Fiction
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER EIGHT
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." The upper corridor was a vacuum of silence, a sharp contrast to the muffled bass of the music vibrating through the floorboards downstairs. "The safe is behind the Caravaggio," Julian whispered. He was sweating, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches. He looked less like a thief and more like a man walking toward his own execution. "Inflection, Julian," I murmured, my voice a calm anchor in the dark. "If your pulse is racing this hard, your hands will shake. If your hands shake, we fail. You are not a thief tonight. You are just a son taking back what was stolen from him." He nodded, swallowing hard. We reached the Boss’s study. I stepped to the door, my ears tuned to the frequency of the house. I knew the rhythm of the guards’ footsteps; I knew the delay in the security camera’s rotation. I was the one who cleaned the lenses, after all. "Three minutes," I said. "Go." Julian swung the heavy painting aside. The safe was a biometrically locked beast, but Julian had been watching his brother’s patterns for weeks. He pressed a thumb—a silicone mold we’d spent three hours perfecting in the laundry room—to the scanner. Click. The door swung heavy and silent. Inside weren't just gold bars or jewels. It was a graveyard of paper. "Get the ledgers," I commanded, keeping my eyes on the hallway. "And the blue folder. That’s the Mansour agreement." Julian scrambled, his fingers flying through the files. "I found it. And...Mikael." He pulled out a weathered, dark red book. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. "Your passport." He handed it to me. For a moment, the weight of it—the sheer physical proof of my existence—nearly broke my composure. I tucked it into my vest, the edge of the leather pressing against my ribs like a promise. "We have to go," I whispered. "Now." We were halfway to the door when the light in the hallway shifted. A shadow stretched across the threshold—long, wide, and familiar. "You always did have a fascination with things that didn't belong to you, Julian." The Boss stood in the doorway. He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding something much worse: a remote detonator for the house’s silent alarm and a look of profound, cold disappointment. "And you," the Boss said, his gaze turning to me. "The polyglot. I should have known that a man who understands every language would eventually learn the language of treason." Julian stepped in front of me, the ledgers clutched to his chest. "It isn't treason if the King is a murderer, Elias. I know about the brakes. I know about Layla." Elias stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. "Knowledge is a heavy burden, little brother. It’s a shame you won’t have to carry it for very long." He looked at me, a cruel smile touching his lips. "Mr. International, was he worth it? Was a few nights of playing hero worth the price of never leaving this city alive?" I didn't blink. I reached into my pocket, but I didn't pull out a weapon. I pulled out my phone. "I didn't just take the ledgers, sir," I said, my voice dropping into that cold, precise 'Professor' tone. "While Julian was opening the safe, I was uploading the contents of your private server to an offshore cloud. If my heart rate stops, or if I don't check in every sixty minutes, the Ministry, Interpol, and Mansour’s rivals get a very interesting reading list." The Boss’s smile faltered. The zero-sum game had just changed. "Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER SEVEN
