Novel Upper Westside の小説・ストーリー

“I don’t know much about him, but I doubt it. He owns his apartment outright, so he’s well-off, but a billionaire? No way.” Claire hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Guess we’ll find out.” By the time I arrived back at Westchester Heights, the exclusive high-rise where Christopher’s apartment was located, it was well past midnight. The streets were eerily quiet, with only the occasional passing car breaking the stillness of the night. I parked my electric scooter, stretching my arms as I took in the view of the dimly lit entrance. I stepped inside the elevator, tapping my fingers against my side as I watched the floor numbers light up. I was exhausted, but there was a strange sense of relief that

I let myself cry for three more minutes. Then I wiped my face one more time, put the car in drive, and headed toward Aria’s place. ———- The apartment building was in the Upper East Side. Doorman. Marble lobby. The kind of place that screamed old money. Not as big as Gavin’s penthouse. Nothing was as big as Gavin’s penthouse. But it was close. Fifteen floors of luxury condos that probably cost more per square foot than most people’s houses. The doorman…James, according to his name tag…recognized Aria immediately.

If it were, I'd be home right now, instead of sipping a watered-down whiskey and waiting for the rest of my party to join me. I checked my Blackberry again. Nothing from Angelina. No doubt, she was pissed off. Again. I'd promised to be there. Tonight was a dinner with a new family that had moved in down the street. Part of the appeal of Rye for me had been the large parcels of land. It wasn't like the brownstones in Brooklyn, one right on top of the next. In Westchester County we didn't need to know our neighbors. That wasn't my wife's attitude. She thrived on people and community.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it up. ​Our eyes met in the reflection. He leaned down slightly, his breath warm against my ear. "You don't need to fit into my mother's world, Ruby. You are the event. Remember that." ​The drive to the Upper East Side was a silent, tense countdown. When the sleek black town car finally pulled up to the historic Ray townhouse, the sheer weight of old Manhattan money practically radiated from the limestone facade. This house had history, power, and walls that had guarded the city's tightest secrets for generations.

They had lucked out in many ways concerning the apartment issue. Rick did indeed own serveral apartment buildings in New York. But the only one suitable for their current needs was in Hell's Kitchen. It was a neighborhood close to the theater district, as well as Time's Square. The location was to the west, down south of Central Park. It had just undergone a massive renovation to bring it up to city codes. The only problem was that is was not furnished. And Larry Watters was no where to be seen. Apartments in the states were not normally furnished. Most Americans owned all of their own household furnishings.

To be precise, it was more to digest the food. It wasn't my fault that I over-ate. Andrew's food was simply too amazing. He had the talent for turning delicacies into gourmet dishes. It seemed like the Lambert family placed a lot of emphasis on raising intelligent children who could look after themselves. Westonwood was a new high-end neighborhood in Jinovy, and its strategic location was tinged with sophistication as it was situated between several prestigious institutions. The properties here were so popular and expensive that everything sold out as soon as it was available for purchase.

he paused, something in the pause that wasn’t quite an explanation, “in the area.” I looked at him. His building was on the Upper East Side. I was in Brooklyn. Nobody was in the area. I stepped back from the door. “Do you want coffee?” A beat. “Yes.” I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised by the answer. He came in. I watched him take in my apartment the way he took in everything, quickly and without making a production of the looking, and I saw it briefly through his eyes, the mismatched bookshelves and the good lamp I’d splurged on three years ago and the kitchen table with the ring from a coffee cup that I kept meaning to sand out and never did.

POV: Lena Moretti The new location was a brownstone in a quiet neighborhood on the east side. Not The Obsidian with its glass walls and surveillance cameras and the ghost of who I'd been when I lived there. This was neutral territory. Three floors. Furnished but impersonal. Naomi had secured it through a chain of corporate entities that would take Julian's investigators weeks to unravel. By then, it wouldn't matter.

The figure leaned on the wall and spit the blood from their mouth, “Ouch…that man really punch me hard. I think I broke my rib again. ” Westside is a beautiful place filled with buildings made out of red bricks and flourishing Mother Nature. This pleasing place was filled with peace but no one knows besides the locals that if one goes far away from Westside Park you will reach an unknown place. A place with a house made out of tins, cans and cardboards, crimes, lies, a place truly filled with the greatest filth, Territory 26.