kept, next time, I will not avoid your vitals.” I read it again, certain I must have misunderstood. But the words remain unchanged, glaring up at me from the screen. “Miles? What is it?” Evans leans forward, his brow furrowed.

Liana added emphasis to her question. "But you did steal it!" She looked at Liana and insisted stubbornly. "You took the design papers without giving any notice to either of us, so that constitutes stealing! You could have come to me personally to ask, but you didn't, instead, you stole it from me without telling me, so that's theft, there's no way around it. You may be leading the lab, but you are not above the rules here!" Liana smiled slightly, and she was losing patience with this kind of person who refused to argue using logic.

“Wait, is that the same thing from the locker room?” My fingers tightened slightly around my phone, but I forced myself to keep my expression steady as I straightened and stepped back just enough to create space between me and Sandra. “You’re done,” I said. She raised a brow, clearly amused. “With what?” “With this,” I replied. “With trying to drag me into whatever you think this is.” “I’m not dragging you into anything,” she said lightly. “I’m just showing people what you wrote.” “You took something that wasn’t yours and put it out there,” I said. “That’s not showing anything. That’s stealing.”

“W-What money?” “The sum of fifty million dollars, if you forgot, I can pull out the account book for you. Also, you claimed that she stole the company from him. Stealing means to take something from someone without their permission. But why is it that it was the company’s legal team that, by themselves, and with orders from Daniel, drafted the full transfer papers? If you want to blame someone for the disappearance of your son, look elsewhere.” Raees stands up and comes to stay by his side. “Moreover, he already passed by here today.”

she began, voice sharp as glass, “it seems my engagement to Steve Anderson has been—” She didn’t get the rest out. A ripple tore through the crowd as two reporters surged forward, cameras flashing, microphones shoved like daggers toward her. Behind them, a projection lit up one of the massive ballroom screens — a leak blasted into the open. It was her manuscript. Well, my manuscript. The words she had stolen claimed and claimed as her own. Now, line by line, side by side, the truth glared across the screen. Gasps, and whispers tore through every corner of the room, the perfect socialite mask she had worm so dearly began to fracture under the weight of stolen words.

She wrapped the healed burn on her neck with it. She talked to herself — not a prayer. > A vow. "They don't own my name." She looked around the room for a pen. She wrote two columns again — again precisely the same. What they stole. What I still possess. She wrote at the end What I'll recreate. And then, below that: Discover who stole the other $20,000. And silence shall be my ally. Leya may have been humiliated. But she is not victimized. Eleanor thinks her sin is in the rearview mirror.

She finally finds her words and she says, "so, what next? You're going to disappear and return in a fortnight and then we do this not sex thing again?" "I'll be seeing you soon. I told you I can't stay far from you." "You're obsessed with me. I should be worried but I am here, allowing you to sex me with your fingers. Just answer me this one question, please?" I oblige her with a nod of my head. "Why do you steal? Like you said earlier, it's a good deed and a bad deed that you do. You steal but you also reveal the atrocities of guys that the authorities can't ordinarily catch. But still, stealing is a bad game. You'll also have to do a lot of even worse things in the process. So, I am not go

The memory flooded back with crystal clarity, bringing with it a wave of humiliation and rage that threatened to overwhelm my carefully constructed facade. She was lying. I hadn't stolen her homework. I had written it. I had spent the entire night working on it, my eyes burning with exhaustion, my hand cramping from the effort, pouring in hours of work, only for Agatha to slap her name on it the next morning. And when I had protested, my voice shaking with indignation and hurt? She had cried, her eyes welling with perfectly timed tears. "She stole it from me! I worked so hard!" And they had believed her. Without question. Without a second thought.

Her smiles does not make me want to smile back. “I don’t want to do this anymore. Mama. Please.” I sound pathetic as I speak the pang of guilt filling me, I don’t want to steal anymore, I don’t want to lie, especially to Astrid. Doing this entire things make me sick. “Dear, it’s not called stealing if you are taking back what’s yours.” Her voice is sharp as she speaks. “They took what was ours; we are simply taking back what’s ours, besides. With this final masterpiece, our plan will work.”

I feel the cold, hard plastic of a pen I stole from the library yesterday. I look around. The hallway is empty. I hike up my skirt. The white silk bunches at my waist. I expose my thigh—pale, smooth skin that Ciro marked with bruises days ago. I uncap the pen. My hand shakes as I press the ballpoint to my flesh. V. The ink is cold. It scratches. I. It hurts, just a little. A pinch. N. I write the letters large, dark, permanent. C. E. R. E.