Novelas y relatos de Woman Author Mystery

Ryan did not confirm nor deny it, but I could tell the truth from the guilty look in his eyes. The scorching summer day in June felt like winter to me. I held my breath in shock. What was I to Ryan, if that woman was his wife? "Stop faking it," the woman taunted me. Then, she went on to introduce me to the onlookers. "Ladies and gentlemen, take a good look at this homewrecker! She snatched my husband from me, and she had the audacity to ask him for an apartment."

I murmured, sighing tiredly, “Why did the author have to make her so spineless and weak?” I turned the page, fully immersed in the story, when the sound of approaching footsteps reached my ears. I glanced up, and my eyes fell on an unfamiliar woman as she stepped into the library. She was beautiful in the most conventional way. Sharp cheekbones, flawless skin, and hair that tumbled over her shoulders in rich waves. Her posture screamed authority, but there was an arrogance in the way she held her chin just a little too high. When she stepped in, she posed at the door, holding my gaze like she was expecting something from me.

What indicated just any romance, she used this time to base herself on these tales to tell her own stories, where she modified and began to write about the stories from the love letters, sometimes involving murder. In some cases of crimes, where she began to publish these same mysterious tales of violence, she never said that these cases were real. Here and there, for a while, cases occurred in other countries very similar to what she wrote about, but she never reported to the authorities that she received such a product, they were so explicit, sometimes so cruel, it seemed as if she saw shadows and outlines of someone who watched her from outside the walls of her residence. She started exch

even as he spoke, his hands came up to grip her own. For one perilous moment, Betty's mind betrayed her and she was reminded of other hands. Hands upon her body. Hands that had forced her down. Drawn by a force she couldn't command, her gaze tricked down….. down to where dark fingers caught her own. They were strong, those hands. Lean and powerful. Tanned and wholly male. Those hands had grasped her waist, traced the slant of her cheek, skimmed the bareness of her very breast, immeasurably gentle despite their strength. Those hands had made her tremble, but not in fear. Not, not in fear…… never in fear.

​The title on the cover read: "VOLUME 2: THE REVENGE OF THE AUTHOR’S WIFE." ​Nora’s heart stopped. She looked at Mia, who was standing by the door, her eyes wide with a memory she hadn't had before. ​"Nora..." Mia whispered. "The Author... he didn't write this story alone. He had a Co-Writer. And she’s coming to Claim the Royalty." ​Suddenly, the white room began to bleed a deep, passionate Violet.

She had pictured a creepy, middle-aged lady donning a headdress, telling Sera to gaze into her crystal ball. Above the store counter, holding a cash register that looks like the first one ever invented, sits a painting that grabs Sera's attention. It's a simple painting, midnight blue with one perfect circular moon in the center. Breaking her train of thought, the beads rattle as a woman passes through and walks behind the counter. She doesn't pay Sera any mind, and she digs below for something. When she finally pulls out an embroidered shawl, the woman wraps it around her tall, slender frame. Sera watches as her back straightens, shoulders tensing slightly. Their eyes meet, Sera feels herse

The deep silence settled in the surroundings, the air thick and heavy as I waited for that lady. I paced slowly, my eyes fixated on the staircase. However, footsteps echoed from deeper inside the basement five minutes later. My heart leapt to my throat. “She is coming from somewhere within the basement itself. How?” As I was waiting for the mystery woman, I wondered whether she came here through a secret entrance or a hidden passage. This riddle was quickly solved as the familiar figure of that mystery woman emerged from the shadows, her black veil still covering her face. The moment she saw me, her entire body trembled. Then, to my complete shock, she rushed forward and wrapped her arms aro

Some were bound in what might have been leather, but most were wrapped in cloth stained with strange patterns that seemed to shift when one looked away, or sealed in wax that had melted and hardened again in uneven blobs like frozen tears. “This is where we keep the things you didn’t write,” the woman said, running her fingers over a stack of books wrapped in dark green cloth. Her touch was gentle, reverent almost. “The parts of the world that grew on their own while you were gone, while you were living your life in another place and time. Your manuscript was just a seed, Miss Isadora. But seeds have a way of sending roots into soil you never knew existed.”

Most importantly, most foundationally, irreducibly — with herself. The woman who had been a guest in her own life and was now its undisputed primary inhabitant. Who had found herself in the fire. Who had written herself down. Who had put her name on it. She thought about the woman at four in the morning who had not been able to put the book down. About the woman who had called her sister. About the woman who had called the lawyer. About the hundreds of women who had written today and the thousands who would write in the weeks and months to come as the book found its way to the people who needed it.

Crystal’s growing curiosity as the mysterious woman walked away. A chill ran down her spine, her mind still spinning. She tapped her fingers against the cold, hard surface of her cell’s metal bed. The first letter of their names was the same? That meant her name started with C. But who? Charlotte? Cassandra? No. None of them matched the woman she had just seen. That poised smile, that air of confidence, it didn’t fit anyone she knew. "Damn it!" she muttered under her breath. Her fingers curled into fists. "Who the hell was she?!"