Scarlet Rogers never believed in second chances... not for love, and certainly not for the man who once broke her heart like it meant nothing. When her ex returns to their friend circle with a new girl on his arm and that same smirk on his face, Scarlet does the unthinkable. She kisses Asher Ellesmere. Quiet, unreadable Asher. The man who sketches the world in silence, speaks in shadows, and watches everything like it's a story worth telling. Their lips meet under the salty breeze of a beach bonfire, and just like that, a lie is born. They'll pretend. For a month-long holiday soaked in sun and wine, laughter and late-night swims, they'll hold hands, share blankets, and trade glances meant to burn. But somewhere between pretending to smile and actually meaning it, between stolen kisses meant for show and the soft way his fingers brush hers when no one's looking, Scarlet begins to wonder... What if this lie feels more like home than the truth ever did? As the days stretch and the waves keep time, hearts tangle in quiet moments. And by the time the ex starts to notice... Scarlet's not sure she even cares. Because Asher...soft-spoken Asher, who never asked her to fake anything...is starting to feel like the one thing she never knew she needed.

She hated him the moment he walked into her life...uninvited, cold, and way too handsome for her own safety. He claimed her like a storm claims the sea. Not gently. Not softly. But with force that made her knees tremble. "You can't force me to be your wife," she snapped, lips red with rage. "Then run," Leon said, stepping closer, voice like warm danger, "but I'll still own your shadow." Stark Aaira was born into luxury, used to glitter and games. She partied too late, kissed too carelessly, and trusted no one. Especially not men who wore suits like armor and looked at her like sin. Leon Scott Kennedy wasn't just a man. He was the man...the devil the mafia feared. Cold. Sharp. Broken in places no one dared to touch. And now, he owned her for 365 days. At first, all they did was argue. Her rebellion was loud, stubborn, messy. His silence was deadlier than a bullet. But then came a night when she kissed him first...out of fury, out of confusion. And he kissed back like she was the only thing worth ruining. Their kisses were fire. Their fights were foreplay. And their nights? A mess of tangled sheets, bruised lips, whispered names. He never kissed her soft, and she never let him win easy. But in between the rough hands and locked gazes, there were moments... Moments when he tucked her hair behind her ear and didn't say a word. Moments when she touched his scars and didn't ask where they came from. "You confuse me," she whispered one night, bare skin to bare skin. "Good," he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "I hope I burn you alive." Every night, he sat in the dark with one song on repeat, his head bowed, cigarette untouched in his hand: 🎵"I've been through hell And I don't wanna go back You say you love me But what kind of love is that?" It was more than music. It was his confession. And maybe, Somewhere between rebellion and ruin, they begin to fall... Not fast. Not clean. But real.

She didn't smile on her wedding day. Not when the veil was lifted. Not when he kissed her hand. Not even when the guests tossed flowers and called it love. Scarlet Rogers married Asher Graves because she had to. He married her because he couldn't forget the girl on the train. In a house full of cold walls and quiet breakfasts, two strangers live side by side... tied by name, bound by silence. But something stirs in the hush between footsteps... in the soft clink of teacups... in the way he watches her when she isn't looking. This is a story of love that doesn't shout... a slow, aching bloom between two people who never believed in fairy tales, until they began writing their own.

Each night, the old woman whispered horrors into the dark. By the flicker of candlelight, a grandmother tells her granddaughter a new tale... twisted, chilling, and all too real. But as the stories grow darker, so does the house around them. In this collection of short horror stories, bedtime becomes a gateway to something far more terrifying than sleep.