marina suriel
3 Published Stories
marina suriel's Books and Stories
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From Brokenness To Billionaire Bride
William Jafferson My father raised seven brilliant orphans to be my potential husbands. For years, I only had eyes for one of them, the cold and distant Damien Paul, believing his distance was a wall I just had to break through.
That belief shattered last night when I found him in the garden, kissing his foster sister, Eve—the fragile girl my family took in at his request, the one I had treated like my own sister.
But the true horror came when I overheard the other six Fellows talking in the library.
They weren't competing for me. They were working together, orchestrating "accidents" and mocking my "stupid, blind" devotion to keep me away from Damien.
Their loyalty wasn't to me, the heiress who held their futures in her hands. It was to Eve.
I wasn't a woman to be won. I was a foolish burden to be managed. The seven men I grew up with, the men who owed my family everything, were a cult, and she was their queen.
This morning, I walked into my father's study to make a decision that would burn their world to the ground. He smiled, asking if I'd finally won Damien over.
"No, Dad," I said, my voice firm. "I'm marrying Hunter Beach." When Sisterhood Becomes Betrayal
Zaccaria Linn The dream always started the same way: my sister, Sarah, screaming my name, her face twisted in pure terror, pointing at a world where the dead walked.
This time, the screaming wasn't a dream. It was real, coming from down the hall.
"They're coming! I saw them!" Sarah shrieked, convinced her nightmares were prophecies.
My parents rushed to her, cooing about a bad dream, but Sarah insisted it was real, clearer this time, a prophecy of rotting flesh and dead eyes.
I lay in my bed, heart a slow drum, remembering my first life: the foolish concern, the attempts to reason that always ended with their blind siding of Sarah.
My logic was met with her tears, my calm with her hysterics, and our parents, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, labeled me "insensitive," not understanding how "special" Sarah was.
My efforts to save their retirement, to hide car keys from her "prepper" conventions, led to slaps and silent treatments, to accusations of sabotaging her "survival instincts."
The family crumbled around her delusion, losing their house, savings, everything, and when the apocalypse never came, they blamed me for not believing, for not supporting their perfect, unified front of madness.
They cast me out, and I died alone in a homeless shelter, not from a zombie, but from pneumonia.
Now, I was 22 again, lying in my childhood bed, listening to the prelude of that same disaster, a second chance at a test I' d failed spectacularly.
This time, I knew the answers.
"It' s going to start with the birds!" Sarah yelled, predicting a mass blackbird death event, completely unaware I knew about the city' s planned fumigation.
My parents leaned into her every word, their faces a mix of worry and excitement, while a bitter taste filled my mouth.
I wouldn' t stop her. I wouldn' t save them.
This time, I would watch them burn.
And I would bring the gasoline. His Annoyance, My Awakening
Fonz Nadherny The last thing I remembered was the grinding sound of machinery, a symphony of six years in our small town, now a city death knell.
My children, Lily and Tom, were so excited to visit their father Michael' s new, successful factory.
"They've missed Michael so much, Ava. Let them go see him. He's just inside." Sarah, Michael's brother's widow, whispered, her arm around my shoulder, her voice a sweet poison.
I watched them run ahead, their small figures disappearing through the massive doorway, believing their father was building a better life for us.
They didn' t know the truth: Michael had left us for Sarah, taking our factory severance pay to build his new life with her and her children.
Then I saw Sarah' s real smile-sharp, cold. She pushed an unsecured metal cart. A klaxon blared. Two screams, cut short by a sickening crunch, a spray of red. My world ended.
Michael stood over me, his face filled with chilling annoyance, not grief.
"Well, that's that, then," he said, flatly. "Saves me the trouble and expense of a divorce, I guess."
He glanced at the machinery. "They were just baggage anyway, Ava. Holding me back."
His words annihilated my soul, a physical force squeezing the breath from me. The world turned gray, then black. I died on that cold, greasy floor.
And then, I gasped. I was in my cramped bedroom, sunlight filtering through the grimy window. A calendar on the wall marked the day the factory closed. Lily and Tom sat on the rug, whole and alive.
