Mary Monroe Books Novels & Stories

Christina McQuinn, a 16-year-old witch, and her mother, once again change residence out of fear of being exposed to mortals, this time ending up in Italy. Christina is dissatisfied and fed up with constantly moving, but knowing her mother, she has to come to terms with this decision. However, the young witch does not know yet how much her life will change in this country - especially when Christina meets the mysterious Oliver.

On the day I died, my boyfriend was with another woman. He was a man I had rescued from the clutches of rich women. My condition was for him to be my boyfriend for three years, and he agreed. I showered him with money, resources, and connections, single-handedly making him famous. Yet, while he told me we could not date publicly, he casually engaged in fake romance rumors with others for publicity. One of his rumored girlfriends even came to me with a voice message. "If it weren’t for using her as a stepping stone, who would bother with someone so dull and boring?" But after I died, why did he go mad?

At the start of graduation season, my boyfriend took more than two hundred photos of Madison Vale. Chase Whitman was president of Westbridge University’s photography club. He knew how to find flattering light and how to coax people out of stiff smiles. Madison stood beneath the maples outside the library in a white dress, her graduation cap tucked under one arm. “Am I taking up too much of your time?” she asked. Chase checked the last few shots and smiled. “You make my job easy.” When it was finally my turn, he barely looked at me. “Stand by the tree.” He clicked the shutter twice and lowered the camera. “Done.” I stared at him. “That’s it?” He turned the screen toward me. In one photo my eyes were half-closed; in the other, a branch shadow slashed diagonally across my face. “Can we try again?” Chase sighed. “Avery, you always tense up. Fifty more takes won’t change that.” Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. He had posted in the Westbridge Buy: Twenty dollars for someone to spend ten minutes taking a few graduation photos of my girlfriend. Nothing fancy. She just needs something usable. Half an hour later, a stranger replied. I sent him my location, then added: Just so you know, I’m not very photogenic. His answer came almost immediately: That usually says more about the photographer than about the subject. When Rowan Hayes arrived, he looked at Chase’s two photos and said, “He didn’t even try.” An hour later, he sent me the raw files. No filters, no heavy retouching. Just me on the library steps, my hair loose in the wind and my eyes brighter than I remembered them being.

I had never imagined my life would eventually turn into a business deal. But when my father's hospital bills reached a surprisingly huge amount, I thought that was all not until my landlord decided I was better off homeless. At this point, I had no choice but to sign a contract with Alexander Pierce, a man whose presence alone screams arrogance and pride with power. The deal was simple: marry him for a year and three months, feign to be his devoted loving wife, and in turn, I will regain my financial freedom. But I can't say there was something simple about Alexander. His gaze burns too deep, his touches linger too long, and harder it becomes to state what's real or fake. I signed a contract. I never signed up for falling in love. But tell that to my heart.

Two weeks before I stopped waiting, Ethan Hayes gave my island invitation to another woman. Her name was Mia Lawson. Twenty-six, pretty, soft-spoken, and always close enough to him that people had started pretending not to notice. That night, everyone at our table went quiet. Ethan didn't. He placed the envelope in her hand and said, "You've been working too hard. Take a break." Mia blushed like he had given her roses. I looked at the envelope, then at the man I had waited eight years to marry. That island was supposed to be ours. The beach, the villa, the ceremony site facing the ocean. All of it. Maya gripped my hand under the table and whispered, "Claire, say something." But I only smiled, because if I opened my mouth, I was afraid I would beg. And I was done begging. Two weeks later, on that same island, my phone kept lighting up with Ethan's name. I didn't answer. I was already wearing the white dress he had told me to return.

When I was twelve, I bought a half‑starved boy from a Brooklyn fight pit. His ribs were broken, blood on his teeth, but he still crawled to my feet. “Choose me,” he said. “Give me a place, and I’ll be useful.” So I took him home. Twelve years later, Matteo Greco had become my family’s most feared enforcer. He bled for me, killed for me, carved my initial over his heart—and called it loyalty. Then one day a beautiful young woman showed up at my door. “You were never the one he loved,” she said with a smirk. “You’re just the nightmare he’s been trying to escape.” She placed a hand on her swollen belly and taunted me, “Matteo’s going to run away with me.” I let out a cold laugh. I had my men drag her downstairs, then sent a message to Matteo: “Get back here. Now.”

