The Marlow Novels & Stories

This was a reality he absolutely could not accept. "Impossible! Isabella can't marry someone else! She's my woman!" Enrico violently swept the documents off his desk. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression crazed. He could not accept that the woman he treasured was about to fall into another man's arms, or that he had lost so much because of a lie. From that day on, Enrico abandoned all the dignity of a mafia Don and began camping outside the Moretti family estate every single day. He wore the black trench coat I used to love, clutching a large bouquet of red roses. Ignoring the guards trying to block him, he shouted my name at the top of his lungs.

One of the windows was cracked just slightly, letting in the smell of wet earth and a low hiss of wind. I crossed to the window and rested my hands on the sill. My reflection stared back at me, pale and tired-looking, hair falling loose over my sweater. I didn’t hear him at first. “You really ought to stop wandering around alone.” I flinched and spun around. Marco stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled, his collar unbuttoned just enough to seem relaxed. His hair was slightly out of place, as though he’d run his fingers through it more than once.

On Titus’s screen a new thread was unspooling. In Marlowe’s notes a new document was open, title still blank. She started typing. THE END.

“You told me he wouldn’t make it!” He lashed out at everyone—men, women, even Pete, his right-hand man. Bruised and humiliated, they said nothing, used to his volatile rages. Marlowe stormed out of the company that afternoon, his anger blinding. As he pulled out of the parking lot, a deafening honk snapped his attention— BANG! A truck rammed into his car from the side. Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Everything went dark. When he awoke in the hospital, pain wracked his body. He tried to sit up—but nothing below his waist moved.

"Aria, I don't want you to die. Please..." Her crying made my chest ache. My previously resigned acceptance began to waver. But what choice did I have? "Violet, marrying the river god is the fate of every woman in our village. There's no escaping it." Our village was called Riverbend, built along the water's edge. Legend said an ancient river god dwelled in its depths. To ensure good weather and abundant harvests, every 15th of the month, the village selected a young woman, dressed her in red, and sent her into the river to consummate a union with the god. The village called this the offering.

I'd deal with everything tomorrow. Tonight I just needed to survive. The first night as Mrs. Marlowe. The first night of three years. The first night of my beautiful cage.

Marrow stood near the long glass table with his back turned toward the entrance, his tall silhouette framed by the enormous windows overlooking the city lights. He did not look surprised when the doors closed behind Lysander and Adrian. In fact, he did not even turn around immediately. Instead he finished pouring a glass of dark wine from a crystal decanter resting on the table, swirling it gently before lifting the glass toward the skyline as though admiring a painting. “You are punctual,” he said calmly. Only then did he turn to face them. The faint smile resting on his lips carried the unsettling calm of a man who had already played several moves ahead in a game no one else fully underst

Marlow pleaded, "She's already gone insane! If you come back with me, I'll make her disappear for good, then we can get married! I was wrong. Believe me, I can't live without you." A trace of emotion finally appeared on Ameera's face, but it was utter disgust. "Marlow, you disgust me." Disgust? Marlow staggered two steps back as if he had been shot in the heart. He was having trouble catching his breath. Ameera had called him disgusting. Tears fell uncontrollably. He looked at Ameera, whose figure had become blurry from his tears, and tried to speak, but no sound would escape his lips.

Dawn came slowly, dragging gray light across a forest that reeked of ash and blood. The fires from the caravan still smoldered, a black scar through the valley. Wolves moved quietly, shoulders heavy, voices muted as though speaking too loudly might tear open wounds they weren’t ready to face. At the center of it all, Marrow’s body lay wrapped in dark cloth, guarded by two warriors who had once trained under him. His absence was already a chasm no one dared to measure.

Marlow, a renowned figure in Isonbert. The Marlows’ heiress, Felicity, was the one the Marlows had arranged to receive them.