"Mommy?" Lily asked, her big brown eyes filled with concern. "Are you okay?"
Tears streamed down my face. I clung to them, inhaling their scent. I was back.
The memory of their deaths, of Michael's monstrous words, was burned into my mind. Grief remained, a hot knot of agony, but something cold, hard, and sharp solidified beside it.
Revenge. Michael. Sarah. You will pay. I will tear down your world, piece by piece, and I will make you feel every ounce of the agony you gave me.
This was not a second chance at happiness. It was a second chance at justice. Love, Lies, And A Second Life
Rafaela Kokkotou The air in the room was stale, thick with the smell of antiseptic and despair.
They told me I was sick, that grief had broken my mind.
My mother-in-law, Martha, would visit, her concern a chilling mask, whispering to doctors how I was hallucinating, a danger to myself and my son, Billy.
"She doesn' t understand that David is gone," she' d insist, loud enough for me to hear.
But the real horror wasn't my madness; it was the truth.
Three days after my husband, David, a decorated police officer, was supposedly killed, I stood at his memorial, expected to mourn.
The man in the casket wasn't David.
It was Mark, his identical twin, missing the faded scar David always had.
That night, I found David, not dead, but alive in our summer cabin, with his childhood sweetheart, Emily Peterson.
He confessed it all with chilling indifference: Mark was killed in a shootout, and David seized the chance for a new life, free from me and Billy.
"I never loved you," he said, as if explaining a simple math problem. "It was always Emily."
I tried to tell everyone-his mother, his captain-but they looked at me with pity, already conditioned by Martha and David' s lies.
They had me committed to a white room, and David married Emily.
My four-year-old son, Billy, was left in their care, crying for me every night.
Then came the unbearable news: Billy was dead, a "tragic accident" from an overdose of cough medicine.
My world shattered.
Desperate, I fashioned a noose, remembering Billy' s bright laugh, the life David had stolen.
My only regret was that David would never face justice.
I kicked the chair away.
Darkness took me.
Then, a blinding light, and I was back on my living room couch, the day David was supposedly killed.
I wasn' t dead. I was back.
Martha' s face, a mask of practiced sadness, now held a triumphant curl.
I heard David' s voice from the hallway, "Is she stable?"
"She' s fragile, but she bought it," Martha replied. "She' ll break, just like we planned. We' ll have her committed, and Billy will be ours."
"Good," David said. "Make sure she doesn' t get near the body. Mark didn' t have my scar."
This time, I was not the grieving widow.
I was the executioner. Beyond His Betrayal, A Mother Rises
Zitella Shepp I was overjoyed when I found out I was pregnant. I posted a simple, happy announcement on social media—a picture of tiny baby shoes, captioned "Our next chapter begins."
The next day, my husband Kaeden accused me of doing it to deliberately hurt his "fragile" friend, Clemmie, who was infertile. He said I needed to be taught a lesson in cruelty.
He strapped me to a table and, while Clemmie watched, ordered a man to electrocute me.
I begged him to stop, to think of our child, but he refused.
"Increase it," he commanded, even after being warned it could kill the fetus. He left me bleeding out on the cold metal.
But the horror was just beginning. I was rushed to a hospital, not to be saved, but to be harvested. I heard the doctor's triumphant voice: "It's a perfect match."
My husband was having me murdered to give my heart and kidneys to his mistress.
My last sensation was the cold steel of a scalpel on my skin. My last thought was of my baby, who would never draw a breath. The monitor flatlined into a single, unending tone.
Then, my eyes fluttered open. I was alive. The Debt of Deception
Mu Hui Xin My bank account was a graveyard of numbers, each one a testament to my crushing debt.
One hundred and fifty-two thousand, four hundred and eighty-one dollars and sixty-two cents, to be exact.
It all started when Jennifer Chavez, my ex-colleague, whispered about an impending grid collapse.
I believed her. I drained credit cards, took out high-interest loans, and filled my Portland apartment with freeze-dried food and solar generators.
Then Jennifer posted from Bali, "#blessed."
