The Rain Netflix Novels & Stories

During the holidays, my boss wants us to choose between a holiday bonus and tarts. I don't like tarts at all, so I'm the first one to vote for a bonus. But the intern, Davin Holt, who's in charge of gathering everyone's votes and opinions, is quick to pin me on the hall of shame in the company's group chat. "Fabian, we mainly celebrate the holidays just to experience the atmosphere, you know? Isn't it too materialistic of you to vote for a bonus instead?" The department head tags me in the group chat as well. "Fabian, our company prioritizes the team spirit even more." In the end, everyone except me chooses the tarts. On the day of our holiday team bonding event, Davin bought everyone nut tarts. He knows that I'm allergic to nuts, and yet he still forces me to eat the tart in front of my boss just to show that I have team spirit. "Fabian, I bought the tarts with everyone's bonus. You can't just rain on our parade by rejecting them, right?" The next thing I know, I begin having difficulties breathing. At the same time, patches of red rashes break out on my skin. But Davin shoots me a look of disgust. "Dude, must you really spoil the mood while everyone else is having fun?" Desperately, I rummage through my bag for my allergy medication, only to see more tarts in its place. The sight of me looking so wretched makes Davin roar in laughter. "Medicine can be harmful to you, you know! You should have more desserts instead! That's why I've changed all of your medication to tarts!" Already, I find it more and more difficult to breathe. So, I text the CEO of this company on the spot. "Mom, my allergy is acting up! I'm at…"

Thor and I grew up together—we were the definition of childhood sweethearts. We'd promised to attend the same university, graduate, and marry right after senior year. Everyone envied us. They said we were a perfect match, destined for a lifetime together. And I believed that too. I truly thought I'd spend the rest of my life with him. Until the final semester of our senior year in high school, when a new transfer student named Lina joined our class. At first, the two barely spoke. But as they grew familiar, their bond deepened in ways I could no longer ignore. He started staying after school to tutor her, bringing her breakfast every morning. When she was upset, he'd take her for a drive along the coast. If she craved Italian steak, he'd have fresh cuts flown in. Even during her period, he'd quietly prepare everything she needed. I was furious. I confronted him, argued with him, and even threatened to break up. The first time I said it, he thought I was joking and coaxed me out of my anger. The second time, he dismissed it as another tantrum and tried different ways to please me. The third time, he broke down—standing outside my house in the pouring rain all night, half kneeling before me, begging for forgiveness. Again and again, I tried to leave, and every time, he refused to let me go. Yet with each reconciliation, something in him shifted. He started taking me for granted, assuming I would always come back. His patience wore thin. His apologies turned perfunctory. Even when he came to make peace, there was no sincerity left in his voice. So I said it for the hundredth time, and that was the last. That was the moment I finally gave up on him.

There was an unspoken rule in high society. When families arranged marriages, the woman chose her partner through an auction. I had chased Zayn Farrell since I was young. At the auction, I did not hesitate. I bid at the highest tier and chose him. Not long after our engagement, my parents died in a car accident, and my family fell from power. I thought Zayn would take the chance and leave me, but he still married me. He doted on me and turned me into the woman everyone in Ravenwood envied. I believed I had moved his heart, until his first love, Yara Xavier, returned. The first time I met Yara, she brought her luggage into the Farrell family villa. Soon after, someone threw all her belongings out. The servants later said I had ordered it. I tried to explain, but Zayn did not believe me. He locked me outside and made me kneel in the rain for the whole night. The second time, Yara tripped and fell down a steep slope. She said I had pushed her. Zayn lost his temper and punished me. He made me climb a rough mountain path in high heels. He did not stop until he saw that I was covered in blood. My legs were bruised and swollen. The third time, I found out the truth by accident. My parents died because Yara found out about my engagement to Zayn and had orchestrated it. Zayn married me to keep me close so he could watch me and make sure Yara would never go to prison. My world collapsed. On the day I finally got the evidence and went to the police, Zayn drove his car into me and killed me. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the auction. It was the day I chose my fiance.

His fingers slid into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back and expose my throat to him. “We shouldn’t be doing this, Mr. Turner,” I breathed, my voice breaking on a gasp as he found a sensitive spot just beneath my ear and sucked lightly. His growl was low and primal, vibrating through my skin as he pressed his body against mine. I felt every hard line of him, his heat bleeding through my clothes. “Why not?” he murmured, his voice rough with restrained need. I swallowed hard. “You’re… you’re my ex-fiancé’s father.” He paused. For a moment, everything stilled… his breath against my throat, the air between us, even the rain outside seemed to hesitate. Then he lifted his head, and our eyes locked. His were a stormy blue, intense and unwavering. “No one has to know, Catherine,” he said quietly, his voice was like a dark promise wrapped in silk. Then he leaned in with his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I can be your dirty secret.” A shiver ripped down my spine. His words settled deep in my gut, awakening something dangerous. I bit my lip. Every cell in my body screamed for me to walk away but I didn’t. Instead, I gripped the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him hard. Desperately. He rumbled low in his chest, kissing me back with equal hunger, his hands roaming my body like he already knew every curve. When he finally broke the kiss, I was breathless. Then he dropped to his knees between my legs, with his eyes darker now. “I’m going to show you the world,” he said. “If you’d let me.”

