Truth Or Fiction Novels & Stories

His tone, smooth as velvet, tried to lull me to think otherwise, but it was his body's reaction to her name that convinced me he had previous knowledge—more than he wanted to admit. "You knew about her," I accused. "When I told you that she was in Savannah, you already knew, didn't you?" "I wasn't sure..." I took a step back. "You lied to me?" Nox reached for my arms, gently holding me by my shoulders. "I've never lied to you." "Have you always told me the truth?" "Yes." "All of the truth?" His neck straightened as his chin jettisoned outward. "I told you from the beginning that I'd never lie to you. I also told you that I'd share things when I was ready."

He caressed her cold, lifeless cheek with his hand, his eyes filled with utter bewilderment. "This isn't real. It's all fake. It has to be fake!" As if suddenly struck by a thought, he crawled frantically to my bedside, pulling away the white sheet that covered me. The moment he saw my lifeless face, he broke down completely. I had never seen him cry so desperately. Hunched over, his gaze lingered on Halle's face and mine, disbelief etched in his eyes. "How could this happen?" he murmured. "Wasn't it all supposed to be a lie?! Why weren't you lying to me?!

"Let the officers continue the investigation. We'll deal with this." "But the public—" Flora begins. "The public will believe what they want to believe," I cut in, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "What matters is the truth, and we have evidence of that. Victoria can spin whatever narrative she wants, but she can't change the facts." Even as I say it, I know this has just made things ten times harder. The battle we were fighting was already difficult. Now, Victoria has thrown another obstacle in our path—one designed to destroy our credibility, to ruin us in the eyes of the public. And the worst part is, she's succeeding.

Madison, however, mistook my laughter for mockery and glared at me with disdain. I tilted my head and asked in amusement, "Since you say you've worked hard to teach yourself the art of traditional pottery, I'm curious just how hard you've worked." I asked her that because I knew she couldn't possibly have self-taught herself traditional pottery. She was lying just to build a persona and continue using traditional pottery to make money. Just like Tyler, they didn't actually care about preserving the heritage. They were just exploiting it for profit. But to my surprise, Madison pulled out her phone. She pointed to a popular account that documented her journey in learning traditional pottery. T

I said. "Then we know which one and we plan accordingly," he said. Practical and unafraid. "We can't control what they do with what they experience. We can only make sure what they experience is true." He looked at me. "Truth is the only thing that lasts. You know that better than anyone." I did know that. I felt it in every bond I had ever read. The difference in texture between what was real and what was performed. The way real things held their shape under pressure and performed things collapsed.

It was him, the man I dreamed about, Xavier Quinn. For four years, he had tormented me relentlessly, mocked me, and had affairs with numerous women, even forcing me into a relationship with him. Just days before his engagement to another woman, he had forcibly slept with me. Now, he claimed to love me, but he still brought this woman in front of me. He had deceived me over and over, played with my feelings. Was it really worth it? Luckily, I didn't believe him. Even though I almost did. When Wendy pulled my arm in annoyance, I had no defenses, and she yanked me off the bed.

“Especially when they’re built on truth.” A faint, condescending smile touched her lips. “Truth is such a malleable concept, don’t you find? Often confused with sentimentality and… well, fiction.” Her eyes locked with mine, a direct challenge. “I read your little blog post. A very moving story. A work of fiction, of course, but moving nonetheless.” I could feel Arthur tense beside me. The entire room was holding its breath. “It’s interesting you should mention fiction,” I said, not breaking eye contact. I gestured to the mosaic. “This phoenix, for example. It’s a powerful myth. Rising from the ashes. But it’s not the only powerful story about rising from ruin, is it?”

Chance and intent worked together. People like Thora imagine that truth is a shield. It wasn’t. Truth needed context and allies and, often, quieter deaths. Stories, however, were blunt instruments. You could throw a simple narrative into the world and watch it do the heavy lifting for you. People tidy complexity into a headline and call it understanding.

“You could have at least lied to her about the parchment.” Flora didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her jaw hurt when she tried to speak. When Freya casually asked when Orien handed her the parchment, she had blurted out the truth. Sometimes speaking the truth was a bad thing. However, she always sucked at lying. Her small brain stopped working when she tried. “You’re fortunate I was there. Her Majesty doesn’t know I got you out of the room.” The cleaner’s face hovered above her. “It will be better if you just left and never came back.”

“Please don’t lie. No, please the truth. The girl in the story was you, right?” “Yes.” She was hesitating on telling Jina the truth but Jina pleaded so she couldn’t refuse her and told her the truth. “But how? There are no news about a massive gate like the one you mentioned. Where are you from?” The story she told Jina was incomplete she didn’t tell Jina about her coming out from a gate. And if she told her she knows that Jina will not believe her. Because a person coming out of a gate? Nothing comes out of a gate but monsters.