Sylvia Frasher Novels & Stories

Marissa yelled and rudely shoved Sylvia aside. "Don't touch my mom!" Frederick said angrily. Then, an older woman with heavy makeup stood up, laughing mockingly. "Sylvia, my daughter is a treasure. Does your son even deserve her? Had it not been for your pleading, do you think I would have let her come on this date? You've shown no real sincerity!" The woman was Marissa's mother, Lucy Zeller. She was arrogant, and her eyes were filled with disdain as she looked at Sylvia and Frederick.

That’s all that’s in his head. “Oh, sorry, please come in.” Mrs Smith called in a beautiful and gorgeous red-haired girl to the class, she’s tall like a model and has the stunning look of an Angel. “Ohhh she’s cute.” My wolf complimented this girl, he never does that, not even once, not even Ainsley, so what makes her different? “Everyone, this is Justin Reyes, she just transferred here. I expect everyone to be welcoming and nice to her. Kingsley, stay away from her.”

Chapter 11 – Silas The low hum of voices filled the dining room, but I barely heard them. My mind was elsewhere—still stuck on the girl sitting beside me. Hyacinth Clausen. It felt like a cruel twist of fate. The fiery woman I couldn’t forget, whose defiance had ignited something primal in me, was now... my stepsister? The thought gnawed at me. I tightened my grip on my fork, as if the pressure could drive the thought out of my mind. It felt wrong, unnatural, like some sick joke played by the gods to remind me of my sins.

“But where’s the fun in killing you now? No... I want you to suffer first. Slowly.” My stomach clenched, but I didn’t let her see my fear. “You’re stalling because you’re afraid of Clinton,” I said, hoping to strike a nerve. Seraphina froze, her expression faltering for the briefest moment before the smirk returned. “Afraid? Of him?” She laughed, though it sounded forced. “He’s nothing. A puppet, just like you.” Her denial only confirmed what I suspected. She was terrified of him. “I think you know he’s coming for me,” I said, my voice low but sure. “And when he does, you’re the one who’ll suffer.”

Sylvia was a PhD student who joined Linus's Advanced Spatial Analysis seminar in Cambridge in the autumn term. She was from Switzerland and specialised in landscape archaeology. I first met her in Linus's office. I had gone in to drop off some documents and, when I knocked and entered, she was standing by his whiteboard, which was covered in complex spatial autocorrelation models. She turned around, her short blonde hair neat, her blue eyes sharp behind her glasses. She gave me a quick, assessing look, then smiled.