“Easy baby, let me show you how it's done.” I flipped him onto his back and settled between his thighs. His eyes widened, that pretty blush spreading down his neck as I pushed back inside him. “Ahh… go slow,” His head fell back into the pillow, his fingers clutching my chest. I rolled my hips in smooth strokes, letting him feel every inch. Calix arched his back, soft moans spilling from his lips. “You like that?” “It feels so good…” He breathed, “Slower… please,” He begged. I slowed down immediately, watching him squirm beneath me. Then his hands grabbed my waist, pulling me harder against him. “Faster,” He pleaded. “Noah, faster—” *** *** *** “I will tell your father you’re a disgusting faggot!” Caught chest-to-chest with Calix Sinclair on his bed, Noah Kensington’s fiancée threatened to ruin him… forcing Noah to chase Calix out into the pouring rain in the middle of the night. Now engaged to Ariana, Noah still can’t stay away. He sends Calix a text, demanding they meet. And what happens next is the same dangerous game all over again— heated touches, desperate kisses, and raw need. And just like before, Noah betrays him the second his fiancée appears. Calix Sinclair is the captain of Northcott University’s hockey team, but when the rink is sold and his scholarship is pulled, he is forced to make a deal with the one man he hates the most: move into Noah’s luxurious estate, become his private training partner, and belong to the Ice King for six months. But behind closed doors, their rivalry explodes into a dark, addictive obsession. Calix swears he’s straight. He swears he hates Noah Kensington. So why does he keep letting the man who destroys him come back for more?

I had just climbed into the armored SUV leaving the Moretti estate when the gatekeeper hurried after me with a black encrypted phone in his hand. "Mrs. Westmore, Don Moretti asked me to give you this." I took it. One unread message glowed on the screen. [Selena only had a scare. I'll come home tomorrow. Don't overthink it.] I stared at it for two seconds, popped out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the rain outside the window. The next day, I had just reached the abandoned shipyard in North Harbor when encrypted messages started hitting my backup phone one after another. [Vivian, where are you?] [Why aren't you home? Where the hell did you go this late?] [Answer me. Don't make me send men all over the city looking for you.] The last one was exactly his style: soft on the surface, arrogant underneath. [Your family survives under my protection. Don't test my patience.] I didn't answer. After countless messages sank without a reply, my husband finally drove to the old Westmore grounds at North Harbor. He knew that if anything was left of my family, I would be there. But when Damon pushed through the broken iron gate, he found no guards, no household staff, and no Westmore men waiting for orders. The old house stood hollow in the rain. Its windows were blown out, the front steps were black with soot, and the air still carried the bitter smell of smoke and gunpowder. Damon grabbed a passing harbor guard by the sleeve. "Where are the Westmores?" The guard looked at him as if he should already know. "Gone. The family was hit two nights ago. Whoever came for them knew exactly when Moretti protection would be pulled from the harbor." "Miss Westmore came back before dawn," the guard added. "She took the black-gold signet, a few boxes of ledgers, and whatever papers survived the fire." "After that, she left. And no one has seen her since."

How long does it take to give up on a man you've loved for ten years? It takes me 3 seconds. The first second, I signed my name on the contract to become the chief designer of a renowned studio in Paris. The second second, I lock away ten years of my youth in my heart. The third second, I completely prepare to leave Levi's world. My fiancé Levi is the heir of the Smith Group, the absolute aristocracy. For others, he is untouchable. But for me, he's the childhood sweetheart who, with a crooked paper ring he made himself for the first time in his hand, told me, "You're the only girl I'll ever marry, even if I have to wait a hundred years." From that moment on, the only person I wanted to marry was Levi, and I never doubted that I would eventually marry Levi. But on the day of our engagement, he disappeared. I waited for a whole year, waiting for a message, a phone call, or a knock on the door, but nothing came. Later, he finally appeared. He stood next to a red Ferrari, holding flowers, and said that he still loved me, that he wasn't ready before, and begged me to give him another chance. I almost believed him. But at the same time, I received a provocative message from Levi's first love, Ruby: [Aren't you curious where he went during the time he eloped from your engagement? I'm already pregnant with Levi's child, and he loves kissing my pregnant belly the most.] I wiped away my tears, turned around, and applied to study in the Sorbonne University Faculty of Medicine, leaving only one sentence: "Levi, we're breaking up." Learning that I was leaving, Levi went crazy. He braved the heavy rain and blocked the entrance to my new place, his eyes red, asking me: "Stella, if I make Ruby abort the child, can you come back to me?"

