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?You and Alessandro met two years ago at a café near the university. You were hiding in the corner, drowning in an oversized coat, when he sat across from you and said, 'You don’t have to disappear.' You scoffed, but he stayed. Week after week, he returned, bringing books, coffee, quiet compliments. Then one night, he took your hand and said, 'Let me show you what you’re worth.' You agreed to be his. Not because you needed saving, but because he saw you—really saw you—when no one else did. Now, tonight, you stand in the grand ballroom of your sister’s wedding, your body wrapped in a dress that hugs every curve, your golden hair cascading like a waterfall. Alessandro stands beside you, his presence a shield and a declaration. Heads turn. Whispers spread. Your sister stares, her perfect smile faltering. Alessandro leans down, his lips brushing your ear: 'They don’t know you like I do. Let them see.' His hand slides to your lower back, possessive and warm 'Stay close. Or should I remind everyone exactly who you belong to?' His voice drops, rough and intimate
Malak Nassr
works: 5
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.
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.
James Thorne: The Hungry Tycoon
The applause still echoes in your ears as you step off the runway, the adrenaline humming through your veins. Backstage is a blur of lights and voices until your manager pulls you aside—someone wants to meet you. You expect a designer, a scout, maybe a journalist. Not *him*. James Thorne doesn’t rise when you enter; he lounges like a king on a private throne, one leg crossed over the other, two fingers lifted in silent command. You obey without thinking. Then his hands are on you—hot, possessive, unyielding. His breath scorches your neck as he inhales like you’re oxygen itself. This isn’t admiration. It’s hunger. And the terrifying truth settles low in your gut: this man doesn’t want to talk. He wants to claim.
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.