Novels by Tumininu

ELENA'S POV Justin’s stare didn’t waver, a silent question lingering in the air between us. Then, just as suddenly as it began, he broke the connection, turning his attention back to Noah, his expression unreadable.Before I could process what had just happened, the guards surrounded me. His mother and several others had gathered near Justin, their hushed words blending with the cool afternoon air."Your identification?" one of the guards demanded, his tone brisk.I fumbled with my bag, producing the necessary documents while swallowing down the knot in my throat. The interrogation felt endless, their scepticism gnawing at my nerves. By the time they were satisfied, I was exhausted and ready to leave.The estate was sprawling, practically a small city with its maze of towering buildings and manicured lawns. As I walked toward the gate, unease crept over me like a shadow. Something about the Hunts’ home tugged at the edges of my memory, a vague familiarity I couldn’t place.Where had

ELENA'S POVMy thumb hovered over the Submit button on my phone. For a moment, I hesitated, staring at the completed application form as if it held the answers to my future. With a deep breath, I pressed it. There. Done. The first step in a plan that could either save me—or ruin me.I hadn’t slept a wink last night at the cramped hotel room I’d rented. Instead, I buried myself in research about the man who held the key to my revenge: Justin Hunt.Twenty-eight years old. Playboy turned family man. The tabloids once painted him as someone who didn’t believe in love or commitment—until five years ago, when he shocked everyone by marrying his childhood friend. The press couldn’t get enough of him.His family? Messy didn’t even begin to describe it. The Hunts Group of Companies was a legacy started by his great-grandfather, but its history was marred by scandals. Justin’s father, Mason Hunt, had married three wives. Justin’s mother, the third wife, gave birth to him first—but not long afte

ELENA'S POVWhen Jenny arrived, her expression was exactly what I expected—a mixture of shock and barely concealed pity. Her wide eyes flickered over me, searching for traces of the girl she once knew, and when they settled on mine, they softened with sympathy.It brought back a flood of memories, sharp and bittersweet. Back then, when my world was reduced to the cold confines of that hospital, Jenny was my only lifeline. She risked everything, sneaking in food, notes, and small tokens of kindness, all behind my stepmother’s back."Elena," she whispered her voice tight with emotion. "I can’t believe it’s really you."I forced a small smile, though it barely touched the ache in my chest. "It’s me. Thanks for coming."She hesitated, as though unsure how to approach me now, but I pressed forward. There wasn’t time for sentimentality—not yet. "I need your help, Jenny. Just for now. I made a list."I handed her a piece of paper with my shaky scrawl, detailing the essentials: a phone, new c

ELENA'S POVI stayed on the playground longer than I intended, the creak of the swings mingling with my turbulent thoughts. Pain and anger churned within me, an endless cycle that replayed the moment the doctors and Allison told me my child was gone. My fists clenched as the memory tightened its grip on me.Finally, I rose and made my way toward the house.When I reached the compound, I froze. The house was almost unrecognizable—renovated, larger, grander. Strings of decorations adorned every corner, glittering under the afternoon sun. My stomach twisted as I stepped closer. There was an unmistakable hum of activity, the air buzzing with excitement.Inside, it became clear: this wasn’t just a gathering. It was an event, the kind where people donned their best clothes and their most polished smiles. I felt their gazes on me, their scrutiny cutting like glass.I moved through the crowd like a ghost, my faded jeans and plain T-shirt a glaring contrast to their designer gowns and tailored

ELENA'S POV I sat in the sterile quiet of the ward, my hands pressed against my face, waiting for the sound of my name—waiting to finally be free. "Elena Williams." I almost didn’t hear it, but there it was. My release is like an afterthought. I stood slowly, every bone in my body feeling the weight of those five years, and collected the worn documents they handed me. "Here are your belongings," the nurse murmured, passing over a small, faded backpack. I took it, fingers brushing against its rough fabric—an object, now, that felt like a stranger’s. Glancing around the hospital reception one last time, I walked out into a world that felt distant, like a faint memory. Outside, people were gathered, anxious and hopeful as they awaited their loved ones. No one waited for me, of course. I had known that. I had known that for a long time. As I crossed the hospital parking lot, a single word pulsed in my mind like a heartbeat: Revenge. A car horn jolted me out of my thoughts. I barely