The One With The Fake Monica Mga Nobela at Kwento

"Is the fake data ready?" "Almost." "Finish it." He smirked, the expression dangerous and beautiful. "Let's give Monica exactly what she wants. Enough rope to hang herself." I turned back to the laptop, my heart pounding. Monica wanted a war? Fine. We just gave her a loaded gun. She just didn't know it was pointed at her own head.

Third Person’s POV Frenzo Montever is an American bachelor, he became a famously known billionaire by the age of 25. He is the type of man that every woman will fall for. He refused to think about being in a relationship with women because he thinks that they will just give him nothing but headaches. But his life perception about love and women instantly changed the moment he saw Shane.

He turned and walked out of the cafeteria, and nobody laughed, nobody filmed it, the entire room holding the particular stunned stillness of an audience that had wanted entertainment and gotten something they weren't prepared for instead. Ava stood exactly where she was. Sofia appeared at her side. "Ava." "I know." "That didn't look like winning." "I know, Sofia." She did not eat lunch. She sat at her usual table with her tray untouched and the recording still sitting on her own profile with its climbing view count, a number that had felt like vindication that morning and now sat in her stomach like something she had swallowed wrong. Her phone buzzed. She looked down, expecting Mia or Sofia

My silence was deafening. Just as I was getting ready to cook up a trashy soap-opera plot about the real and fake heiresses being swapped at birth, with me spending twenty years lost among the commoners before finally being found. Julian leaned back into the driver's seat. "Relax. I'm not planning to expose you just yet." A wicked smile curled at his lips. "Since Cassandra wants to pull a vanishing act, I'll play along." "But you..." He looked me up and down.

I want him to keep spiralling while I go through the chaos he made me start. My phone buzzes again. Zain: If you don’t fix this, I will. Don’t test me. Ah. There he is. The real Zain. I take a breath, and I block him. As much as I’d enjoy him making a fool of himself, I think I love my peace more. I can’t resist the urge to check the news. The Montclair Watchdog, naturally, was the first to go for the jugular: BREAKING: Montclair Heiress Stuns With Secret Fiancé Reveal. Billionaire Dante Moreau Finally Off the Market?

She smiled and joked. Packing some food into her pocket just to add to the drama, she heard a man barking from behind her, "You again! You are going nowhere this time." Monica faked fear, although she gave no effort to escape. The man was with other men, who were also with other men. Heavens! The man kept on barking, "Grab her! We are taking her to the Duke! This has gone too far."

“You’re not mine. Even if I pretend that you are. Your heart never belong to me. I have been lying to myself for too long.” A flash went off to their right. The girl with the phone was still recording, whispering excitedly to the guy next to her. “Is that—?” “It’s her. The comeback model—Monica Banks. Holy sh*t, she just slapped that guy. This is going viral.” Monica’s stomach dropped. She turned just in time to catch another person lifting their phone. The name "Mo’s Fashion Empire" was already being murmured under breaths, mingling with phrases like “wasn’t she married to Liam?” and “isn’t that the designer guy?”

Monica shook hands with Baron Smit who extended his hand towards her. Then the man grabbed the waist of the young woman next to him. “She is my new wife. Ivy Moore Smith.” "Hello Mrs. Smith, nice to meet you.” Ivy Moore reached out and took Monica's handshake. The two of them pretend to put a sweet face mask on each other. A personal displeasure had developed between them because Monica felt that Ivy was just a bitch who had managed to hook up with a rich man. Meanwhile, Ivy doesn't like Monica because her style is too arrogant. And she had heard about the news, that Monica and her family faked her own son's death.

She believes I killed her sister, and according to her, she has proof. ‘So you let her blackmail you, even when you know the proof is probably fake?’ I asked him. ‘I try not to see it that way,’ he answered. ‘She’s the sister of someone I used to love. That’s a different bonding altogether.’ ‘And what did she mean by a cheap photocopy?’ I asked, recalling that Stan had also said I looked exactly like the girl he had buried ‘Maya’s just crazy,’ he shrugged. ‘She’s had so much to drink. I could smell the alcohol all over her.’

Music goes off and everyone looks around. "Attention here!" I grunt, rolling my ruddy eyes around. Monica is still gazing at me. "There has been a fucking staged show. I directed that show. But it was re-scripted by Miss Monica Warner," I seethe at her. "Yes, Miss Monica Warner, not Mrs Kane Gabriel. This woman is not my wife. And all those fucking wedding pictures are fake" Silence emerges all around as all the eyes dart toward me.