Vow Of Deception Quotes

I sweep her hair away from her face and brush my lips over her forehead. “I’ll find you again.” People say death is the end. For me, it’s only the beginning.

I wish I’d never met you.” My lips brush against her forehead. “I’ll meet you over and over again if I have to.

What do I smell like?” “Like roses and fucking addictions.” “How do you know what addictions smell like?” “I didn’t. Until you.

Tragedy ran through our blood and our love story was just a mere wilted rose. Our beginning was tainted with lies. Our ending was stained by my deception.

Do you love cuddling, Jer?” “What does cuddling mean?” Oh, the poor baby has such horrible parents. I pull him to me underneath the blanket and hold him close, stroking his hair away from his eyes. “This is called cuddling.” He grins. “Are you gonna cuddling with me every day?

People say death is the end.For me, it’s only the beginning.

From now on, you’re Lia Volkov. Wife of Adrian Volkov.

I’ve always been meant to ruin this woman, but I also get to own her. To confiscate her. To have her all for myself.

He fucks like he talks, with apparent calm yet subtle darkness.

My mom used to say that the best way to disarm someone is to tell them what they least expect.

Not to know the end of the tale filled me with a sense of emptiness, loss. I hungered for the sharp, frightening, breathtaking, almost painful excitement that the story had given me, and I vowed that as soon as I was old enough I would buy all the novels there were and read them to feed that thirst for violence that was in me, for intrigue, for plotting, for secrecy, for bloody murders. So profoundly responsive a chord had the tale struck in me that the threats of my mother and grandmother had no effect whatsoever. They read my insistence as mere obstinacy, as foolishness, something that would quickly pass; and they had no notion how desperately serious the tale had made me. They could not have known that Ella's whispered story of deception and murder had been the first experience in my life that had elicited from me a total emotional response. No words or punishment could have possibly made me doubt. I had tasted what to me was life, and I would have more of it, somehow, someway.

You don’t seem to grasp the situation, so let me explain it to you for the last time, Lia. You’re my wife, my property, my thing. That means you walk the line I trace and make the decisions I allow. If I say you leave your will at the door, you do. If I say you will walk blindly into a well, you will. In my house, my word is law and my decisions are final. If you feel the need to defy me, by all means, do. I’ll enjoy every second of whipping you into submission.

It’s that time of the month again… As we head into those dog days of July, Mike would like to thank those who helped him get the toys he needs to enjoy his summer. Thanks to you, he bought a new bass boat, which we don’t need; a condo in Florida, where we don’t spend any time; and a $2,000 set of golf clubs…which he had been using as an alibi to cover the fact that he has been remorselessly banging his secretary, Beebee, for the last six months. Tragically, I didn’t suspect a thing. Right up until the moment Cherry Glick inadvertently delivered a lovely floral arrangement to our house, apparently intended to celebrate the anniversary of the first time Beebee provided Mike with her special brand of administrative support. Sadly, even after this damning evidence-and seeing Mike ram his tongue down Beebee’s throat-I didn’t quite grasp the depth of his deception. It took reading the contents of his secret e-mail account before I was convinced. I learned that cheap motel rooms have been christened. Office equipment has been sullied. And you should think twice before calling Mike’s work number during his lunch hour, because there’s a good chance that Beebee will be under his desk “assisting” him. I must confess that I was disappointed by Mike’s over-wrought prose, but I now understand why he insisted that I write this newsletter every month. I would say this is a case of those who can write, do; and those who can’t do Taxes. And since seeing is believing, I could have included a Hustler-ready pictorial layout of the photos of Mike’s work wife. However, I believe distributing these photos would be a felony. The camera work isn’t half-bad, though. It’s good to see that Mike has some skill in the bedroom, even if it’s just photography. And what does Beebee have to say for herself? Not Much. In fact, attempts to interview her for this issue were met with spaced-out indifference. I’ve had a hard time not blaming the conniving, store-bought-cleavage-baring Oompa Loompa-skinned adulteress for her part in the destruction of my marriage. But considering what she’s getting, Beebee has my sympathies. I blame Mike. I blame Mike for not honoring the vows he made to me. I blame Mike for not being strong enough to pass up the temptation of readily available extramarital sex. And I blame Mike for not being enough of a man to tell me he was having an affair, instead letting me find out via a misdirected floral delivery. I hope you have enjoyed this new digital version of the Terwilliger and Associates Newsletter. Next month’s newsletter will not be written by me as I will be divorcing Mike’s cheating ass. As soon as I press send on this e-mail, I’m hiring Sammy “the Shark” Shackleton. I don’t know why they call him “the Shark” but I did hear about a case where Sammy got a woman her soon-to-be ex-husband’s house, his car, his boat and his manhood in a mayonnaise jar. And one last thing, believe me when I say I will not be letting Mike off with “irreconcilable differences” in divorce court. Mike Terwilliger will own up to being the faithless, loveless, spineless, useless, dickless wonder he is.

