Novels by Emmanuel

Professor Hartley was already in the classroom when I entered, and the first thing I noticed was that he looked exactly like someone who would make students cry on a regular basis.He was maybe sixty, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a small ponytail that somehow looked dignified rather than ridiculous. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on a hawkish nose, and he wore a rumpled tweed jacket over a black turtleneck—the uniform of someone who'd stopped caring about impressing people decades ago because he was too busy being brilliant.He stood at the front of the class, arms crossed, watching students file in with an expression that suggested he'd already judged every single one of us and found us wanting.I took a seat in the middle of the room—not so far back that I looked disengaged, not so close that I looked desperate for approval. The other students filled in around me, most of them looking like they'd stepped out of a catalog for expensive casual wear. There was a palpable tension in

The alarm went off at 6:30 AM, and for the first time in my life, I didn't dread the sound.I stood in front of my closet, looking at the rows of expensive clothes that still felt like they belonged to someone else. Today was my first day at Prestige University. The suit my father had left—the charcoal gray one with the perfect tailoring—hung in its garment bag, but it felt too formal for a college campus.I settled on dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, and a navy blazer. Smart but not trying too hard. The kind of outfit that said I belong here without screaming I just got rich last week.As I adjusted my collar in the mirror, I caught sight of the fading bruise on my jaw from Marcus's punch. I'd covered most of it with some concealer the personal shopper had inexplicably included in my wardrobe haul, but up close, you could still see the yellowing edges.A reminder that good deeds came with consequences.My phone buzzed with a text from Olivia: Don't forget. Library, second floor,

Sunday was my favourite day of the week.It was on Sundays that I had the most rest as my former “Masters” were always out visiting friends and Dylan was out wasting his youth.This Sunday was different as I got to spend it all by myself doing whatever I wanted. The feeling was unlike anything I ever felt. I finally had some control of my life and I was loving it.The urge to sleep in was defeated by the intrinsic need to help Maya get home and back to her life as soon as possible.Maya had been caring, offering to tend to my wounds and apologizing profusely as if her “jerk boyfriend’s” gutter behaviour was her fault.Leading her through the lobby was a bit of a silent spectacle as eyes were on us as if saying “This lad obviously doesn't know how to be sophisticated just yet.” But it didn't matter to me, I did a good thing and I was proud of it. It was probably more good than any of them have done in their entire lives.“Make sure that jerk never steps foot in this building again”. I

Maya came back downstairs about twenty minutes later, her hair still damp, wearing the same clothes but looking somehow brighter, like the shower had washed away the fight’s aura."Feel better?" I asked from the couch."A little, yeah." She sat down in the armchair across from me, tucking her legs underneath her. "This is surreal. A few hours ago I was screaming at Marcus in the hallway, and now I'm sitting in a penthouse that costs more per month than I make in a year.""You said you're a graphic designer?"She nodded. "Freelance, mostly. Corporate branding, website design, that kind of thing. It's not Chris Do level, but I love it.""Can I see some of your work?"She looked surprised. "Really? You… want to see it?""Why wouldn't I?""Most people just nod politely when I tell them what I do. They don't usually care." She pulled out her phone. "But yeah, sure. I'll show you my portfolio website."She handed me her phone, and I scrolled through the images. Interesting logos, sleek web

I was dreaming of storage closets again when the shouting started.At first, it blended into the nightmare—Carol Blake's voice cutting through my sleep, demanding I take out the trash and clean Dylan's car. But as consciousness crept in, I realized the voices were real, coming from somewhere in the building."—not asking you, I'm telling you!" A man's voice, rough and angry, echoed through the hallway outside my door."I said NO! I'm not doing it!" A woman's voice shot, younger, desperate but defiant.I sat up in bed, disoriented. The digital clock on my nightstand read 1:47 AM. I'd been living in the penthouse for a week now, and this was the first time I'd heard any noise from the other apartments. The building had seemed almost tomb-like in its silence."You think you have a choice?" The man's voice again, closer now. "You think you can just say no to me?""Watch me."A door slammed somewhere down the hall, followed by the sound of heels clicking rapidly on marble. Then silence.I s

"So," Olivia said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Tell me more about yourself, mysterious hotel owner. I have a feeling you're going to make Prestige a lot more interesting."I took a sip of champagne, buying myself a second to think. The truth was impossible—*I found out I was rich about a week ago* wasn't exactly compelling dinner party conversation. "I'm not that mysterious.""Really?" She tilted her head, studying me with an intensity that made me feel like a specimen under glass. "Because Victoria Ashford doesn't escort nobodies to galas. And you're wearing a tuxedo that costs more than most people's taxes , but you look like you'd rather be anywhere else.""Maybe I just don't like parties.""No." She stepped closer, and I caught the faint scent of her perfume—something expensive and understated. "You don't like *these* parties. There's a difference."She was reading me too easily. I needed to redirect. "What about you? You seem pretty comfortable here for someone who claims