Brian Stanton was the definition of a textbook husband in everyone's eyes. He left work on time every single day, rain or shine, and whenever he traveled for business, his video calls arrived like clockwork to report his whereabouts. If a dinner involved even a single female colleague, he would call me first to ask for my explicit permission. Even the honey-ginger tea he prepared for me during my periods had never skipped a single month in half a decade. Yet, the better he treated me, the more it felt like I was serving a life sentence. Five years ago, his assistant had shown up at our wedding, her heavily pregnant belly protruding as she begged me to let them be together. Brian had violently dragged her away. When he finally returned, he was covered in blood, collapsing before me and trembling. "Honey, I was wrong. I've taken care of her. She won't ever show up again." He hadn't slipped up once since then. In fact, he had been so flawless and so completely beyond reproach that I thought it was finally time to forgive him. I went to his company, hoping to ask him out for lunch. But a child's voice drifted out from inside his office. "Dad, it's Mom's birthday today. Let's go home and celebrate with her." "Okay." In the next instant, my phone screen lit up with an incoming message. [Honey, I'm working late tonight. Will be home later.] Peering through the narrow crack in the door, I looked at the father and son, who looked as if they had been cast from the same mold. All at once, I flashed back to the moment when his assistant begged me, her belly so massive she was on the absolute verge of giving birth. The pregnancy test result I had been clutching so tightly in my hand slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor.

My cousin, Sonia Sanders, only trusts OmniGo Maps, or OmniGo, for everything. While waiting for the bus during a trip, the bus that we are supposed to get on pulls into the station. However, Sonia grabs my arm and says, "Amanda, OmniGo says that our bus is only arriving in another ten minutes. This is not our bus!" I watch helplessly as the bus pulls out of the station, ultimately making me miss my flight and forcing me to pay double the price for another ticket back home. Once, after work, Sonia sees the green arrow on OmniGo and floors the gas pedal at a road intersection. She says confidently, "OmniGo says it's supposed to be a green light! That means this traffic light is wrong!" I look at the red light in horror. Before I can stop her, a vehicle driving ordinarily past the intersection crashes right into our car. In the end, my legs have to be amputated, and I become wheelchair-bound, while Sonia only suffers a mild concussion and a fracture. One rainy day, Sonia calls me an Uber to go to my follow-up at the hospital, but she sets the pickup point at a location that is flooded a third of a mile away. I try to change the pickup point to my home, but she snatches my phone away and says, "OmniGo says that this pickup point is highly recommended for disabled people to board. You can't just change the pickup point as you like!" As a result, I fall into a puddle, wheelchair and all. Sonia doesn't even turn back to look at me and leaves me behind. Because of the rain and the prolonged soaking of my wounds in the dirty puddle, I develop a severe infection, which then leads to multiple organ failure. Despite being rushed to the emergency unit afterward, I ultimately die from the infection. When I open my eyes again, I realize that I'm standing at the bus station again. Sonia taps on her phone and leans closer to me, showing me the details on her phone. "Look, Amanda, OmniGo says that our bus isn't arriving for another ten more minutes."

The day after my best friend, Sarah Blunt married Patrick, the second son of the Brosnan family, I too became a bride and wed Matthew, his older brother. She married a swimming champion, and I, the rock-climbing coach. We thought we had our futures all figured out. Then, something happened that summer. The four of us planned a getaway but Matthew and Patrick’s baby sister, Megan joined us and our peaceful trip became a crowded affair.  While rock climbing, disaster struck—the rope snapped, and all five of us plummeted into the river below. The brothers rushed frantically to save Megan, leaving Sarah and me at the mercy of the river’s current, battered and tossed like driftwood. By the time the rescue team pulled us from the water, we were bruised, scraped, and utterly spent. In the hospital, Megan and I received devastating news that would change everything.  “You’ve been pregnant for 40 days, Ma’am. How could you put yourself in such a risky situation? Your baby survived, but your friend lost hers.” Shaken, I called Matthew to tell him about the pregnancy. His anger cut through the line. “You’re angry that I went to Megs first and now you’re trying to fool me with a fake pregnancy? She’s my sister—it’s my duty to protect her!” Sarah faced her own storm. Patrick practically scoffed at her grief. “Miscarriage? Do you expect me to believe that? The doctors said you only had a 30% chance of conceiving. I can’t stand women who create drama out of nothing.” Both calls ended abruptly, leaving us stunned as we stared at each other in the sterile light of the hospital room. In that shared silence, we made our decision—we would leave these men behind and start anew, launching a business together. But when the brothers received our divorce papers, they showed up at my door in the middle of a storm, kneeling in the pouring rain, crying through the night for a second chance.