Abrar Nayem Chowdhury's All Web Novels

The Hayes home was a modest, red-brick cottage with ivy trailing the shutters and an old lilac tree standing guard by the garden gate. Within its walls, warmth had always dwelled—except on this particular morning, when Mrs. Elinor Hayes arrived with trembling hands and a broken spirit. Her husband, Mr. Charles Hayes, sat reading the newspaper in the parlour when he looked up and saw her pale face. “Elinor? My love, what has happened?” She could not speak. Not at first. The words came only as tears—rushing, urgent, bitter. He rose and came to her side, taking her into his arms as she cried upon his shoulder. “It was—oh, Charles—it was unbearable,” she whispered. “The things he said… the things he did to Loren. Right before my eyes.” Charles’s arms stiffened around her. “What things?” he asked, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury. “He… he threw water at her. He called me names—said I poison his air. And Loren… she stood there, soaked in silence.” Charles pulled awa...

Chapter 12: Shadows Before the Spotlight The morning sun shone over the red bricks of the campus buildings as Monday dragged its feet across the university grounds. Inside the faculty building, Professor William returned—though his steps were slower than usual, and his eyes shifted, calculating. After managing to take one half-hearted class, William marched down to the CC camera room, his face wearing a mixture of suspicion and veiled fury. “Show me Friday’s footage from the teacher’s lounge corridor,” he demanded of the CCTV technician. But the staff raised a calm hand and shook his head. “Sir, you’ll have to take permission from the Vice Chancellor. It’s university protocol.” William clenched his jaw. “Do I look like I’m here for fun?” “Still, sir,” the staff replied politely, “Please talk to VC, Sir. We can’t allow access without written permission.” William’s pride battled his rage. He realized that causing a stir might raise more questions than it answers. So, with a long...

Chapter 12: The Tipping Point The morning had begun peacefully enough. The sun spilled gently through the curtains, casting warm hues upon the breakfast table. A pot of Earl Grey steamed beside fresh scones and softened butter. Loren, dressed in a pale lavender gown, was setting the table when the front door creaked open. “Mama!” she called with a smile. Her mother, Mrs. Elinor Hayes, appeared in the doorway, carrying a small woven basket of apple tarts. “I thought to bring you something sweet,” she said gently. “I know you’ve had restless days of late.” Before Loren could answer, he entered. Loren’s husband, Thomas, was already in a foul mood—his tie undone, his eyes cold. “Ah, the old lady brings pastries now?” he said, his tone mockingly bright. “Is this how you buy your place at our table, madam?” Loren’s smile vanished. “Thomas, that is no way to greet my mother.” “I speak only truth,” he said, brushing past Elinor. “She comes bearing food like some servant hoping to ear...

The sun filtered through the lace curtains of the modest London flat that   Loren   now called home. The air was heavy with something unseen, like a storm yet to break. She stood in the kitchen, her hands folded tightly in front of her apron, as the sound of her husband’s footsteps echoed down the wooden corridor. “Loren,” he called, his voice already laced with a sharpness she had grown to dread. “Is this tea lukewarm again? You do this deliberately.” She turned slowly, her voice measured. “I did not. You were late coming down. I only wished to keep it warm for your sake.” “Do not twist this upon me,” he barked. “You think I do not notice the insolence in your tone?” “I have no tone, sir,” Loren said, the faintest tremor in her voice. “Only the truth.” He walked toward her, the teacup now trembling in his hand. “You grow more arrogant by the day.” “I merely speak,” she said quietly. He raised his hand. And then— The sound. A sharp, cruel sound. Flesh meeting flesh. Loren stag...

C hapter 11: The Unfortunate Fate of William’s Trousers The plan was hatched over cups of lukewarm coffee and suppressed laughter, for no great plot is born without the accompaniment of mirth. Akib and Jeff sat in a shaded corner of the canteen, their faces alight with mischief. "Are we truly doing this?" Jeff inquired, leaning forward, his voice tinged with both curiosity and anticipation. Akib smirked. "Unless you have suddenly developed a fondness for William?" Jeff shuddered. "Heavens, no. But I must confess, I have never been an accomplice in an act of academic rebellion before." Akib chuckled. "Then consider this a lesson in practical mischief, my friend. Now, let us revise the plan once more." Jeff exhaled dramatically. "Very well. I shall summon the villain from his fortress—" "—His office," Akib corrected. "Fortress, office—both are prisons of the intellect. I shall invite him outside for a conversation...