Widows Of The South Novels & Stories

"She acts the grieving widow, but she's been trying to trap me, just because I look like my brother. It's pathetic, really." Hearing the title "Commander," my mother-in-law threw herself to the floor with a fresh wail. "You have to see the truth, Commander! My poor son provided for her, and what did she give him? Just a girl! Now she wants to rob us blind! She's a leech on this family!" Catherine peeked at the commander, then buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with delicate sobs. "Sir, she tried to take my husband and hurt my unborn child... What kind of woman does that?"

No man has ever managed to awaken the passionate side of me again. I just hope that when I’m old and gray, my daughter will finally forgive me. She’s the only one I have left, and I couldn’t even attend her wedding because I wasn’t invited. From what I know, she’s been married for almost a year now. I wonder how she’s doing. Is she pregnant already? I’d be so happy if she were. I turned my head when I heard someone greet me. It was one of my neighbors. I waved back and greeted her, too. She’s also a widow like me and lives alone. Actually, all of us living in this small area are widows, and our neighbors call our block the “Widows’ Web.” Whatever! They have no idea what we went through after

“Who are they?” The man swallowed hard. “The Harringtons.” The name hit like a gunshot. I turned away slowly, walking back toward the chair. The Harringtons weren’t unknown to me. They are prominent and untouchable. They are philanthropists on paper but monsters underneath. “And their daughter?” I asked. The man hesitated. I looked over my shoulder. “Say it.” “She’s recently widowed,” he said. “Her husband died under strange circumstances. After that, their financial situation collapsed.”

The reflex of four heads turned in the direction where Ignazio was now with his male cousins. "Why him?" Falisha asked, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, come on, he's a worrisome bachelor too," Francisca replied with a melancholic expression. "Oh God, Ef. He's a widower, not a bachelor," Sara chuckled mockingly. Falisha nodded in agreement. "Exactly, he's even more worrying," Francisca lamented louder. "He can't live alone forever, can he? Regardless, he's a normal man. He surely needs a wife to accompany him every night." Francisca innocently said, making her two cousins laugh.

Outside, dawn was breaking over New Eidolon, sickly and pale, the city waking into another day of its own long violence. Inside, two people stood in the sub-level where loyalty went to be tested, and held on to each other in the specific aftermath of a choice that had cost something real. The Widow had sent assassins, bought docks, planted spies, built her network over years with the patience of a woman who had survived everything. She had not accounted for this. For a daughter who chose grief over safety. For a king who waited while she grieved. For what happened when those two things stood in the same room and decided, together, that they were not finished.

At that name, the widow’s composure fractured for an instant—just an instant—but long enough for Savannah to see it: a flicker of recognition, of old grief bound to secrets. “You carry her shadow like your own,” the widow said at last. “But shadows are not free. If I give you what I have, then you will owe me a debt. And debts, my dear, must be paid in blood or loyalty.” The fire cracked in the hearth. Savannah felt her pulse trip, Colton’s hand brushing her wrist beneath the table, steadying, grounding. Yet the choice already loomed. *** The widow rose at last, her gown whispering like a prayer. From the mantel she lifted a lacquered box, small, unassuming, yet bound with a clasp of iron. S

There's no way people still remembered them. However, just when the old man was sure the other guy was just bluffing. Amelia turned to the side and showed the sixty or so wronged women's spirits behind her. There were the bride's two younger sisters in there, and also the widow who was bullied by the whole town. Back then, the widows in the small town were all the wives of soldiers who died before the formation, trying to protect Great Abyssin. According to the law, they all got money as compensation.

Adaeze commanded. Sarka. The Widow had a name. It sounded like the snapping of a dry twig. "The Librarian of the Ruined Temple," the Widow hissed, her faceless obsidian head tilting. "You have grown old in your cave, Adaeze. You still cling to the Moon as if she hasn't already turned her back on us." "The Moon doesn't turn," Adaeze replied, her voice like granite. "Wolves just forget how to look up."

“Lorenzo’s death didn’t kill the hunger. It only showed them what could be taken… what we hold.” Her words struck the truth he already knew. Power was never stable. It was a constant battle, a web of knives and silk, always on the edge of tearing. Dante took a slow sip of the drink, the burn grounding him. “There’s talk of a new player. Someone calling themselves The Widow. No one knows who she is, but she’s been uniting fragments of old families.” Amara’s hand stilled. For a moment, her mask slipped, her eyes narrowing. “A woman bold enough to use that name… she knows the weight it carries. A widow seeks vengeance. A widow seeks power.”

She dressed in black, lifted her chin, and continued walking as though the weight on her shoulders belonged to someone else. She did not mourn the man who had built a secret life with Sophia Marino, nor the husband who had fathered a secret heir behind her back. She mourned the years she had blindly sacrificed, and the security that had vanished the moment Anthony’s car exploded into a ball of fire. The world thought she was a grieving widow breaking under the loss. They did not know that beneath her veil, her eyes were completely dry, hardened by a cold desire for vengeance.