Wink Photo Booth

The day my mother brought her childhood sweetheart back to the villa, my father—who had already quit smoking—stood on the balcony and smoked through the entire night. Back then, his colleagues at the research institute all envied him for having a wife who was a CEO. They said he should have stayed home and enjoyed life—why work so hard outside when all he needed to do was keep a firm grip on the household finances? But my father never agreed. "Those things are all external," he would say. "As long as the feelings are still there, we'll be fine whether we're rich or poor. And if one day she no longer loves me, I'll leave with nothing and walk away alone." He never expected his words to become prophecy. My mother truly did stop loving him. Later, when she appeared before the media, arm in arm with that man, my father didn't look back. He boarded a flight overseas and disappeared from our lives. And as I stared at the photo in my social feed—my fiancée's hand entwined with someone else's—I knew it was time for me to leave too, just like my father had.

After Celine Anderson let her newly-promoted assistant take credit for my billion-dollar project for the ninth time, I handed in my resignation letter. I also refused to show up in the same place as her. Whenever she was interviewed by talk shows as a public figure, I would switch off all the screens in the building. I also got the security guard to stop her from entering even if she brought me a cup of coffee in the middle of a tornado. To see me, she purposely rescheduled three virtual meetings with foreign companies. So, I immediately bought air tickets to leave the country. I blocked her everywhere and formatted the hard disk that contained all of our memories from the past decade. When I was twenty, I studied with her in the university library. When I was twenty-five, I ate the cheapest bread with her when she first started her company. When I was thirty, I finally knew how to let go of things that no longer serve me. On the ninth time I was accused of sleeping my way up, I came across a photo of her and her assistant kissing. Meanwhile, I was sitting at our dining table with food that had turned cold. It turned out that our decade-long relationship had been a joke. However, it was fine. It was not too late to come to my senses.

Sequel of 'Set Me Free', hope everyone enjoys reading this book as much as they liked the previous one. “What is your name?” A deep voice of a man echoes throughout the poorly lit room. Daniel, who is cuffed to a white medical bed, can barely see anything. Small beads of sweat are pooling on his forehead due to the humidity and hot temperature of the room. His blurry vision keeps on roaming around the trying to find the one he has been looking for forever. Isabelle, the only reason he is holding on, all this pain he is enduring just so that he could see her once he gets out of this place. “What is your name?!” The man now loses his patience and brings up the electrodes his temples and gives him a shock. Daniel screams and throws his legs around and pulls on his wrists hard but it doesn’t work. The man keeps on holding the electrodes to his temples to make him suffer more and more importantly to damage his memories of her. But little did he know the only thing that is keeping Daniel alive is the hope of meeting Isabelle one day. “Do you know her?” The man holds up a photo of Isabelle in front of his face and stops the shocks. “Yes, she is my Isabelle.” A small smile appears on his lips while his eyes close shut.

Août 2018, sans s’annoncer, Éric s’arrête au Conssé, l’affaire de quelques minutes... Le Conssé ? Cela fait quinze ans, qu’il n’y a pas mis les pieds ! La vieille maison appartient à Clémentine de Boisin. À quatre-vingt-dix-huit ans, bon-pied, bon-œil, « Tante Clém » est l’âme de la demeure. L’été, elle y accueille sa famille. Le reste de l’année, elle y vit retirée au milieu des souvenirs. Une photo datée de 1942, retrouvée par accident, s’invite. Que vient faire ici, le mystérieux sourire figé sur pellicule, issu d’une époque troublée ? Face à Éric, la porte du grenier s’entrouvre... Emmanuel de Scorraille , diplômé de l’enseignement supérieur, est un romancier passionné d’histoire, de culture et de littérature. Le silence de la terre est une fiction historique, inspirée de l’actualité. « Que s’est-il passé le 27 novembre 2018 ? »

Alpha Daddy: Take Mommy Home Five years ago, Lia vanished without a trace, leaving behind the man who shattered her heart — and the child he never knew existed. Far from the city’s power and politics, she raises her son in peace, determined to keep him safe from the world she once escaped. But fate plays a cruel trick. When her little boy’s photo goes viral, it catches the attention of Damien — the cold, ruthless alpha CEO who instantly notices one thing: The child looks exactly like him. Driven by shock, anger, and something far deeper, Damien tracks Lia down. He wants answers. He wants the truth. And most of all, he wants his son. Lia fights to protect the quiet life she built, terrified of the enemies who once pushed her away. But Damien is no longer the man she left. Discovering he’s a father awakens a side of him no one has ever seen fierce, protective, and determined to bring his family home. As hidden secrets surface and old wounds reopen, Lia must decide whether she can trust the man she once loved… or walk away again. He lost her once. This time, he’s not letting go.

