The Picture Of Dorian Gray Novels & Stories

Erica insisted this dress had to make an appearance on Spanish streets, but the garden would do. Someone obviously forgot to pack my hair straightener so curly hair it is. I went downstairs and before heading out I took a look at the living room, the walls were full of diplomas for Alessandro and Andrea Benavente. Alongside many pictures of Alessandro riding horses, fencing, and even playing chess. It did look like what I imagined the rich kid growing up would be. Over the fireplace was a painting of Alessandro, next to him people I assume were his parents and his sister. Seeing how my stomach started protesting I decided to find Alessandro, he was having breakfast by the pool a table set un

Dorian cannot turn away what he has done to people. My heart thrashes with expectation as a black luxury vehicle pulls up across the street. Dorian leaves, dressed in a black suit, his face incomprehensible—but I know him too well. His shoulders are too stiff, his motions too exact. He is already on tight alert. Superior. I watch him cross the street, but another man walks up to Bianca's table just before he gets to the door. Short. Blonde. Beautiful in a playboy type of manner. He stooping down whispers something in her ear. Bianca puts her hand on his knee and smiles—a seductive, private smile. Perfect on cue. As Dorian stands still staring at them, I can almost feel his wrath. Then he bur

She turned to Dorian but the man just stood still, staring blankly,his eyes looked distant,same look he had earlier when he was looking at that wolf back at the farmhouse,was he thinking? Few seconds after,a man,dressed in all black, approached them, raising something in his hand, Penelope almost let out a low gasp when she saw the bundle of cash in his hand. Gesturing with his brow,Dorian ordered for him to place the money against the counter and he did so, leaving afterwards. "Will that do?" He asked an oblivious question knowing fully well he was giving well over much more than what the seller asked for. "Take everything,anyone you want"

I received a half-naked photo of someone in a bath sent by that rogue, with the caption: "Ms. Sinclair, my chest hurts. Can you help me check it out?" I couldn't help the small smirk tugging at my lips. Sebastian happened to turn his head and caught sight of it. His face darkened. "Who are you talking to that's making you smile like that? Let me see your phone." He was already marching over, ready to interrogate me. But before he could reach me, Roxanne leaned over the railing from the second floor and said playfully, "Mr. Chesson, I'm hungry. Why don't we go out to eat?"

“The signal isn’t external. It’s coming from inside your system.” Dorian’s jaw tensed. “How deep?” “Deep enough.” A pause. “Someone with your biometric level or close to it.” He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned slowly toward the polished side table near the glass wall. A photo frame sat there. A rare thing in Dorian Blackthorn’s world. An image of him and Isolde, heads tilted in toward each other, their smiles faint and stolen. That moment had never been posed. Penelope had captured it during one of the quieter nights in the Archive suite.

She took it without hurry, sliding a finger under the flap and tearing it open with calm precision. Inside was a glossy photograph. Her eyes fell on it at once. Dorian and Selene. They stood at some gala, Selene draped in a glittering silver gown that shimmered under the lights, Dorian in a tailored suit beside her. Their hands were linked, their smiles wide, their bodies leaning in, caught as though in a moment of perfect harmony. James’s jaw tightened, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Cruel,” he muttered quietly. Leona held the photograph between her fingers, her expression unreadable. The light from the chandelier above caught the gloss, making Selene’s silver dress sparkle even more.

He brings his mouth down on mine, and my body comes alive as he touches me, running his fingers up my back until he finds my bra and deftly unhooks it. "There were no actual pricks in that exhibit," I say, laughing. "Well, until you showed up." Dorian smacks my bare ass. "So witty." "Are you going to let me see it?" I ask. "I'm definitely going to let you see it," he says, unbuckling his pants. "That too," I say. "Go open it." I tear the paper from the package like a kid on Christmas morning, and look at the photo. "Oh my God."

The study was exactly what Selene expected: dark wood, bookshelves, a massive desk covered in papers and maps, and an overall aesthetic of “brooding male who makes questionable life choices.” Dorian stood by the window, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. He’d clearly showered and changed his hair was still damp, and he wore a simple black shirt and pants that somehow looked both casual and stupidly expensive. “You wanted to see me,” Selene said, refusing to be intimidated by the whole dark and mysterious routine. “Close the door.”

“Summarize the central conflict in three sentences. No more.” Lennon’s brain scrambled. He’d read the book twice this weekend, mostly to distract himself from thinking about this exact moment. “Dorian Gray is granted eternal youth while his portrait ages and bears the marks of his sins. He descends into moral corruption, indulging every vice without consequence to his appearance. The tension lies in whether he can escape the consequences of his actions or if the portrait will ultimately destroy him.” Damien nodded once. “Adequate. Now tell me why Wilde makes the portrait the repository of sin instead of Dorian’s body.”

everything. But when I pushed open the heavy oak door, the scent wasn't lavender. It was smoke. I choked for my own breath, my heart pounding so hard. What in the world was going on? Who could have done this? Scanning around, I saw a small, blackened pile lying in the centre of the floor. My sketches, the ones I’d drawn before I met Roman, were curled into grey ash. My degree was a charred remains of parchment. And the lavender? It was scattered, crushed into the floorboards by a heavy, deliberate boot.