Novels by Jessy Writes

Olivia Rhoades sat in the plush vanity chair in her bedroom, the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the lace curtains casting fragile patterns across the room. She’d always loved this space — the soft lavender walls, the antique armoire her mother bragged about, the collection of perfume bottles she rarely used but displayed like trophies.But tonight, it felt suffocating.She scrolled her phone absently. Every other notification was about Jack.Jack Reynolds Appointed CEO of Reynolds Global Holdings.Reynolds Bloodline Takes Full Control.A video clip played on mute — Jack standing at the podium, looking more powerful and self-assured than she’d ever seen. Not the man who used to wash her car and pick up her dry cleaning, or the one her brother once made clean dog vomit off the patio. No, this man was something else entirely.And it terrified her.A knock sounded at the door.“Olivia, dear,” Patricia’s voice called.She sighed and muted her phone. “What is it?”“Get ready — we’r

Dawn hadn't even cracked the sky yet when Tasha Connors leaned against the long glass window of Reynolds HQ’s executive floor, her phone pressed to her ear. The city below was still wrapped in blue-black shadows, headlights scattered like moving stars through the streets.On the other end of the line, a woman’s voice answered.“This is Marcy.”Tasha smiled. “Marcy, it’s been a long time.”Marcy Grey had once been the sharpest project auditor in Hamsville before a scandal — orchestrated by Olivia’s brother, Chris Rhoades — cost her her job and reputation. Tasha had always kept tabs on people like Marcy. The discarded. The angry. The overlooked.They were the most dangerous kind.“I heard about the funeral,” Marcy said cautiously. “And about Jack.”“He’s not hiding anymore,” Tasha replied smoothly. “And neither should you.”A pause.“What do you need?” Marcy asked.Tasha’s smile turned razor-thin. “There’s a housing development project in the East District. Under Goldmark Industries. Bu

Declan Reynolds sat alone in a dimly lit corner office on the 25th floor — not the grand suite he once imagined for himself, but a small, inherited space filled with the heavy stench of aged leather and old whiskey. The echoes of Jack’s press conference still haunted his head, every word a fresh slap to his already bruised ego.He swirled a glass of scotch in his hand, barely tasting it. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered.Agnes had promised him. The company, The fortune, his name to be Forbes the list, sitting at the head of the Reynolds empire, with Jack buried and forgotten. Instead, he was sidelined, publicly humiliated, and one signature away from irrelevance.His phone buzzed—a message from an unknown number.“Tonight. 11:30 PM. Old Westgrove Docks. Come alone. Hart.”Declan’s throat tightened. The name alone made his gut churn.Victor Hart.He hadn’t spoken to the man directly since he was a teenager, but the rumors were true. A man who made corporate enemies disapp

The private suite on the 27th floor of Reynolds HQ had once belonged to Harry Reynolds. After his retirement, Agnes had claimed it for herself. Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, each filled with expensive trinkets from decades of influence. Now, those relics felt like mocking reminders of what she’d just lost.Agnes stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, her reflection sharp in the glass, city lights still dim in the weak morning mist. She gripped a crystal glass of dark bourbon — not her usual drink, but this was not an ordinary morning.Declan paced behind her, his jaw tight. “We should have stopped him before this. Called Hart sooner. He will bury him when we have the chance.”Agnes’s voice was calm but cold. “And risk an investigation while the old man’s body was still warm? No. That boy was supposed to crawl back to whatever gutter he came from.”“Well, he didn’t,” Declan snapped. “He embarrassed us. Humiliated us in front of the board.”Agnes turned then, her gaze sharp

The soft grey light of dawn bled through the glass walls of Reynolds HQ’s executive floor. Outside, the city was waking up in bursts of traffic and scattered morning mist, but within these walls, tension was a living, breathing thing.Jack Reynolds stood in front of the full-length mirror in his private office, adjusting the cuff of his tailored black suit. Tasha moved behind him, her sharp gaze reflecting his in the glass.“You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly.“Yes,” Jack replied, voice even, “I do.”The press conference was set for 7:00 a.m., timed deliberately to hijack the business news cycle and force every publication, every broadcast station, to open with his announcement.Harry Reynolds’ only biological son, once dismissed as a nobody, would officially claim the throne.But that wasn’t the real battle today.The real war would be fought against ghosts — Agnes, Declan, Victor Hart, the board, and the ones Jack hadn’t yet identified.And later, much later, his ex-wife O

The city lights bled against the evening mist as the hour crept past 8 p.m. Hamsville’s financial district, once teeming with evening suits and the hum of office chatter, had quieted into an eerie, watchful hush. Only the occasional flicker of a passing car disturbed the stillness.In Reynolds HQ’s top floor office, Jack Reynolds stood by the window, the glow of the city stretching out before him. The card with the words “We see you” rested on the glass table behind him, its message gnawing at the edge of his thoughts.He could feel the building watching him. Not through cameras, not through security, but through the eyes of those whose loyalties he hadn’t yet uncovered.Tasha stepped in quietly, her sharp heels muffled against the thick carpet. In her hand was a slim black folder. She didn’t speak right away, but her expression said enough.“Let’s have it,” Jack said without turning.She moved beside him, laying the folder down. “Margaret Yuen. I had Elise dig into her access logs. S