[WLW] [TAGLISH] Lucifer has one dear daughter. "God only knows, but you'll never leave her." - The 1975 Her name is Heia Rhiannon Marchesi Verridien. Say it slow. She doesn't answer to it all the time. Because the devil is a liar. And his daughter is a crowded room. Heia. Rhiannon. Rhirhi. Could there be another one? Do not confuse them. One pulls you in. One pushes you away. And one doesn't even know you. Some girls save you from fire. Other girls set your house on fire just to carry you out of it. She might exactly be the latter. It wasn't the eviction notice that ruined Charlie Vivienne's life. It wasn't even the fire that swallowed her apartment whole. It was the hand that pulled her out. Because the woman who saved Charlie's life might be the very same monster who destroyed it years ago. While Charlie is busy memorizing the angles of Heia's jaw, Heia is busy trying to scrub blood off her hands from a murder she does not remember committing. The original sin wasn't eating the forbidden fruit. It was falling in love with the devil's daughter. And it is without salvation... Because you will never ask to be saved. "I built a church between the devil's thighs. I only kneel for her." WARNING: This story contains psychologically complex, morally gray characters and uses religious imagery metaphorically. If that unsettles you, this might not be for you. Genre: Psychological Romance, Political Thriller

[WLW] [ENGLISH] I am not Caroline. Caroline is dead. But grief is a selfish, gaping thing. To everyone else, Caroline is alive, and Celestine is the one in the dirt. I was fine surrendering to the earth. Until that 2:00 AM smoke break where everything in the world was bleeding orange-the streetlamp, the bench, the flickering spark of almost-but-never-red between us. Until a girl with trembling hands, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and greedy, moon-like eyes looked right through the grave I had dug for myself. She introduced herself as Romance. "Romance. As in, the death of." A gaunt, half-dead stranger who starved the feral hunger out of her own eyes just to teach me how to crave the world again. I should have known right then and there. I should have known better than to build cathedrals out of cigarette smoke. I should have known better than to beg a deaf universe for a thirty-second day in December, or trust the moon to stay still when the sun is ruthlessly rising. She asked me to wilt with her. So why am I the one left breathing, forced to bloom in a world where Romance is dead?