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." The dining hall was a theater of excess. Crystal chandeliers hummed with light, and the scent of roasted lamb and expensive oud hung heavy in the air. My job was simple: pour the wine, clear the plates, and remain a ghost. But Julian was vibrating beside me. He sat across from Mansour, a man who looked like he was carved out of polished obsidian and arrogance. Between them sat Layla, her eyes fixed on her plate, her hands trembling as she toyed with a diamond bracelet that I knew, with a sinking gut, had been a gift from Mansour. "The Mediterranean routes are expanding, Mansour," the Boss said, leaning back with a glass of that 'missing' Bordeaux. He cut a sharp glance at me as I topped it off. "With the right...alliances...we could control the flow from Beirut to Marseille." Mansour smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He reached over and placed a heavy hand on Layla’s shoulder. She flinched, almost imperceptibly. "Family is the best foundation for business," Mansour purred. He looked at Julian. "Don't you agree, Julian? Or are you still too busy with your...hobbies...to appreciate the value of a good merger?" Julian’s fork scraped against his plate, a harsh, metallic sound. "I think some mergers look a lot like hostaged situations, Mansour. But then, I’ve always had a better vocabulary than my brother." The table went silent. The Boss’s eyes darkened. "Julian," the Boss warned, his voice a low growl. I moved in then, a calculated intervention. I stepped forward to refill Mansour’s glass, intentionally angled so my body shielded Julian from the Boss’s direct line of sight. "More wine, Mr. Mansour?" I asked, my voice the perfect blend of servitude and silk. Mansour looked up at me, his lip curling. "The help speaks. How quaint." He looked back at Julian. "You should teach your staff that some things are better left unsaid. In my house, we cut out the tongues of those who interrupt." Julian stood up so abruptly his chair screeched. "In your house, Mansour, you probably don't know the difference between a conversation and a conquest." "Sit down, Julian," the Boss commanded, his hand slamming onto the table. "No," Julian snapped. He looked at Layla, who was now quietly crying. He looked at me, a flash of 'Mr. International' sparking in his eyes—a silent signal. "I’m going for a walk. The air in here is foul" and then stormed out without a backward glance. Mansour laughed, a dry, cruel sound. "He’s a spirited one. A shame he doesn't have your discipline, Al-Faye." I followed Julian a moment later, ostensibly to fetch more water. I found him in the shadows of the hallway, leaning against a pillar, his chest heaving. "I’m going to kill him," Julian whispered, his eyes wild. "I'm going to take that ledger and I'm going to bury both of them." "Not yet," I murmured, stepping into his shadow. "Anger is a poor translator, Julian. It makes you sloppy. You need to be precise." "He touched her like he owned her, Mikael," he gasped, grabbing the lapels of my vest. "He touched her right in front of me." "I know," I said, my voice hardening. "And that is why we aren't just going to ruin him. We’re going to erase him. But first, we need the key to the safe. The one your brother moved this morning." Julian looked at me, the fire in his eyes turning into something cold and focused. "Tell me what to do, Professor." "Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
Firebug: Ch. 19 - The Durants
The last time Roman had seen Theo so angry, Jasper's face got dented with a dodgeball. His bandaged hands shook from gripping his sheets so tight, his freckled face darkening from off-white to blood red within seconds. When he saw the tears gathering in the corners of the shorter teen's eyes, Roman felt a spark of anger ignite behind his own sternum.
By Natalie Gray9 months ago in Chapters
Puss's Boots - Chapter 6
Gwynnë was everything that the siblings thought it would be and more. The buildings themselves shined, and it seemed as though they were reaching up to scrap the clouds. The streets were filled with all new sights and sounds and smells. Merchants lined the gutters, crying out their wares and keeping a cautious eye out for thieves. Their carts were full of polished ornaments and sweet smelling, spicy treats. Perfumes and fabrics overflowed the tables and booths; jewellery, weapons, and various other trinkets caught the light and shone.
By Dionearia Red9 months ago in Chapters
Platform 4
Rushing out of the door and slamming it hard enough to kick out some of the dust, Maxine jabbed the button for the lift and impatiently checked her watch, counting to her impending doom. Her hate for the lift festered, which, out of any day, chose to ruin today. Today, her first interview for her first job, and she was already going to leave a bad impression.
