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Antoine-Gustave Droz was born in Paris, June 9, 1832. He was the son of Jules-Antoine Droz, a celebrated French sculptor, and grand son of Jean Pierre Droz, master of the mint and medalist under the Directoire. The family is of Swiss origin. Gustave entered L'Ecole des Beaux Arts and became quite a noted artist, coming out in the Salon of 1857 with the painting 'L'Obole de Cesar'. He also exhibited a little later various 'tableaux de genre': 'Buffet de chemin de fer' (1863), 'A la Sacristie' and 'Un Succes de Salon' (1864), 'Monsieur le Cure, vous avez Raison' and 'Un Froid Sec' (1865).
When midnight strikes, when the embers die away into ashes, when the lamp burns more feebly and your eyes close in spite of yourself, the best thing to do, dear Madame, is to go to bed.
Get up from your armchair, take off your bracelets, light your rosecolored taper, and proceed slowly, to the soft accompaniment of your trailing skirt, rustling across the carpet, to your dressing-room, that perfumed sanctuary in which your beauty, knowing itself to be alone, raises its veils, indulges in self-examination, revels in itself and reckons up its treasures as a miser does his wealth.
Before the muslin-framed mirror, which reveals all that it sees so well, you pause carelessly and with a smile give one long satisfied look, then with two fingers you withdraw the pin that kept up your hair, and its long, fair tresses unroll and fall in waves, veiling your bare shoulders. With a coquettish hand, the little finger of which is turned up, you caress, as you gather them together, the golden flood of your abundant locks, while with the other you pass through them the tortoiseshell comb that buries itself in the depths of this fair forest and bends with the effort.
Your tresses are so abundant that your little hand can scarcely grasp them. They are so long that your outstretched arm scarcely reaches their extremity. Hence it is not without difficulty that you manage to twist them up and imprison them in your embroidered night-cap.
This first duty accomplished, you turn the silver tap, and the pure and limpid water pours into a large bowl of enamelled porcelain. You throw in a few drops of that fluid which perfumes and softens the skin, and like a nymph in the depths of a quiet wood preparing for the toilet, you remove the drapery that might encumber you.
But what, Madame, you frown? Have I said too much or not enough? Is it not well known that you love cold water; and do you think it is not guessed that at the contact of the dripping sponge you quiver from head to foot?
But what matters it, your toilette for the night is completed, you are fresh, restored, and white as a nun in your embroidered dressing-gown, you dart your bare feet into satin slippers and reenter your bedroom, shivering slightly. To see you walking thus with hurried steps, wrapped tightly in your dressing-gown, and with your pretty head hidden in its nightcap, you might be taken for a little girl leaving the confessional after confessing some terrible sin.
Gaining the bedside, Madame lays aside her slippers, and lightly and without effort, bounds into the depths of the alcove.
However, Monsieur, who was already asleep with his nose on the Moniteur, suddenly wakes up at the movement imparted to the bed.
"I thought that you were in bed already, dear," he murmurs, falling off to sleep again. "Good-night."
"If I had been in bed you would have noticed it." Madame stretches out her feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something. "I am not in such a hurry to go to sleep as you are, thank goodness."
Monsieur, suddenly and evidently annoyed, says: "But what is the matter, my dear? You fidget and fidget-I want to sleep." He turns over as he speaks.
"I fidget! I am simply feeling for my hot-water bottle; you are irritating."
"Your hot-water bottle?" is Monsieur's reply, with a grunt.
"Certainly, my hot-water bottle, my feet are frozen." She goes on feeling for it. "You are really very amiable this evening; you began by dozing over the 'Revue des Deux Mondes', and I find you snoring over the 'Moniteur'. In your place I should vary my literature. I am sure you have taken my hot-water bottle."
"I have been doing wrong. I will subscribe to the 'Tintamarre' in future. Come, good-night, my dear." He turns over. "Hello, your hot- water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the tips of my toes."
"Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?"
"Shall I ring for your maid to help you?" He makes a movement of ill- temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the pillow. "Goodnight, my dear."
Madame, somewhat vexed, says: "Good-night, goodnight."
