Victorian Romance Novel Novels & Stories

If sunrise ever had a scent, I would say it was Valentina’s. I flipped through the pages of her notes and inhaled the scent of each page, I wanted Valentina’s scent burnt to my brain. I was looking for more notes when a book toppled and fell out of her bag, landing on my chest. The book was titled “Valentine’s Day.” By “Guillotine” I have seen her clinging unto this particular book before, she went everywhere and anywhere with it. It was probably one of the contemporary romance books with a weak-ass female lead, a plot lacking storyline, and thousands of sex scenes, yet she seemed to cherish this one book.

“I’m not the scared little girl you abandoned years ago. You may have killed my parents, but you won’t take this company or my life from me.” “Oh, yes, we will. You know why? Because we’ve got everything ready. Go on, check the company’s news. You’re really trending!” I rolled my eyes and picked up my phone. Notifications flooded my screen—tags, comments, and hateful articles. Did Victoria, the granddaughter of Mr. Charles Arlington, really kill Marianne? I scrolled down and saw another headline: Rumors claim Victoria married Marianne’s husband. When Marianne tried to claim what was hers, Victoria killed her!

She spent the day anxiously wandering, never settling, so twitchy that her mother snapped at her in the morning room threatening to send her to her room if she couldn't compose herself like a lady. The next day began well, the promise of sunshine in the early dawn as Victoria awoke desperate to ready herself for her lover. He was waiting in the entrance hall after breakfast for her, and gallantly escorted her to the carriage. Roseby Castle was famous for its rotunda; a dome modelled on St. Paul's cathedral, a walkway elevated high around its circumference inside, many many feet above the great hall. It was beautifully decorated in rich reds and golds, the early summer sunshine throwing flame

🌹 Victoria 🌹 Victoria Fontaine stood in the dimly lit war room of her private estate, the scent of expensive bourbon and aged leather filling the air. The walls, lined with bookshelves and surveillance monitors, cast eerie flickers of light against her sharp, composed features. Despite the chaos unraveling outside, she remained poised. The world was beginning to turn against her, but she had not built an empire on panic. She had built it on control.

Something inside her fractured as she read those words. She barely recalled the hours that passed a haze of wine, the sound of a wineglass shattering against the kitchen floor, and humiliation rising in her like an unwelcome guest. To be discarded was one pain, but to be publicly replaced was another agony altogether. Her apartment suffocated her with its memories- Aidan's scent lingering in the air, his books haunting her shelves. She did what any heartbroken woman would do. She go dress to kill. A black satin gown that draped to the floor, a daring slit grazing her thigh.

Victoria’s chest ached with something ancient and new all at once. She pressed her lips to Raven’s forehead—light as mist, careful not to wake her. Then she closed her own eyes. For the first time in centuries, Victoria Rose slept without dreams of sunlight or blood. She dreamed only of a winter star resting against her heart. And in the quiet of the crimson castle, two children—one of death, one of blood—held each other through the night. Safe. For now.

I could hear Marcy shifting in her chair, suddenly completely alert. “Oh, dirt? I love dirt,” Marcy said, her voice turning sharp and greedy. “Is it about Torin, the pack lines have been very quiet lately, my readers are getting bored, they want bloody things.” “It is about that girl, Victoria Raine, the one who used to wipe the floors in our estate pretending to be Torin's girlfriend,” I told her, my eyes locking onto my own reflection in the gold mirror across the room. Marcy let out a loud, disappointed sigh over the line, the sound of her breath rushing through the phone speaker.

She could do a lot of things. Instead, she picked up the embarrassing romance novel and walked to the window seat. --- The book was terrible. The dialogue was overwrought. The hero was impossibly handsome, and the heroine was impossibly naive, and the plot required a series of coincidences that would never happen in real life. Elara loved every page. She read until the morning light shifted to afternoon. She read until her eyes grew tired and her stomach reminded her that breakfast was a distant memory. She read until she stopped seeing Isabella's tight smiles and Viktor's watchful eyes every time she blinked.

“You know, you talk about him differently now. And you talk about him a lot.” Victoria frowned and denied it quickly. “I do not.” Julie shook her head slowly. “You do. In fact, you smile when you talk about him.” “That’s just your overactive imagination.” She countered. Julie ignored her. “I’ve written enough romance novels. And read even more.” Victoria immediately knew where this conversation was heading. “Oh no.” Julie nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes.” She began counting on her fingers. “Contract marriage. Cold billionaire. Independent female lead. They’re forced to live together.”

I liked good guys, slow sex, soft kisses, slow romance and all the kinds. Viktor seemed to be the complete opposite. I wanted to be a bad girl. Teasing him and doing all the things he wouldn’t even expect. I was just being stupid, letting these romance novels I’d been reading since I got into this house get into my head. Viktor and I were from different worlds. Even if we’d fucked, nothing serious would ever happened between us. Yet, I wanted something to happen… even just the fucking. Viktor was a cold hearted bastard. He’d never truly love anything besides his money and his empire.