Cold Revenge Novels & Stories

I was tired of Isabella remaining in a coma while that coward was free, without paying for what he did to her. It was very frustrating to know that he hurt his daughter so much over the years and as a farewell he ended up almost killing her and he could walk free, my hatred and my desire for revenge was too intense, I wanted him to pay for everything. "Haven't you thought that maybe he is seeking revenge on you? After all he has nothing left to lose." "As long as he wants to get revenge on me and doesn't come to hurt Isabella anymore it's okay," I answered simply, this time I wouldn't let him hurt her again.

A transparent person whom everyone carefully avoids, except to attach an insult or a sneer. I've walled myself in a stone silence. The timid girl was sacrificed on the altar of their cruelty. What emerges from her ashes is a creature of cold observation. I note everything. The names of those who snicker the loudest, Liora's fake smiles, Raphaël's cowardly indifference. I collect their misdeeds like others collect stamps. Every detail feeds the blaze of my hatred.

Quinton pressed at the faint red mark on the back of his hand and spoke in a pitiful tone, "Dr. Foster, I know you're upset about your hands. I only wanted to share the good news that I’d just published three papers in top journals, but you tried to hurt my hands instead?!" He had stolen my work in plain sight and won everyone's praise. As for me, I was already notorious. Voices of contempt and abuse rose all around me. Before I could say a word, Magnolia slapped me across the face. Then, she ground the heel of her shoe into the back of my hand. The pain nearly made me black out. "Quin never did anything to you! He's still thinking about you on his wedding day, and this is how you repay him?

Even then, my brief, fractured dreams had been a suffocating loop of dark eyes, the phantom heat of a large body trapping me against a marble counter, and the cloying, toxic scent of wintergreen. My ribs throbbed a dull, relentless rhythm beneath my heavy chest protector as I stepped out of the tunnel. Every breath of the zero-degree air felt like swallowing crushed ice. I welcomed the pain. It was a grounding mechanism, a sharp, physical reminder to rebuild the iron-clad walls Kael Sterling was systematically trying to dismantle. *If I win, you'll be at my command.*

I picked up my phone and took a photo of the ruined pot of ravioli, then another of the untouched ingredients covering the counter. I posted both online with the caption: "Seven years together feels just like this rotten meal. Beautiful on the surface, spoiled underneath long ago." After posting it, I dumped the entire pot into the trash—the torn ravioli, the cloudy water, all of it. Even the ingredients I’d prepared went straight into the garbage after that. If something had already gone bad, there was no point keeping it. Less than five minutes later, Kian called. The moment I answered, he started yelling, "Lane Miller, what the hell was that post supposed to mean? It’s New Year’s Eve. Do

But life simply makes its own to give you lessons that would bite your ass later, when I was completely in love, completely excited, to break you from scratch and teach you what is called disappointment, guilt, the sins of another resurfacing to consume everything in its path. Japanese phrases and/or words: "Revenge is better cold.” Italian phrases and/or words: "Would you help me get rid of the corpses?"

One of Rell's hands went down under three of them, screaming the cold-scream, and the man next to him froze, because the man next to him was Wren. She didn't freeze long. Wren grabbed a brand and waded in and burned the dead off a man she had every reason to let die, and dragged him back to the fire by his collar, and the two of them lay there in the dirt breathing at each other like they'd forgotten they were supposed to be killing each other. The hand lived. He lost the arm the cold had been in. We didn't save the next one. A girl of Rell's, young, got pulled out past the firelight and the cold had all of her before we could reach the spot. I marked where she went down so we could see to h

Hunter paced around. “Did you think he could marry you?” She cried. “That man is a womanizer, everyone knows. But what did you do? You fell into his trap and exposed me. Do you know how long I have worked to bring those people down?” Hilary kept crying. “Women! Show them money and they will betray you in a blink of an eye!” Hunter growled. “I call this place a Carnage.” He looked around. “I’m sure you have noticed the blood around.”

Disdain flashed across her eyes, though she was forced to maintain the smile. "Mr. Jones, let's talk about the contract…" "I'll sign it!" Mr. Jones then pointed at a bottle of vodka, which contained 53% alcohol by volume. "That is, if you down that bottle." Ramona's smile froze on her face. Vodka with 53% ABV would definitely kill her if she were to down one of those bottles in one go. But she dared not turn Mr. Jones down. All she could do was act coquettish in front of him.

The Armanis will wish they never met me. Revenge, they say, is a cold dish.