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Morwen

  • Freigeschaltete Kapitel: 1.2K
  • Romanrezensionen: 4

Lieblingsromane

Book cover
Book cover
ExklusivAktualisiert
  • 👁 1K
  • 7.5

Jacqueline Hills, a struggling writer drowning in debt, found herself at the crossroads. Her life was a struggle, working at a humble bookstore to scrape together enough to pay off her bills, while her relationship with Kent, the struggling musician, teetered on the brink. Suddenly like a tempest, Ethan Wilde stormed back into her life. The wealthy man she had stolen from three years. His arrogance was a force of nature, and his eyes held a memory she wished to forget. His proposition hung in the air, heavy with consequence: "Pretend to be my girlfriend, and your debts vanish." Jacqueline's refusal was swift even if it meant owing him a fortune. But he was unyielding. "Then you owe me a million dollars," he countered. "But I don't have your watch. Even if you arrest me, I'll remain penniless." Ethan's smile was a predatory. "Then be my girlfriend and I'll forgive you. I'll pay you $500, 000 extra." The numbers swirled in her mind, half a million dollars?! How could she refuse? Ethan Wilde—the heir to the illustrious Wilde empire—was no ordinary man. His grandmother held the keys to the kingdom. Her ultimatum for Ethan is marriage. A wife to secure Ethan's claim to the empire. Jacqueline's role was clear: become his pretend girlfriend. But Ethan is arrogant and it grated against her every nerve. How could she endure his company? As time goes by Jacqueline wondered if destiny reveled in irony. She had stolen time from Ethan once; now, she danced with him on the precipice of deception. The spotlight was on them, and the stakes were higher than money—a legacy hung in the balance. Jacqueline and Ethan dance a dance desperation, desire, and danger. And somewhere between the steps, their hearts stumbled—a twist of fate that dared them to dream.

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Book cover
  • 👁 42.2K
  • 8.6

When I was a child, my grandma used to tell me stories. At the time, I never gave them much thought. Thinking they were just that… stories. Growing up, I soon realized that they weren’t lofty fantasies and fairy tales but memories of her past, memories of our ancestors before our world turned to sh*t. You see, what comes from legend, no matter how exaggerated the story becomes, there is always a sliver of truth. You just need to weed out the fiction from fact. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the Chosen One—the one who would save us all. When I was younger, I used to believe that what she said was true. Eventually, someone would be born, just as the Oracle predicted—someone who could save our souls and bind us back to our magic. Once I grew up and saw the world unfolding around me, I no longer believed in salvation. The chosen one seemed to be more of a prayer than reality. Some dream we wanted desperately to come true. Something in which we needed to find hope when there wasn’t any left. When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe in this so-called salvation? Especially when all we witnessed was death and carnage ever since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories and used to pray for the mysterious chosen one that would rid our world of its evil. Now, though, I see it for what it really is, just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. A story to create hope. Hope is dangerous; it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.

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