Novel Midtown 소설 & 이야기

Every pack began to hear of the incredible child that had recently been born into the Midnight pack, placing the pack on high alert. Nine months passed and it seemed as though tension with other packs was starting to relax. They seemed to take the news of this child as a gift and not something to fear. Still, security around the small town of Atlas, the home of the Midnight pack, didn’t let up. Patrols were sent out every night, twice as many warriors as there used to be all to ensure the child was kept safe.

Noah asked, handing her a glass. "No," Aria said. She took a sip. "It makes me... proud. We launched them, Noah. They flew." "They did," Noah agreed. "But now we have a lot of runway left." He set his glass down. He checked his watch—a reflex that hadn't faded, even in semi-retirement. "Get your coat," Noah said. "Why? Are we going to dinner?" "We're going back," Noah said. The building in Midtown had been many things over the last thirty years. A hotel. An event space. A corporate headquarters.

Right before I lost all consciousness, I saw those strange floating words in front of me again. [The side character has died such a tragic death. The villain will surely go crazy.] [My god! How could they do that to my favorite villain pairing? They are so much more believable than the main characters!] When I opened my eyes once more, the pain had completely vanished. I subconsciously looked at the clock on the wall. Midnight. Comments appeared in front of me again. [Don't open the window! There's no cat outside! It's a serial killer!]

“Beach or mountain scenery?” Freddie thought for a moment, his brows coming together. “That's hard...” “That's what she said,” I immediately replied. “Are you going to say that every time?” Freddie asked, turning to give me a gentle glare. “Yup.” I grinned up at him. He chuckled and shook his head before settling back into his original spot. “I say mountains. We have beaches in Paradisa, but there are no mountains. What about you?” “We don't have beaches or mountains in the midwest,” I replied, buying myself some time to think about my answer.

Following the explosive departure from the library, Kol retreated to the Riverside Duplex, bolting the door to his room as if he could lock out the humiliation. Despite knowing it was a masochistic impulse, his fingers moved of their own accord, opening I*******m to hunt down the digital ghost haunting his relationship.

I replied with a roll of my eyes. Alpha Cadell held a ball in his very fancy, and extremely huge, mansion. He said it was a celebration for his arrival at the new town. I was sure it wasn't only that. "Just keep your manners. We will be in and out before you even know it." Morgana stressed, and nodded her head at some woman with a winged face mask. Did I mention that this is a masquerade? We live in Midwick, Virginia. A very small and very beautiful town, which one would feel was built right in the middle of the woods.

“I’m used to it, Marti. She’s always been like that since I first started thinking.” “I’m sorry to hear that, darling,” she spoke with a pitiful expression on her face. “I’m fine. I’m used to it anyway,” she shrugged her shoulder. “So, what’s your plan now? I have a server gig tomorrow and guess where?” Marti giggled as she mentioned it. She smiled. Marti is like a mom to her. “Where?” she asked. “It’s in Hilton Midtown, baby! The biggest hotel in Manhattan. We will serve those elite businessmen so we better be prepared,” Marti was ecstatic.

The thing about Isabelle being in New York was that it changed the air pressure. Not dramatically. Not in any way that was visible or nameable on a given Tuesday or Thursday. But the city was smaller than it pretended to be Manhattan especially, which spread itself across an island and performed enormousness while actually being a collection of neighborhoods that overlapped and intersected in ways that made complete avoidance of any given person essentially a full-time project. Isabelle was in Midtown. The Calloway brownstone was on the Upper East Side.

Emma stood outside Jake Morrison's apartment building on the Upper East Side, clutching her laptop bag and seriously questioning her life choices. The elegant brownstone with its wrought-iron details and perfectly manicured entrance screamed expensive the kind of place that came with doormen and marble lobbies and editors who could afford to take risks with their authors' careers.

So he just leaves the money and leaves the room and leaves the apartment. Headphones on. Volume up. Head down. The night air is cold and he walks fast, with the specific purpose of someone who has somewhere to be and a precise amount of time to get there. The city moves around him the way it does, loud and indifferent and alive in the way that New York is alive at eight at night, all lit windows and exhaust and the distant sound of something that might be music or might be an argument. He’s somewhere on 43rd, passing the stretch of midtown that’s all theaters and restaurants and people who have made dinner reservations, when he reaches for his phone to switch songs. The playlist ends between