The respiration of Monsieur grows smooth, and even his brows relax, his forehead becomes calm, he is on the point of losing all consciousness of the realities of this life.
Madame taps lightly on her husband's shoulder.
"Hum," growls Monsieur.
Madame taps again.
"Well, what is it?"
Madame, in an angelic tone of voice, "My dear, would you put out the candle?"
Monsieur, without opening his eyes, "The hot-water bottle, the candle, the candle, the hot-water bottle."
"Good heavens! how irritable you are, Oscar. I will put it out myself. Don't trouble yourself. You really have a very bad temper, my dear; you are angry, and if you were goaded a little, you would, in five minutes, be capable of anything."
Monsieur, his voice smothered in the pillow, "No, not at all; I am sleepy, dear, that is all. Good-night, my dear."
Madame, briskly, "You forget that in domestic life good feeling has for its basis reciprocal consideration."
"I was wrong-come, good-night." He raises himself up a little. "Would you like me to kiss you?"
"I don't want you to, but I permit." She puts her face toward that of her husband, who kisses her on the forehead. "You are really too good, you have kissed my nightcap."
Monsieur, smiling, "Your hair smells very nice . . . You see I am so sleepy. Ah! you have it in little plaits, you are going to wave it to-morrow."
"To wave it. You were the first to find that that way of dressing it became me, besides, it is the fashion, and tomorrow is my reception day. Come, you irritable man, embrace me once for all and snore at your ease, you are dying to do so."
She holds her neck toward her husband.
Monsieur, laughing, "In the first place, I never snore. I never joke."
He kisses his wife's neck, and rests his head on her shoulder.
"Well, what are you doing there?" is her remark.
"I am digesting my kiss."
Madame affects the lackadaisical, and looks sidewise at her husband with an eye half disarmed. Monsieur sniffs the loved perfume with open nostrils.
After a period of silence he whispers in his wife's ear, "I am not at all sleepy now, dear. Are your feet still cold? I will find the hot-water bottle."
"Oh, thanks, put out the light and let us go to sleep; I am quite tired out."
She turns round by resting her arm on his face.
"No, no, I won't have you go to sleep with your feet chilled; there is nothing worse. There, there is the hot-water bottle, warm your poor little feet . . . there . . . like that."
"Thanks, I am very comfortable. Good-night, dear, let us go to sleep."
"Good-night, my dear."
After a long silence Monsieur turns first on one side and then on the other, and ends by tapping lightly on his wife's shoulder.
Madame, startled, "What is the matter? Good heavens! how you startled me!"
Monsieur, smiling, "Would you be kind enough to put out the candle?"
"What! is it for that you wake me up in the middle of my sleep? I shall not be able to doze again. You are unbearable."
"You find me unbearable?" He comes quite close to his wife; "Come, let me explain my idea to you."
Madame turns round-her eye meets the eye . . . full of softness . . of her husband. "Dear me," she says, "you are a perfect tiger."
Then, putting her mouth to his ear, she murmurs with a smile, "Come, explain your idea, for the sake of peace and quiet."
Madame, after a very long silence, and half asleep, "Oscar!"
Monsieur, his eyes closed, in a faint voice, "My dear."
"How about the candle? it is still alight."
"Ah! the candle. I will put it out. If you were very nice you would give me a share of your hot-water bottle; one of my feet is frozen. Good-night."
"Good-night."
They clasp hands and fall asleep.
Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, Complete by Gustave Droz
Antoine-Gustave Droz was born in Paris, June 9, 1832. He was the son of Jules-Antoine Droz, a celebrated French sculptor, and grand son of Jean Pierre Droz, master of the mint and medalist under the Directoire. The family is of Swiss origin. Gustave entered L'Ecole des Beaux Arts and became quite a noted artist, coming out in the Salon of 1857 with the painting 'L'Obole de Cesar'. He also exhibited a little later various 'tableaux de genre': 'Buffet de chemin de fer' (1863), 'A la Sacristie' and 'Un Succes de Salon' (1864), 'Monsieur le Cure, vous avez Raison' and 'Un Froid Sec' (1865).