"Desmond." My voice cracked. "What are you?" His eyes flashed gold in the darkness. "Something you should've stayed away from.” But I couldn't stay away. Not when every cell in my body screamed that he was mine. Five years ago, my step-brother disappeared from my life without explanation. Now Desmond's back, using a different last name and pretending we're strangers. But the way he watches me says otherwise. The way his hands shake when I get too close. The way his eyes turn gold when he thinks I'm not looking. He warns me to stay away. Says there are things about our past I'm better off not knowing. But I found the photo, the one showing us as kids, completely in love, and I can't remember any of it. Six months of my life, erased. When I push for answers, people start following me. Desmond gets violent and protective. And the boy who broke my heart by leaving is suddenly everywhere, fighting invisible threats I don't understand. He's hiding something that could ruin us both. But I'm done running from a past I can't remember. Even if the truth destroys me.

The Nightshade Clan and the Slinter Clan were ancient enemies. Yet Augustine and I, the Prince and Princess of our rival clans, fell in love. We were Mates. Our love was a firestorm, defying all who stood against us. On the day we sealed our blood pact, Augustine held my hand and, with his own blood, made a solemn vow. "If I should ever betray you, may I suffer the agony of a thousand silver daggers to the heart. And may all the power of the Slinter Clan be yours." I looked at him then, my smile so full of happiness it felt like it could light up the night. On our 500th anniversary, Augustine filled an entire city with blood-red roses for me. But all I got was a photo from his human blood slave. In it, she was naked, her skin covered in the marks of a long night of sex. And the hand wrapped around her waist… I knew it instantly. My name was tattooed on the wrist. 【The Prince says he only feels true pleasure when he's fucking me.】 【He took me five times tonight. I'm afraid he won't have anything left for you. Sorry, Princess.】 I didn’t reply. I just quietly took out the blood pact. In seven days, I would hold him to his vow.

On their third wedding anniversary, Clark Summer gifted his wife a diamond necklace named "Love Nyla," broadcasting his devotion to the world. But while the public swooned, Nyla sat alone in their empty home, staring at a photo sent by a stranger: her husband’s new secretary, Jordyn, wearing that same necklace, tangled in Clark’s arms. For three years, Nyla had been the perfect, submissive wife. In return, she received betrayal, humiliation from her mother-in-law, and Clark’s sickening justification that his affair was merely a "physical necessity" while he still loved her. He believed Nyla was trapped, tethered to him by her father’s astronomical medical bills. He thought she would swallow the insults and raise his mistress's child. He was wrong. Selling their mansion, gathering evidence, and delivering irrefutable proof of her infidelity… Nera turned and left, donning a white lab coat instead of an apron, transforming overnight into a top-tier pharmaceutical researcher who had astonished the industry. When Clark, with belated repentance and red-eyed pleading for her return, saw his icy ex-wife being gently embraced by his uncle Damon, he saw the aloof man before him. The superior man coldly glanced at his nephew, his voice low and dangerous: "What are you calling 'wife'? Call her 'auntie'."

After my husband's first love, Sydney Edwards, used me as a walking blood bank, I died in the run-down rental apartment my billionaire husband, Casper Hawthorne, had tossed me into like it was a blessing for me. Today was the third day since I had died. My six-year-old son, Adam, finally realized something was wrong. He had cut his finger while playing with his toys, yet I did not comfort him. He tore open a packet of crackers and raised one to my mouth to feed me, but I did not stop him. He lay in my arms, clutching my clothes and whispering for me. Still, I did not answer. Lost and panicking, he found my phone and called his father, Casper. "Dad, why is Mom still sleeping?" The man sent back a photo of himself having New Year's Eve dinner with Sydney and said in a cold voice, "She's just sleeping, she's not dead. Today is New Year's Eve. I'm busy. Tell that clueless mom of yours that when she's ready to admit she was wrong, she can come and look for me." After the call ended, Adam stood there frozen for a long time. He picked up the last biscuit in the rental apartment from the trash can, broke it in half, and held one piece to my mouth. "Mom, let's eat too."

In New York’s Upper East Side, there were two heirs. One was a speed-obsessed daredevil dominating the racetracks, the other was a brilliant actuary who controlled the flow of capital. Born into powerful families and polar opposites in temperament, yet they grew up side by side as each other’s only best friend. They had fought over girls and bickered endlessly over racing bets. However, at fifteen, there was one thing they did in perfect unison. They each put on the same roughly carved bronze badge. They were trinkets Mia had idly made during a craft class, marked only by a faint “M” scratched on the back. Back then, Mia was seated in the last row of the classroom. Her background was a complete mystery to everyone. Yet they wore that badge for ten whole years. Whether standing on the F1 podium or locking in billion-dollar trades at the exchange, the cheap little badge on their chests never changed. Until Ella showed up. She was the cherished daughter of a rising conglomerate family. She hand-stitched two gold-thread fabric patches and gifted them to them. The patches looked so ordinary they looked like the kind of trinket you would find three for a dollar at a flea market. And yet, they both replaced their bronze badges with her plain patches. Mia did not say anything. She simply folded away an old newspaper clipping with a photo of the three of them smiling together. That night, she called her father in Sicily. Her voice was emotionless. “Papa, I accept the marriage arrangement.”