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Short stories Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Resurrect Thy Heart

Resurrect Thy Heart

Marcus chose to stay away from her, standing in the mattress with his hand tightly gripping the wooden beam. The whole time Ysabelle was in the washroom, his heart continuously drummed a wild beat. God, the burn in his loins was still there, increasing, and it was unceasing. Back from the time in the cave when they almost made love, Marcus went almost insane when he realized that the illusion of Ysabelle disappeared so suddenly. He was already burning at that time, ready to direct all his ardor to her. He had his mouth wrapped up on her nipple and his fingers were already snaking down her folds, but then she just vanished... just vanished, and damn, because of that, it had kept him on edge in this God-forsaken prison. Even until now. 'So this is what it feels like to want a woman,' his thoughts remarked without any guilt. He turned to look at the mocking curtain and released a deep sigh. He finally concluded one thing to himself and that was he'll play the demon's game once again. He'll allow himself to yield on the temptation. ~ H ~ The Rogratiatto Family, rumored to be an extremist believer of the supernatural, sought out the help of the Vatican Conclave to stop a recent demon possession. Famous exorcist priest, Father Marcus Thayne, was called out by the Holy Pope to do the job. Once there, not only was he struggling with the demon he was supposed to exorcise, but he was also battling himself after seeing a mysterious woman showing signs of an immortal attraction with him... Genre: Supernatural Romance, Smut, Mystery Status: Complete All Rights Reserved 2020 JMFelic Books
When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke

When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke

I spent three years, drained all my savings, and gave up my career as an architect, all just to help my husband Caden pay off his debts. Yet, at his residency appointment ceremony, I watched with my own eyes as he publicly thanked his "beautiful fiancée"—a wealthy heiress named Brianna. While I wore old clothes bought from thrift stores and survived on instant noodles just to barely cover his rent, he used my hard-earned money to buy her a brand-new BMW and gifted her a set of antique Cartier jewelry. Even the Montblanc pen I carefully selected and had engraved became a gift he gave to her. He kept our marriage a secret from the world, treating me like a nameless ATM, while using her family's hospital connections to climb step by step to the peak of his career. The most ironic part was when one day, Brianna unknowingly took out that very pen of mine to show me. "These kinds of men are just leeches. They will drain everything from you and then throw you away, shattered." Everything from my past three years had actually become an absurd joke. I blocked his number, tossed that cheap pawnshop wedding ring into the trash, and left this city to build a kingdom of my own. Later, Brianna also discovered his true colors, and together, we made sure he received the punishment he deserved. To think he actually ended up crying and screaming, kneeling down to beg for our forgiveness!
Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo

Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo

I was about to marry Dante, a ruthless New York Mafia boss. However, just three blocks away from the cathedral, his ex-wife sent a text message saying their son was coughing up blood. This was the third time, and Dante abandoned me at the altar once again, transferring a hundred million dollars to me as compensation instead. I accepted the money, but his ex-wife did not stop there. She moved into my home with her son, faked an illness, and tried to force me out. The last straw that broke me happened at the airport, when the little heir, instigated by his mother, viciously pushed me from behind. I fell hard onto the cold marble floor and lost the child I did not even know I was carrying. As I lay in a pool of my own blood, Dante's mother coldly gave an order over the phone: "The child is dead. You need to protect the living heir and Isabella's status." Dante looked at me, his face full of guilt, but eventually, he turned and walked away with them. To compensate for the child I lost, he threw a massive business empire at me, expecting me to continue waiting in the shadows while he enjoyed his family's bliss. I finally understood that in the face of his mafia bloodline, my loyalty meant absolutely nothing. With a steady hand, I signed the asset transfer documents and did not hesitate to liquidate all the properties he had given me. Then, I boarded a private cartel jet flying to Switzerland. This time, I am going to build an empire of my own!
Laced with lies