"Never let anyone treat you like shit!" I learned that the hard way. For three years, I lived with my in-laws. They didn't treat me as their son-in-law but as a slave. I put up with everything because of my wife, Yolanda Lambert. She was the light of my life. Unfortunately, my whole world came crashing down the day I caught my wife cheating on me. I have never been so heartbroken. To have my revenge, I revealed my true identity. I was none other than Liam Hoffman—the heir of a family with trillions of dollars in assets! The Lamberts were utterly shocked after the big reveal. They realized what fools they had been for treating me like trash. My wife even knelt down and begged for my forgiveness. What do you think I did? Did I take her back or made her suffer? Find out!
June Rivera was divorced by her husband after three years of marriage because he wanted to be with her sister who was pregnant for him. Kicked to the curb with a divorce and rejected by her parents,she struggles to make ends meet and get a job until she saves Luis Ambrose from an accident - the only child of Rafael Ambrose, a widowed man and the CEO of Ambrose Corporation. When little Luis asks to have her as a nanny, and Rafael's mother pressures him to get married, they draw a contract. To be Luis's nanny and his fake wife for one year in exchange for 50 million dollars!
After three secretive years of marriage, Eliana never met her enigmatic husband until she was served with divorce papers and learned of his extravagant pursuit of another. She snapped back to reality and secured a divorce. Thereafter, Eliana unveiled her various personas: an esteemed doctor, legendary secret agent, master hacker, celebrated designer, adept race car driver, and distinguished scientist. As her diverse talents became known, her ex-husband was consumed by remorse. Desperately, he pleaded, "Eliana, give me another chance! All my properties, even my life, are yours."
Sandra Hill, the long-lost real heiress of the Hill family, was shunned by her own kin. Instead of embracing her, they bestowed their affection upon an impostor. They even arranged her to marry a vegetative man in place of her so-called “sister”. Sandra sneered, refusing to put up with this humiliation, cut off ties with the Hill family immediately and ran into the flash marriage with Wesley Cooper, her unconscious billionaire husband. With her incredible medical skills, she defied the odds and revived him. Little did she expect that her husband spoiled her with all his love... A medical genius, a computer prodigy, a national treasure in painting, and a racing legend... Her husband revealed her various identities, leaving the Hill family regretful. Her father came pleading, "It's Dad's fault. Please come back." Her mother wept, "Mom will protect you from now on. Please come back." Even her five brothers knelt before he, begging for forgiveness. Yet, Sandra's smile held a hint of mockery as she vowed, “Never!”
Due to the plight of her family, Phoebe had no choice but to embark on the path of selling herself. In an accident, she had a tangled night with Alexander. Everything began to derail, and even if she fled to the ends of the earth, she would still be found by him and entangled... *** Phoebe screamed in frustration, "What do you want from me?" What was this supposed to be? He raised an eyebrow wickedly. "What do I want? You'll find out soon enough." With that, he hoisted her up and carried her back into the office. The door slammed shut with a kick, and he cleared the desk with a sweep of his arm before laying her down on it, his body pinning hers in place, completely trapping her in his grasp. Every cell in his body was telling him he wanted her. He wanted to claim her again. This time, there would be no escape for her-he wouldn't let her slip away. Never again. If he had suffered for five years, then this woman wouldn't get off easily either!
They don't know I'm a girl. They all look at me and see a boy. A prince. Their kind purchase humans like me for their lustful desires. And, when they stormed into our kingdom to buy my sister, I intervened to protect her. I made them take me too. The plan was to escape with my sister whenever we found a chance. How was I to know our prison would be the most fortified place in their kingdom? I was supposed to be on the sidelines. The one they had no real use for. The one they never meant to buy. But then, the most important person in their savage land-their ruthless beast king-took an interest in the "pretty little prince." How do we survive in this brutal kingdom, where everyone hates our kind and shows us no mercy? And how does someone, with a secret like mine, become a lust slave? . AUTHOR'S NOTE. This is a dark romance-dark, mature content. Highly rated 18+ Expect triggers, expect hardcore. If you're a seasoned reader of this genre, looking for something different, prepared to go in blindly not knowing what to expect at every turn, but eager to know more anyway, then dive in! . From the author of the international bestselling book: "The Alpha King's Hated Slave."