The day before the holiday, I gave the household staff the week off. Agnes was still in the kitchen before she left, packing desserts into a bag while talking to herself with a smile. "Miss Vanessa finally got what she wanted this time. Mr. Moretti even booked that seaside villa in Amalfi." I was texting Vanessa, asking her to come over later to try on the bridesmaid dress. Without thinking much of it, I asked, "Got what?" "The wedding," Agnes said naturally. "Isn't Mr. Moretti taking Miss Vanessa to Italy?" My fingers froze above the screen. Two seconds passed before I looked up at her. "Whose wedding?" The smile on Agnes's face slowly froze. She looked at me as if she had only just realized something was wrong. "You... didn't know?" For a moment, I almost laughed at how absurd it sounded. "Agnes, Luca and I signed the family marriage registry three years ago. Next week is only supposed to be the ceremony." The kitchen fell silent. Agnes opened her mouth, embarrassment spreading across her face. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I thought you knew." She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "A while ago, when I was cleaning the study, I heard Mr. Moretti mention it to his lawyer. He said the marriage registry in your hands was never officially submitted to the family council." My heart sank. Three years ago, Luca had handed that document to me himself. He said the Moretti family was unstable, that we could not announce the marriage yet. Once he entered the inner circle of the Five Families, he would hold a proper wedding. So for all these years, I never pushed him. I even turned against the Castellano family for him. Thinking back now, maybe he had never planned to truly let me through the doors of the Moretti family in the first place.

The night before I was supposed to stand beside Lucius Corleone at the altar and become his wife, he sent me a message. Sienna was pregnant. According to the family code, her child would be the first legitimate heir to the Corleone name. So Lucius ordered me to leave Sicily for three years—and tell everyone I had broken our contract first. For eight years, I had been his shadow. I wiped away his blood, buried his crimes, protected his business, and waited for the day he would finally bring me into the light. But now, he said Sienna belonged in the sunlight. I stared at the message, my hands still burning from scrubbing away the evidence of his latest murder. Then I typed back one word. "Understood." A second later, Sienna's official wedding announcement appeared on the Corleone family's private network. Apparently, she couldn't even wait until morning to wear my ring.

Miyuki Sakurai is a seemingly ordinary girl, coming from a poor family, and to earn money for college, she works in a bar. But no one knows that Miyuki is also a witch who, however, is terribly afraid of the dark. One day suddenly changes her monotonous life, as Miyuki meets two handsome men: Kai Ichatashiko, a psychologist who seems to understand her better than the others; and Aoi Takashima, an eccentric and independent musician to whom she is strangely drawn by his dark aura. Which of them will win the heart of the fearful witch? And what is the secret that connects these two men?

On the morning of my wedding, I found a saved voice message on Elliot Mercer's phone. It was only four seconds long, barely long enough to matter, yet the girl's voice filled the bridal suite as if she had stepped into the room herself. "I miss you, Elliot. I know I shouldn't." The makeup artist had just finished pinning the last pearl into my hair. My dress was zipped, my veil was hanging over the back of a chair, and downstairs, two hundred guests were waiting for me to marry the man I had loved for seven years. Elliot stood behind me in the mirror, already dressed in his black tuxedo. "She was drunk," he said. "It happened after the firm retreat. Someone dared her to send it." I checked their messages with shaking hands. Case notes. Coffee orders. Court schedules. Her apologies whenever she needed him again. His replies, patient and calm, as if being needed by her had become part of his day. There was nothing explicit. That almost made it worse. I couldn't point to one sentence and call it betrayal. I could only feel the space she had taken from me, quietly and steadily, while I was busy trusting him. My tears fell onto the lace of my dress. "Block her," I said. "Block Tessa now, and I'll still walk down that aisle." Elliot looked at me for a long moment. Then he took the phone from my hand. "After the ceremony, I'll have her moved off my cases," he said. "You have my word." Seven years together, and I still wanted his word to mean something. Then his phone rang. He looked down, and I saw Tessa's name before he turned the screen away. A second later, her text appeared. I'm outside. I can't breathe. Please don't make me do this alone. Elliot's face changed. I caught his wrist before he could reach the door. "If you leave this room," I said, my voice trembling, "don't come back expecting me to marry you." For one second, he looked like the choice hurt him. Then he peeled my fingers from his sleeve, one by one, and walked out of the bridal suite.