The grid never went down. My life, however, did.
Eviction notices piled up, and my phone wouldn't stop buzzing with collection calls.
I hated Jennifer. I hated her effortless success while I stared at a mountain of useless survival gear, suffocating under my own stupidity.
Just when I considered oblivion, my obnoxious upstairs neighbor, Sweet_Caroline, shrieked, "I make more money in one of these livestreams than you probably make in a month."
Something snapped.
What if I gave them an apocalypse? The Twin Who Stole Tomorrow
Jin Yi I woke up to the hum of the office lights, keyboards clattering.
This was my desk at Visionary Films.
I was alive, and it was October 14th – the day before everything went to hell.
Last time, my identical twin sister Jessica stole my script, getting me accused of plagiarism, leading to my parents disowning me and my career's ruin.
It ended with my death at the hands of a crazed fan.
Now, I was inexplicably back, but the horror was far from over.
I soon realized Jessica didn't just steal finished work; she could pluck ideas straight from my mind, instantly.
Even a simple drawing, conceived moments before, would appear on her social media, claimed as her own.
My entire creative future was being systematically looted by this parasitic twin.
How could she reach into my thoughts, my unformed dreams, and claim them?
The injustice burned, the confusion maddened me.
This wasn't just sibling rivalry; it was a soul-sucking tether.
Desperate, I fled LA, burning every piece of my work.
But a frantic phone call from Jessica revealed her creative well had run dry without me.
This led me to Mama Martha, who confirmed a dark Hoodoo binding: a cursed doll, made with my essence, stealing my life force.
Now, armed with a powerful gris-gris bag, I'm back.
I'm ready to expose her and shatter the source of her stolen talent on the biggest stage imaginable. Whispers from Room 7
Meng Xinyu Two years. My spirit has been tethered to the rotting wood and peeling paint of the Starlight Motel. They told everyone I died here—a self-inflicted wound, the 'problem child' finally snapping. All I felt was a hollow ache, a desperate longing for them to finally see me, to see the truth.
Then, a chilling shift. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, their voices tight with feigned distress, and my 'perfect' brother Mark, his tone smooth with false concern, were making plans. They'd invited Leo Maxwell, the host of "Legend Trippers," a ghost hunter, to the Starlight. Their aim: to livestream "proof" that I'm a malevolent, vengeful spirit haunting them.
The livestream started, and I watched, helpless, as Mark orchestrated his performance. He painted me as a drug-addled, violent monster, choking back fake sobs as he claimed I "turned the weapon on myself." Leo found "evidence"—a rusty hunting knife and a photo with a chilling message in "my handwriting," clearly planted. The online comments flooded with sympathy for my 'poor' family, condemning me.
My spirit burned with a silent, furious injustice. I wanted to scream, to expose the lies piling up, a suffocating wall I couldn't push through. They wanted to paint me as a monster, again, and I was voiceless. If only they knew what really happened that night. If only they knew who the real monster was.
But then, away from the staged theatrics, Leo's curiosity led him to a dusty old Wurlitzer jukebox in the forgotten diner. Inside, nestled among the wires, he discovered a small, battery-operated cassette recorder. He pressed play, and from the static, my voice, my real voice, hesitantly began to speak. ENRAGED SOUL
otu Harriet Laura was a bold, courageous, gorgeous, intelligent young lady who always stood out for herself. She always fought for her right and never allowed anyone to look down on her , her family nor her friends.
She was known as the most brilliant and talented student in her class. This irritated some of her mates and led to the plot of her attack to tame her.
" Hold her, let's see how her intelligence works this time...", Ben exclaimed, landing a huge slap on her cheek.
Patrick and Fred held her tightly, chuckling and teasing.
They molested and bullied her until she passed out.
" Wait, Ben, I think we killed her....", Fred cried
" Shut up, what do you know? She's just doing that to scare us...."
" No, Ben...I think he's right...we killed her..."
" Oh, my God...what should we do..."
Join me on this journey while we find out what they did to her body and the outcome of their action.
ENRAGED SOUL;The revenge of a traumatized girl