By Ankitaa Arunđź’•9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER SIX
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." The morning light in the penthouse was cold and clinical, reflecting off the white marble like a blade. I was back in my "uniform"—the quiet, efficient domestic worker—moving through the dining hall to clear the wreckage of last night’s ministerial dinner. Julian was there, slumped in a designer chair, staring at a cup of black coffee as if it held the secrets of the universe. He looked older today. The reckless playboy mask was gone, replaced by a haunting exhaustion. As I reached for his empty saucer, his hand shot out, catching my wrist. It wasn't the frantic, heated grip from the storage room. It was a plea. "I thought I was the smart one, Mikael," he whispered, his voice cracking. "In the library, when I told you Layla was being 'stupid'... I actually believed I was the one protecting her. I thought I was keeping her secret from my brother." He let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "I was so arrogant. I lectured her on being careful, while my brother sat in the next room, probably laughing at me. He didn't just 'find out' about Mansour. He vetted him. He practically hand-delivered her to that monster to secure the Mediterranean routes." I stayed silent, allowing him the space to bleed. In my world, the most powerful thing you can give someone is a witness to their truth. "I’ve spent years playing the 'disappointing brother,'" Julian continued, finally looking up at me. His eyes were raw. "But I was the one who was blind. I didn't see the strings. I didn't see that every 'accident' and every 'romance' in this house was just a transaction. I'm not the hero of this story, Mikael. I’m just another piece of furniture he hasn't sold yet." I leaned down, moving closer than a servant should. "You were wrong because you still have a heart, Julian. In this house, that is a tactical disadvantage. But it’s also the only thing that makes you worth saving." I slid my hand over his, a brief, grounding contact. "Now, tell me. What did you find in the safe?" His expression hardened. "The passport. Yours. And a set of ledgers that don't match the ones the Ministry saw last night. He’s not just selling Layla; he’s laundering Mansour’s shipping profits through the family foundation." "Then we have our leverage," I said, my mind already translating the data into a weapon. The heavy double doors at the end of the hall swung open. The Boss—Julian’s brother—walked in, his suit perfectly pressed, his face a mask of predatory calm. He stopped, his eyes flicking from Julian’s haggard face to my hand, which I had retracted just a second too late. "Mikael," the Boss said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "I noticed a discrepancy in the pantry inventory this morning. It seems a bottle of my 2012 Bordeaux is missing. You wouldn't happen to know where it went, would you?" The air in the room turned to ice. Julian went pale, his breath hitching. He knew—we both knew—that the "missing wine" was a test. A way to see if we would blink. "I’ll check the logs, sir," I said, my voice as steady as a surgeon’s. "Perhaps it was misplaced during the rush." "Do that," the Boss said, his gaze lingering on me a moment too long. "Because in this house, we don't tolerate things that go missing in the dark." "Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER FIVE
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." The storm that had been brewing over the Mediterranean finally broke, lashing the penthouse windows with a rhythmic, violent thrum. In the basement storage room, surrounded by crates of expensive vintage wine and spare linens, the air was thick enough to choke on. I was counting the inventory of the 2012 Bordeaux—the Boss’s favorite—when the door clicked shut. Julian was standing there, his linen shirt damp from the rain, his tie pulled loose. He looked at me, his eyes traveling from my scuffed work boots to the pen tucked behind my ear. "You're late for the lesson, Mr. International," he said. His voice was rough, a jagged edge of humor masking a deeper, more desperate hunger. "The lesson was canceled, Julian," I replied, not looking up from my clipboard. "Your brother is hosting a dinner for the Ministry. I have four dozen crystal glasses to polish before midnight." Julian moved then, fast and reckless. He swiped the clipboard from my hand, the metal clattering against the concrete floor. He stepped into my space, pinning me against the cold steel of the wine rack. "Screw the glasses," he whispered. "I can’t breathe in this house anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see those cut brake lines. Every time I hear my brother’s voice, I hear a murderer." He leaned closer, his forehead dropping against my shoulder. "You’re the only thing that feels...real. Even if you are a beautiful, lying genius." I should have pushed him away. I should have reminded him of the hierarchy, the cameras, the danger. But as his hand found the back of my neck, my resolve shattered. "In