Laced with lies

Juliet leaned against the weathered rail of the boardwalk, the salty breeze tangling her hair as she closed her eyes. Allen's laughter echoed in her mind-quiet, low, the kind that wrapped around her ribs and stayed. They used to sit on this very spot, passing sketches between them, dreaming of galleries and quiet lives. He had called her "wild with restraint," a phrase she never understood until he was gone. She could still feel the warmth of his hand in hers, the way his eyes softened when he looked at her art. "Don't vanish," he had whispered. And yet, she had. The town of Bridgeport hadn't changed much in eight years. The same white cottages lined the coast, the same gulls circled overhead, and the same scent of seaweed and cinnamon buns from Margie's Diner floated on the wind. It was Juliet who had shifted, reformed, rebuilt herself in cities where no one knew her name. She turned back from the rail and walked toward the cluster of buildings that made up the town's center. Her father's campaign posters were pasted on nearly every pole-Lewis Johnson for State Senate. The sight made her stomach twist. Juliet had returned for three reasons: to sell her late mother's house, to visit Allen's grave, and to face the past long enough to escape it for good. But the house had not welcomed her. Dusty, echoing, full of old canvases she'd never finished, the rooms felt like frozen whispers of a girl she no longer was. She reached Margie's and stepped inside, the bell over the door chiming like an old friend. A few heads turned. A pause. Then came the hush. "Juliet Johnson?" Margie stepped from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes wide. "Well, I'll be. You're a ghost." Juliet smiled faintly. "Just visiting." Margie's hug was warm and cinnamon-scented. "Your daddy'll be glad to know you're in town." Juliet doubted that. "I'll stop by." Margie gave her a booth and a slice of cherry pie without asking. As she ate, Juliet stared at the walls. Photos from decades past filled them: fishermen, town fairs, prom queens, and one image in particular-a black-and-white shot of Allen and Juliet on the boardwalk, his arm draped around her shoulder, both laughing mid-sentence. It hurt to look at. So she didn't. The next morning, Juliet walked to the cemetery on the edge of town, her sketchpad tucked under her arm. She passed rows of sun-faded headstones until she reached Allen's. The marker was modest-Allen Graves, Beloved Son, Dreamer, 1989–2017. At its base were seashells, dried flowers, and a small bundle of pencils bound by twine. She knelt. Ran her fingers over the name. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I shouldn't have left the way I did." There was no reply, of course. Just the distant crash of waves and the rustling of dune grass. But Juliet opened her sketchbook anyway and began to draw. A boy at peace. A sea that never stopped moving. She didn't hear the footsteps until they were close. A small voice broke the silence. "Are you an artist?" Juliet turned. A boy stood a few feet away, freckled, maybe ten years old, holding a crumpled bag of marbles. He looked like Allen had once-same dark hair, same curious eyes. "I am," she said. "My name's Marco. My granddad's buried over there." He pointed. "What's your name?" "Juliet." He nodded solemnly, then peered at the sketch. "He looks nice." "He was." Marco looked at the grave. "You must've loved him." Juliet didn't answer right away. "I did. In ways I didn't understand until I couldn't tell him anymore." Marco sat cross-legged beside her, uninvited but not unwelcome. "I think when you draw someone, it means you still love them." Juliet smiled. "You might be right." They sat there for a while, two strangers in quiet company. When Juliet finally stood, Marco said, "You should come to the boardwalk fair. It's tomorrow night. My mom says it's the best thing about this town." Juliet hesitated, then nodded. "Maybe I will." Later that afternoon, she found herself in her father's office. Lewis Johnson stood behind his desk, speaking into a headset, gesturing toward charts on a whiteboard. Politics still clung to him like cologne. Juliet waited until he noticed her. He froze mid-sentence. "Juliet," he said, removing the headset. "Hello, Dad." He crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into a surprisingly firm hug. "It's been too long." She stiffened, then relaxed. "Eight years." "You could've called." "You could've asked why I left." A beat passed. He didn't answer. Instead, he motioned to a chair. "You look well." "So do you. Campaigning suits you." "It's exhausting." He smiled thinly. "But rewarding. We're close." Juliet nodded, unsure what to say. So many unspoken things between them. He cleared his throat. "Your brother's organizing the fair tomorrow. It's part of the campaign. You should come. Reconnect." "Reconnect with who?" "With the town. With you