Novelas y relatos de The Grapes Of Wrath Novel

The sharp crash of glass against marble shattered the silence. Deep red wine splattered across the pristine floor, seeping into the cracks like spilled blood. Sarah Winters stood frozen at the doorway, the taste of bile rising in her throat. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. James, the man she had spent six years loving, was in bed with her best friend. Chloe. Together. The scene was like something out of a twisted nightmare, one she couldn't wake up from. The silk sheets tangled around their bodies, Chloe’s hair spilling across the pillows, James’s bare torso exposed as he turned toward her, an unreadable expression o

Preston shot Tara some looks, but she was too busy crying to notice his hints. "Preston Whitmore, what do you plan to do with your wife after she beat me up today?" Steeling himself, he grabbed Tara by the hair and lifted her up from the floor. He mercilessly slapped her while scolding her. "You should not have offended Jeanine, you stupid woman! This will teach you a lesson!" Tara's cheeks became swollen. Confused and terrified at Preston, who had never been this angry before, she cried and pleaded for mercy. However, Preston did not go easy on her. He stole glances at me while I enjoyed their little fight. I finally called for a stop when Tara's face was swollen beyond recognition.

The glass walls of Rodriguez Enterprises pierce the morning sky like shards of ice, reflecting the chaos of the past week in their pristine surface. From my desk on the top floor, I watch a cleaning crew meticulously scrub away the last traces of police evidence tape from the conference room doors. Their movements are mechanical, practiced—as if erasing the remnants of Friday's violent confrontation is just another mundane task. But some marks can't be wiped clean, like the devastating truth about my mother's past with the Rodriguez empire or the way Alex's hands still tremble slightly when he reaches for his coffee.

I bite down on my lip until I taste blood, until the pain grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of whatever madness is clawing at the edges of my mind. You're not his, I remind myself. You were never his. The bond is severed. He chose her. He married her. He— He bared his fangs at her. Because she was coming for me. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my palms against the floor. The straw scratches my skin. The cold seeps into my bones. Every bruise on my body throbs in rhythm with my heartbeat, a cruel, persistent drum that reminds me I'm still alive. Still here.

Impatiently, he said, "You rifled the closet? How dare you, Wisteria! I told you, Yvonne's stuff is off-limits! Change out of that gown and get back in the kitchen! You're an eyesore!" I scanned the fence-sitters. The ones who spewed nonsense. Then, I stared at Jackie. So I wasn't even worth being recognized by him. I was nothing but a mad housekeeper he could insult at his fancy. One of his old projects caught on fire and killed dozens of people. The army of the bereaved surrounded his company 24/7, demanding blood for blood. I used my family's power to keep the crisis at bay and even suffered a knife wound that was meant for him.

The vineyard’s familiar rows of grapes stretched out, the smell of earth hitting me hard. Memories flooded back to me. Memories of me running through these fields, helping my dad pick grapes. But now it felt wrong, poisoned by Dante’s control. “Why give it back just to ruin it?” I thought, my rage growing. I walked the grounds, my hands brushing the vines, but my eyes caught crates stacked in a shed, marked as wine but too heavy—cocaine inside, I knew it. Nearby, barrels stood, too bulky for grapes—guns, Dante had said. My stomach churned when I heard faint cries from a locked barn. I peeked through a crack and saw women, young and scared, their hands tied, eyes wide with fear. One coughed h

The storm inside Antonio boiled over—the best part was that he wasn’t facing it alone. “You want to burn them all—Brother?” Grinch asked. “Start the match—I’ll hold the gasoline.” Antonio’s jaw clenched. He picked up the whiskey bottle, stared into it, like it was a booster, then downed it in one harsh pull. Grinch didn’t leave. They stood there—two men carved from trauma, bound by promise and memory—watching the night for signs of war. ‿‿⁠‿‿‿‿⁠‿‿‿

Candles that glistened with red light were arranged at the corner of the bathtub casting a subtle glow over the petals in the heated water. Pulling off my bra and my panties, I stepped into the tub, letting the heated water engulf my body. The heat was nothing compared to the anger surging in my veins. I guess it was time. Time to make everyone see her for who she really was, the spineless, low peasant. And of course, it's going to be an hell of a ride. “Grapes!” I ordered opening my lips as I a maid fed me some red grapes. The sickeningly sweet taste of the grapes spread on my tongue as I pierced the grape.

It felt like someone grabbed my heart and squeezed. The suffocating pain made my vision blur black at the edges. "Ginny! Daddy's here! Wake up!" I screamed until my throat tore, snatching up a brick from the ground and slamming it against the driver-side window. A loud crack split the air. Spider web fractures spread across the glass. The moment she saw me smashing the window, Shanon's shrill voice pierced the air. "Leomund! Have you lost your mind?"

The snow fell light outside. I was Killian Wolfe. Warborn. Alpha. No one questioned or disobeyed me but she did. She didn’t cry when I rejected her. She didn’t beg. She looked at me like I was nothing. I turned away from the window and reached for the glass of wine on the table, I downed it in one goal. The burn in my throat didn’t help. I gripped the glass harder and it cracked. I needed to bury her. Not her body. The memory.