Zayn
1 Published Story
Zayn 's Book and Story
The things we almost were
LGBT+ "Kaelin, this feels wrong... we shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, his voice shaky, eyes darting away like he wasn't sure if he should even be here.
"Relax... just trust me," I said quietly, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. He sighed, still looking conflicted.
"But I'm not gay," he blurted out again, like he needed to remind himself.
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Neither am I."
He frowned, hesitating. "Then doesn't this make us gay?"
I shook my head with a small smile. "Nah, Elian. Some things don't make you gay. We're just... helping each other out. That's all. Keep that in mind."
Unrequited follows Elian....a rich kid still haunted by his dad's death. Things take a turn when he falls for a girl in his class, not knowing their families share a dark, twisted past that's bound to mess everything up.
His best friend Kaelin is struggling too - torn between feelings he shouldn't have for Elian and the pain of being rejected by his own family. And then there's Lloyd, quietly caught in the middle, dealing with his own confusing feelings for Kaelin that only make things messier.
As secrets start to spill, their lives tangle in ways none of them saw coming. Unrequited is a story about love that hurts, truths that cut deep, and how the past always finds a way back. You might like
His Secret Obsession, My Betrayal
Amelia Rivers The air in the penthouse reeked of sex and lies; I, Chloe Davis, a tech prodigy, was tangled in the sheets of Ethan Hayes, the venture capitalist titan.
But the soft hiss of his shower was soon drowned out by a chilling message on his laptop: "Ethan, can you come keep me company for a bit...? - Liam."
Liam-the "first love" I' d recently watched Ethan escort into a hotel with tender care, the same Liam whose face filled the secret shrine in Ethan's study, a shrine I'd discovered while waiting alone on Ethan' s birthday, clutching an engagement ring.
That night, news alerts screamed of #TechMogul\'sSecretLove, confirming my worst fears of being nothing but a call-on-demand lover, a temporary diversion while his true obsession was away.
Now, as he dismissively left me for his "office" – Liam – a cold dread turned into a furious resolve. I ordered a ride-share, following him to the hotel, my heart hammering as I watched him link arms with Liam, a picture of perfect affection. They looked like a family, something I' d never known.
When my own father, eager to marry me off for fifty billion, presented Liam as his mistress' s son, my new stepbrother, the betrayal hardened into a diamond-sharp edge. I bought couture gowns I' d never wear, jewelry I' d never put on, emptying his accounts.
Then, walking through a dark alley after my credit card was cut off, I was cornered by two menacing men. Just as they grabbed me, a black car screeched to a halt, and Ethan's assistant, Mark, stepped out, followed by Ethan himself, his face a mask of cold fury.
He pulled me into his Maybach, demanding answers. My response was simple: "Away from you. Away from my father. Away from everything." This wasn't just about escape; it was about reclaiming myself. Fake Amnesia, Real Betrayal
Johan Gorski The call came at 7:05 PM on our tenth wedding anniversary.
My husband, David, was in an accident.
At the hospital, he was awake, but a young woman, his assistant Chloe, was holding his hand, acting like his wife.
When I walked in, he looked at me, a blank stranger' s stare, then asked, "Who are you?"
He laughed when I said I was his wife, then demanded security remove me, while Chloe, smiling, pretended to cry.
It wasn't just memory loss; it was a cruel, targeted erasure.
I tried proof, the marriage certificate, but he pushed it away as "just a piece of paper."
Then Chloe waltzed in with his favorite soup, and he defended her when I confronted her.
"She' s the only one who' s been here for me!" he screamed.
He snarled that I was "exhausted, haggard," compared to Chloe, who was "kind and gentle."
My wedding ring, a symbol of our forever, flew from my hand as he slapped it away, clinking under the bed.
"Don' t come back," he said, turning his back on me to comfort Chloe.
Later, I learned why: he had been having an affair with Chloe, his mother's 65th birthday ruined by his absence and her answering his phone.
My world shattered when Mark Johnson, David's estranged best friend, told me what David said: "The fake amnesia was a stroke of genius, right? A clean break."
My husband had faked a brain injury to throw me away.
A car hit me, sending me to the hospital, and I knew what I had to do.
When Mark came in, I looked at him, my face blank, then asked, "Are you… my husband?" Mummery
Gilbert Cannan This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1919 Excerpt: ...loss of humanity. Henceforth she must deal with realities, leaving him to his painted mummery.... She could understand his frenzy, his fury, his despair. \"That will do, Charles,\" she said very quietly. \"I will see what can be done about Mr. Clott, and whatever happens I will see that you are not harmed.... If you like, you can dine with Verschoyle and me tonight. You can come home with me now, while I dress. I am to meet him at the Carlton and then we are going on to the Opera.\" \"Does Verschoyle know?\" \"He knows that you are you and that I am I---that is all he cares about.... He is a good man. If people must have too much money, he is the right man to have it. He would never let a man down for want of money--if the man was worth it.\" \"Ah!\" said Charles, reassured. This was like the old Clara speaking, but with more assurance, a more certain knowledge and less bewildering intuition and guess-work. A Few weeks later, with Verschoyle and a poor relation of his, a Miss Vibart Withers, for chaperone, Clara left London in a 60 h.p. Fiat, which voraciously ate up the Bath Road at the rate of a mile every minute and a half.... It was good to be out of the thick heat of London, invaded by foreigners and provincials and turned into a city of pleasure and summer-frocks, so that its normal life was submerged, its character hidden. The town became as lazy and drowsy a spectacle as a field of poppies over which danced gay and brilliant butterflies. Very sweet was it then to turn away from it, and all that was happening in it, to the sweet air and to fly along between green fields and orchards, through little towns, at intervals to cross the Thames and to feel that with each crossing London lay so much farther away. Henle...