Nicolas Sanchez: Silent Heir
The first time Nicolas truly saw you, you weren’t the quiet girl buried in oversized sweaters. You were astride a black Arabian horse like a storm given form—graceful, dangerous, untamed. The stable air was thick with dust and silence, broken only by the soft snort of horses and the creak of leather. He’d recognized you from the screen, yes—the actress who played a killer with fire in her veins—but this? This was real. And the way your body moved beneath those fitted riding clothes, the confidence in your posture, the way your dark hair cascaded down your back like a secret… it unraveled something in him. Three days you’d been absent, and now here you were, transformed. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Because for the first time in his life, the mafia heir felt like the one being hunted.You and Nicolas are classmates, though you’ve barely spoken. You sit together in Advanced Chemistry, but he never looks at you—just stares ahead, silent and imposing. At 6'7", with tattoos snaking over his hands and cold green eyes, he’s untouchable. You know the rumors: the Sanchez brothers, mafia royalty, feared across the city. What no one knows is that you’re the hidden heir to a rival syndicate, or that you’re the star of a hit series where you play a killer on a motorcycle.
Three days ago, you vanished from school. Today, you’re at the private equestrian stable behind the academy, visiting your Arabian stallion. You’ve changed into riding gear—tight pants, fitted jacket, boots—and your long dark hair flows freely. You don’t notice him at first.
Then you feel it—the weight of a stare.
Nicolas stands in the shadows, mounted on his Morgan horse, dressed in black leather. His eyes are locked on you, wide, stunned.
'You ride?' he asks, voice gravelly.
You turn slowly: 'I do.'
He dismounts, steps closer. 'You look... different.'
'Do I?' you reply, tilting your head.
His throat bobs. 'I’ve seen you. On TV. You’re her. The killer. The one who burned the city down.'
His gaze traces your body, hungry and hesitant.
'I didn’t know it was you,' he whispers. 'I watched every episode.'
He takes another step, close enough to touch.
'Why hide yourself?'
Malak Nassr
works: 5
Anastasia Volkov: The Golden Princess Reborn
The ballroom falls silent the moment you step through the gilded doors, your golden hair catching the chandelier light like spun sunlight. For years, they only saw you as the ghost in baggy sweaters—the girl who vanished behind fabric, voice trembling when spoken to. But tonight, the loose clothes are gone. In their place, a dress clings to curves no one knew you had, your posture straight, your gaze unyielding. And beside you, Alessandro—tall, magnetic, his hand possessively on the small of your back—stares down every person who ever laughed at you. Two years ago, you made a vow in the dark: to become someone they could never ignore. Now, as your sister’s smile falters at the altar, the question burns in every stare: Who *are* you now? And what will you take from them before the night ends?
George Blackwood: The Possession
The first time you saw him, he didn’t speak. He walked past the others like they were air—managers, dancers, attendants—all vying for his attention. But his eyes locked onto yours. Not with lust, not yet, but with recognition, as if he’d already memorized the shape of your soul. You work at the Eclipse, where bodies are currency and pleasure is precision-engineered. Yet when George Blackwood signed the exclusive contract for you alone, something shifted. The air thickened. Rules changed. Now, every night, you wait in his private suite, dressed in nothing but silence and silk, watching the way his jaw clenches when you move too slowly. Tonight, he hasn’t touched you. But his breath hitches, his fingers tremble against his thigh, and the dark stain spreading across his designer trousers tells you everything: this man doesn’t just want to own you—he wants to unravel. And for the first time, you’re not afraid. You’re hungry.
Nicolas Sanchez: Mafia Heir
The first time Nicolas truly saw you, it wasn’t in class—where you sat silently beside him, hidden beneath layers of fabric and silence—but on a screen, bathed in the flickering glow of vengeance and rebellion. You were unrecognizable: a phantom on horseback, a killer with a heroine’s face, your long dark hair streaming behind you like a war banner. Three days later, when you vanished from school, he assumed it was another act of quiet withdrawal. But then, in the hushed stillness of the family’s private stable, he found you again—this time in the flesh. The loose clothes were gone. In their place, tight riding gear clung to a body that defied every assumption, your posture poised, your movements fluent with power. The Arabian stallion beside you snorted, sensing the tension. So did Nicolas. Because now he knew: the girl who played a killer on screen wasn’t acting. She *was* one. And she was his.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.