Twisted Emotions Pdf Novels & Stories

I was the real son of the Lane family, lost and left outside for 27 years. A year after I was brought back, I helped the Lane family’s company break into overseas markets, tripling its annual sales. However, at the end of the year, even the outsourced janitors got a 13th-month bonus, while the fake heir gave me just 250 dollars. “The company made money, sure, but there are expenses everywhere. You’re just a low-level salesperson. All you do is talk. You should be grateful you got that much.” I could not swallow it, so I went to argue with my biological sister, the general manager. She did not even look up. “Clive didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t have much education and no core skills. You were never qualified for management bonuses.” My parents did not care either. They were too busy planning which country to take the fake heir to for the holidays. I did not argue or make a scene. I just turned around and called Lane Corporation’s biggest rival. “A salesperson who brought in 30 million dollars in the last year is looking to jump ship. Interested? I don’t have any other demands. I just want to see Lewis Corporation go under as soon as possible!”

A group of armed robbers ambush the kindergarten, resulting in my son, Finn Hart, becoming a hostage. A ticking time bomb is strapped to his tiny body afterward. My husband, Nolan Hart, also known as the best bomb disposal expert in the whole nation, arrives at the scene immediately. Meanwhile, I stand by the monitor in the command van, my eyes glued to the screen. I can see a burlap sack covering Finn's head. My poor son is trembling violently out of fear. But once Nolan and his assistant-slash-first love, Summer Castellano, enter the scene, the latter actually has the guts to ask for permission to dispose of the bomb. "Nolan, let me have a taste of what it feels like to be a heroine who gets to save lives. Is that okay?" As Nolan gazes at Summer, he flashes a doting smile at her. "Go ahead. You can just cut the red wire. Don't worry, if anything happens, I'll face the consequences on your behalf." Summer reaches out with her scissors excitedly and snips the blue wire without hesitation. The next thing everyone knows, the countdown on Finn's bomb shifts from ten minutes to ten seconds instantly. Both Nolan and Summer's expressions change drastically. They quickly turn tail and flee the scene. On the other hand, my eyes go as wide as dinner plates at the turn of events. Just as I'm about to rush into the kindergarten, I feel a tiny hand grabbing the hem of my shirt forcefully. "Mommy, Daddy will save Wyatt, right?" I look down to see Finn, who's standing right next to me. For a moment, my mind goes blank. Suddenly, I recall having heard him telling me when he called me with his smartwatch earlier today. "Mommy, Wyatt insisted on swapping clothes with me. He said my new sportswear looks better than his!" Wyatt Castellano is Summer's son… as well as Finn's half-brother.

My mother is an extreme misogynist, even toward me, her own daughter. She's wanted to kill me since the day I was born. She hits me if I wear lip gloss, wear a dress, or even get close to my father. Before sitting for my SATs, she spreads rumors about me trying to seduce my father. Ultimately, she pushes me so hard that I jump from the 15th floor. This pleases her to no end.

The night before the design competition, my husband took my design draft, promising to secure a patent to protect my work. In the intense competition, my work stood out and won first place. During the award ceremony, I walked on stage wearing the necklace that my daughter and I had made together. Suddenly, my seven-year-old daughter rushed up to the stage, screaming, "Mom, how could you steal Veronica's necklace? That's horrible and embarrassing. Just come down and go home with me."

Three years married to Victor, the Don, and as far as New York was concerned, we were untouchable. Until my own car was in the shop, so I took his daily driver from the garage. On the way, I activated the car's smart system and said, "Navigate home." But the screen pinpointed a place I had never seen before — a villa in the suburbs. Then, a sugary-sweet voice floated from the speakers: "Okay! Setting course for Victor and Mia's secret castle." My stomach dropped. Who was Mia? And what secret castle? Without a second thought, I dialed his number. "The home address is set to some strange place." He just laughed it off. "Oh, that. One of my guys' car broke down the other day. I let him use mine to drop someone off." "Okay, no problem," I said, smiling into the phone. I ended the call and pulled up the navigation history. That villa address was listed seventeen times, every single one on a day Victor was supposedly "out of town on business." I fired up the engine and drove.

On the fifth anniversary of my marriage to Vicente Buckley, he violated my trust by sleeping with my best friend Kinsley Gilmore, on our bed. Through the camera, my son Jamie Buckley's childish voice sounded. "Kinsley, I'll keep watch at the door. I won't let my mom come in!" As if rewarding him, Kinsley pecked Vicente and suggested, "Your son is great. Don't you think about having another child with Patricia?" Vicente responded by covering her face with a pillow, saying, "The scar on her belly disgusts me."

On my first day of being a newlywed, my father-in-law beat my mother-in-law up because of a dish. I tried to stop my father-in-law out of concern for my mother-in-law's life. However, he scolded me for being rude and claimed out loud that subduing others with force was a family tradition. I was thrilled when I saw that my husband was also itching to have a go at me. Hurrah! I could finally unleash the demon inside me!

In my previous life, I was eight months pregnant when my mother-in-law and husband forcibly dragged me to grab decorative gift boxes from the Christmas tree. I told them there was nothing inside, but my mother-in-law slapped me across the face while my husband pulled me into the crowd. A stampede broke out. They clutched their gift boxes and fled to save themselves, while my child and I were trampled to death. They eagerly tore open all the gift boxes with high hopes, only to find exactly nothing, just like I'd warned them. But as I lay dying, I noticed something in the final gift box. A Black Widow spider with an hourglass pattern on its belly crawled onto my mother-in-law's hand. This spider carries deadly venom. Anyone bitten either dies or suffers permanent disability. When I open my eyes again, I'm back on Christmas Day. This time, watching my mother-in-law and husband gear up to fight over those Christmas gift boxes, I won't try to stop them!

Three years after I died, my mother sent me twenty dollars for living expenses. Three years before that—the first time I ever asked my family for money—she said to me, offhand, "Sometimes I think you're just putting on an act. What's so unsanitary about a thirty-cent boxed meal? And why can't you wear a five-dollar down jacket? Face it, you're just more high-maintenance than your little brother." Later, when I needed twenty dollars to buy some cheap medicine for my stomachache, she blocked me immediately and cut off all contact—along with every relative we had. "Don't contact me anymore. I'm clearly not a good mother. I can't afford to give my son a life of luxury." But for my younger brother, who had just started high school, she spared no expense—renting him a three-bedroom apartment. Even the family dog got its own room. In the end, on the day my brother became the top scorer in the state, she finally remembered me. She took me off her block list and transferred twenty dollars. "It's only twenty dollars. Was it really worth giving your family the silent treatment for three whole years?" What she never knew was this— On the night my stomach ruptured, three years ago, I had already died. I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. I froze to death in the snow.

My CEO husband, Clayton Lockwood, was convinced I was a gold digger. Every time he went to comfort his first love during her depressive episodes, he would buy me a limited-edition bag. After half a year of marriage, my walk-in closet was filled with them. After giving ninety-nine bags, he noticed I had changed. I no longer cried my heart out or argued until I was hoarse when he visited his first love. I also did not brave the storm and cross the city anymore just because he said he wanted to see me. I only asked him for a rosary for our unborn child. When I mentioned our child, Clayton’s gaze softened. “Once Ruby’s condition improves, we’ll go to the hospital for a checkup first, then get a rosary.” I obediently agreed. Little did he know that I had a miscarriage ten days earlier. I had also prepared a divorce agreement that was ready for his signature.