روايات وقصص ضمن The Mystery Guest Nita Prose

She looked around the hall for the man who caused her to blush, and when she didn’t see him, she sighed in relief. “We’re leaving now.” She didn’t want Nick seeing her with Nate and guessing anything. Nate was only her son. “Why, mummy? Are you sick?” Nate eyes were filled with concern. “Are you sick, Nita? You look red.” Jimmy also added. “I’m not sick, I am just tired.” She feigned a yawn that they both seemed to believe. “Then let’s go home, mummy.” Some of the guests who had seen Nick with Nate stared at Nita when she was taking the little boy out. The questions on their lips were, ‘Who is this woman?’

He closed the door and sighed hoping it was not what he was thinking "How is your wife?" "Ehm.. My wife is OK" Jude squeezed his brow in confusion wishing she would just head to the dam point " What's wrong Betty?" "What did you put in my drink?" Betty stared at her nails as she flattered it's shiny tips "They are beautiful, when did you fix them" Jude felt he needed to change the subject "Ohh, my nails.. Thanks, I fixed them this morning, I know they would be very useful" "OK" "So.. You left my question hanging" Betty said

Leona grinned with a wink at me as she took a silver platter. I said nothing. Those conversations make me curl up like a hedgehog. /We want a gentleman/ Nina murmured /no games, no tricks, just love./ My ears were hopelessly trained to pick up any snippets about Cillian. Everything seemed to go well, but I remained tense all day anyway. /He will be okay, we don’t need to worry/ Nina said possibly a thousand times. Stuck in the busy, hot kitchen producing dozens of tiny rolls and desserts for the guests I was starving on crumbs of gossip.

Before she could say more, the host approached, his excitement palpable. “Well, well! The mysterious guest we are all expecting is none other than Ms. Ceres herself!” he announced, his grin wide. “What an incredible surprise!” I maintained my composure and went to shake hands with the group politely. One of the women, however, merely scoffed, wrinkled her nose in disdain, and turned her head away. Things were a little awkward for a while. The host, sensing the unease, jumped in quickly. "Alice's supper is still on fire…” he joked with forced cheer, steering attention away from the interaction.

He explained each element like we were at a Michelin-starred restaurant, then disappeared back to the kitchen. We ate in relative quiet at first. The food was flawless, as expected. Nina took small, careful bites, like she was still deciding whether this was real. After the second course—roasted duck with cherry gastrique—she finally spoke. “You didn’t have to do this,” she said, setting her fork down. “I would’ve eaten whatever was in the fridge.” “I wanted to.” I leaned back, studying her. “And I needed someone honest. Most people tell me what they think I want to hear.”

"You're Elena? Giselle's broke roommate?" Her shrill voice cut through the air like a knife. I didn't say a word. I just met her glare with a cold, steady look. "Answer me! Is it you? Did you get so jealous of Giselle that you tricked her and put her in danger?" She lunged at me like she wanted to tear me apart with her bare hands. "Mrs. Murdoch! Please calm down!" Professor Mann and another administrator rushed over to hold her back. "I can't calm down! You said it yourself—the ticket was booked under her name! She booked it, didn't go, and my daughter and the other two disappeared! There's no way that's a coincidence! It has to be you! You vicious, heartless monster!"

Mia fussed with my hair one last time. “Remember,” she says, “you don’t owe them neat arcs. You owe yourself honesty.” “I thought I owed your ulcer more caution,” I say. She snorts. “It’s already blown,” she says. “Go nuclear.” She steps back. Dante stands a few feet away, talking to Vittorio and the show’s host—a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a disarming smile. Claudia Russo. She’s done hard interviews before. Politicians. Businessmen. People who like to think they can out‑talk her.

The scent of expensive jasmine tea drifted through the air, completely at odds with the violence currently tearing my world apart. There she sat, looking entirely unbothered, her posture perfect as she held a delicate porcelain teacup. But she wasn't alone. Across from her sat another woman, laughing softly at something my mother had just said. As the sound of my footsteps cut through their conversation, both women turned their heads toward the doorway. The moment my eyes landed on the guest, a sharp, dark suspicion locked into place. It was Lindsay. The daughter of Professor Morris.

Still, by the time Natalia appeared and told her it was time to retire to her room, her arms ached and her stomach was a hollow pit. She sat on the narrow bed and picked up a small book Natalia had lent her the night before—an old, worn copy of Wuthering Heights. Ryleigh flipped through it, trying to lose herself in the words, but her mind kept drifting back to the main hall. Who was this guest? Why did it matter so much? And why had she been so pointedly hidden away? She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling as thoughts spiraled. Maybe it was some council official. A wealthy ally. Or… someone even more dangerous.

When the first guest arrived, I was already standing at the center of the room. It wasn’t a grand entrance. No music. No staged lighting. Just quiet, as though the walls themselves were waiting to listen. They came in slowly. One by one. Industry editors, private stylists, a pair of international buyers with known discretion. A woman from the Muse Quarterly whose reputation for fairness was both rare and feared. No one reached for champagne. No one asked questions right away. They sat. They waited. And I spoke. “I’ve invited you here,” I began, “not to reclaim something. But to show you what was never lost.”