syntax," I whispered, my voice dropping into that low, melodic register that I knew made his heart race, "the most important part of a sentence isn't the subject. It’s the verb. The action." I reached out, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling his head back until he had to look at me. "You want to play the rebel, Julian? Rebels don't just talk. They take." Julian let out a low, guttural sound—a name I hadn't taught him yet. He crashed his lips against mine, a messy, frantic collision of teeth and salt and gin. It wasn't a "posh" kiss. It was the desperate act of a man who was drowning and had finally found a lifeline. I kissed him back with a ferocity that surprised us both. I tasted the rebellion on his tongue, the bitterness of his grief, and the sudden, explosive heat of our proximity. My hands slid down his back, pulling him flush against me, feeling the hard line of his body beneath the expensive fabric. He broke the kiss, gasping for air, his eyes searching mine. "What's the word for this?" he breathed. "In any of your languages, Mikael... what do you call this?" I trailed my fingers down his jaw, my thumb pressing into the center of his lower lip. "Incendio," I whispered in Italian. "Fire." Julian gripped my waist, his knuckles white. "Then let it burn. If we’re going to ruin my brother, let’s start by burning his house down from the inside." He pushed me back against the racks, his hands wandering with a new, frantic authority. The "servant" and the "master" were gone. In the dark of the storage room, we were just two men speaking a language that didn't need a single word. "Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER FOUR
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." The garage of the Al-Faye estate was a cathedral to excess—rows of Ferraris, Porsches, and vintage Mercedes-Benzes, all kept in a state of perpetual shine by people like me. At 2:00 AM, it was also the only place to hide. I was finishing a late-night buff of the Boss’s SUV when the elevator hissed open. Julian stumbled out, but he wasn't drunk. He was vibrating with a different kind of energy—agitation. He held a set of keys to a 1967 black Corvette, a car he was strictly forbidden from touching. "Get in," he snapped, throwing a leather jacket over his shoulder. "Mr. Julian, it is past my shift, and that vehicle is—" "I didn't ask for a legal brief, Oxford. I asked you to get in." He looked at me, his eyes wide and bloodshot and gave a tired sigh. "Please. I just need someone who won't ask questions in a language I have to answer." I climbed into the passenger seat. The engine roared to life, a guttural scream that echoed off the concrete walls, and we peeled out into the humid Beirut night. We hit the Damascus Road, climbing toward the mountains. Julian drove like a man trying to outrun his own shadow, the speedometer climbing into territory that made the chassis tremble. "My father and mother died on a road like this," Julian said suddenly, his voice flat against the rushing wind. "Everyone says it was an accident. A 'brake failure' in the rain." I watched his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. This was it. The core of the rot. "But you don't believe that," I said...not a question but a statement. "I found a mechanic's report three years ago," he whispered, swerving around a sharp bend. "Hidden in my brother’s private files. The lines weren't worn, Mikael. They were cut. Clean. Precise." He slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on a cliffside overlook. Below us, the lights of Beirut flickered like dying embers. "My brother didn't just inherit the empire," Julian turned to me, his face twisted in a mask of grief. "He bought it with their blood. And now he’s doing it again with Layla. He’s selling her to Mansour to cover the debts he made while expanding into Europe." He slumped against the wheel, the bravado of the "playboy" vanishing. He was just a man drowning in a house of murderers. "Why tell me?" I asked softly. "Because you're the only one who isn't part of the script," he said, looking at me with a desperate intensity. "You're a ghost. You're a genius hiding in a servant’s skin. You know how to move between worlds." He reached out, his hand shaking as he gripped my forearm. "Help me ruin him, Mikael. Help me steal the documents from his safe—the ones that prove what he did. I’ll give you your passport. I’ll give you enough money to buy a university in Paris. Just... don't leave me alone in this." I looked at his hand on my arm, then up at his shattered expression. The "invisible" man was being offered a seat at the table of revenge. “Venganza es un plato que se sirve frĂo,” I whispered in Spanish. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Julian didn't care about the translation this time. He just leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine, breathing in the scent of the floor wax and old books that clung to my skin. "Teach me that one tomorrow," he breathed. "Tonight, just stay." "Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
