The Dark Wives: A Vera Stanhope Novel Novels & Stories

She doesn’t even flinch, as the full weight of her decision to accept the Emperor’s proposal falls on her shoulders. ‘The face mothers attribute to the death of their sons, name widows spit on when they remember their dead husbands’ She thinks of Latana and her mother, the look of hatred thrown her way by the grieving mother. ‘…You will be cursed, shamed, harassed because of the mark you will bear…’ She finally understands the meaning of his words, finally understand the mark he speaks of, it is not a physical mark, it was the title of being his wife, the woman on whose bosom he would rest his weary head after drenching himself in the blood of the innocent.

My latest try out of seven ladies, Stella, wasn’t the woman I was genuinely looking for, she was more of a straightforward, controlling and demanding type of lady which I quote in my words, a red-headed whore. I hated such women who loved to dominate a man like me, I liked to be dominating in and out of the bed while she seemed to be suppressing my ways. I could tame her into my will by using my ways of torture but I just didn’t desire her anymore, she wasn’t the one I was looking for despite her perfect body was a sheer-clear turn on but having sex with her wasn’t fun as with Jenna. Ah, that night.

A verbal blade sheathed in a single word. I nodded, as if that simple syllable shattered everything. He had history with her. Real history. Not a contract. Not a transaction. She was polished, powerful, perfectly suited to the gilded cages and silent wars of his world. She knew his habits, his moods—she’d said so herself. She was the benchmark. The original. And then there was me. The contract wife. A fake. The convenient illusion, the girl in the emerald dress playing dress-up in a world where she knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. A temporary stand-in for whatever perfection Serena Vance represented.

Brandon's management team, the bodyguards, and that arrogant property manager were all instantly pinned to the ground, crying and wailing. Cassie watched the dark gun barrels aimed at her and finally broke down completely. She screamed at me hysterically, "Arthur! You can't do this to me! I'm your wife! I was wrong! I was really wrong! Make them let me go! Please! Don't you love me? You've sacrificed so much for me. You can't be this heartless!" However, the only response she got was the soldiers coldly pulling her arms behind her back and binding them tightly with restraints. Her precious designer dress was pulled out of shape. Her carefully styled hair hung in disheveled tangles, making he

Clinthon slowly exhaled, his voice lowering. “Beth Hermenez…?” he whispered, his jaw tightening. “Beth Hermenez was my child’s nanny… the woman who betrayed me! Until now, she still hasn’t returned—along with my grandchild!” His gaze sharpened, piercing into Dark’s soul. “Ahmmmm! What does Beth have to do with your life?! And who are you to look for her here?!” Dark gathered his strength and forced himself to speak despite his trembling voice. “I… I am Dark Nathaniel Villamonte. I am the husband of Aling Beth’s daughter—”

She said to him, He never liked whenever she or anyone mentioned that she can't see and now after knowing the truth it's effective him even more harder than before. "How many times I have to make it clear to you, not to say all this?" He grabbed her elbow tightly and pulled her close to him getting angry at her. But it doesn't made her lower her voice. She was also very hurt because of his behaviour with her. "I'm not afraid of you, and with your random girlfriends. Let me make it very clear to you again Mr Rodriguez, I'm your wife…Claire Brandon Rodriguez, not some random girl…who can play with whenever you want your pleasure and wants to fulfill your desire….I'm not your mistress…." She wa

“I tell you, my wife takes care of every detail.” “Indeed,” Ethan murmured, his gaze still locked on her. The air in the room thickened, charged with an unspoken history. Emelia sat down on the edge of her chair, her skin prickling under Ethan’s watchful presence. For the first time, she wondered—not with fear, but with a dangerous thrill—if last night’s restless thoughts had summoned him here. The gate clicked and a light knock followed.

Esmé Hawthorne. Catherine Dupré. Annelise Morgan. Isadora Thorne. Five women. All Blackwell brides. My breath caught. They’d all vanished after marriage. Whispers of illness. Disappearances. Madness. But they hadn’t disappeared. They had been buried. Here. Together. Beneath our feet. I approached the nearest coffin, my hand brushing over the lid. The stone was rough and cold. A faint crescent moon glowed under the flashlight. And suddenly— Crrrk.

“No matter what I plan, no matter how hard I try, you just keep showing up and messing it all up. I thought you were gone for good and here you are again like some stupid ghost that will not die.” Isabel pushed herself back on the bed, her good hand gripping the blanket. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in? Isaac locked the door. He said no one was supposed to come in.” Vera laughed but it sounded crazy. She walked closer until she was standing right in front of Isabel. “Whether you like it or not I am still Isaac’s legal wife. This is my house. This is my son’s home. Hugo belongs here. You do not. You never did. You are just the mistake he made because he felt sorry for you.”

Whether it recognized where it came from. Whether things built from dark water understood dark water when they felt it in the air. She did not slow down. Vera was visible from the edge of the clearing. A small woman — smaller than Danielle had expected from Rodrigo's description, though she understood immediately that size was entirely irrelevant to what Vera was. Eighty-one years old. Silver-haired. Standing at the far edge of the pool's stone rim with her hands at her sides and her feet planted and her face arranged into an expression that contained no fear whatsoever. Not the performed fearlessness of someone managing terror. The actual thing. The specific calm of someone who had stood at