The gesture of possessiveness, of staking his claim, doesn’t escape me, but I don’t dwell on it much either, because he’s not doing it to me. He’s doing it to his wife. As long as I don’t consider myself his wife and can separate reality from the role I’m playing, everything will be fine. And most importantly, I’ll survive.

Be my wife.

The darkness isn’t scary; what’s inside it is.

I know he thinks he’s looking at his wife, and not me, but how lucky can a woman be to have a man look at her that way? Like he’ll destroy the world as long as she stays safe?

And that’s eleven. Open your eyes or it’ll be twelve.

I won’t be Winter Cavanaugh anymore. My thoughts are reinforced when the Russian says, “From now on, you’re Lia Volkov. Wife of Adrian Volkov.

Please stop torturing me with my own self. Please.

Trusting that someone can change is wishful thinking in ninety-nine percent of cases. It’s a waste of time and energy. However, there’s always that pesky one percent. The anomaly. The…deviation of human behavior. The fact that it’s almost impossible to predict or catch such a moment is what makes it special. Desirable, even. It’s a sin waiting to be committed. An untouched rose about to be plucked so it will wither in a place that’s far away from her natural habitat. And even that one percent can’t be trusted. It’s not that people change of their own volition. They’re forced to by external exertions, by circumstances and tragedies. In a way, second chances don’t really exist. They’re a myth told once in a while to appease emotionally fragile people so they can look forward to new days instead of spiraling into depression. Sooner or later, however, they realize such things don’t exist and are hit by a deeper form of depression, a form that will eventually lead to their ruin.

It seemed there was no bottom to whatever abyss we bordered, and with each step, I vowed if I ever did meet the trail’s end and was unmasked and untied, I’d never waste a chance again—if I was going to die, it would be when I could plainly see Kaden as I thrust a knife between his deceitful Vendan ribs.

One can promise actions, but not feelings, for the latter are involuntary. He who promises to love forever or hate forever or be forever faithful to someone is promising something that is not in his power. He can, however, promise those actions that are usually the consequence of love, hatred, or faithfulness, but that can also spring from other motives: for there are several paths and motives to an action. A promise to love someone forever, then, means, "As long as I love you I will render unto you the actions of love; if I no longer love you, you will continue to receive the same actions from me, if for other motives." Thus the illusion remains in the minds of one's fellow men that the love is unchanged and still the same. One is promising that the semblance of love will endure, then, when without self-deception one vows everlasting love.

After an initial startled gasp, his intended bride dissolved into his arms, returning his kiss with more fervor than she had ever shown before. They were on the verge of being married, after all. Amazing what a difference imminent vows could make. Her hands, originally poised against his chest as though to push him back, slid slowly up to his shoulders and stayed there, as her head tilted back, her lips matched to his. ... It was quite some time before it began to dawn on Geoff that she might be just a bit too soft. The arms encircling his neck were a little rounder than he remembered them, and her shoulder blades seemed to have receded. Geoff’s hand made another tentative pass up and down her back, without breaking the kiss. Yes, definitely smoother. It might just be the added padding of the cloak, but other discordant details were beginning to intrude upon Geoff’s clouded senses. Her fragrance was all wrong, not Mary’s treasured French perfume, but something fainter, lighter, that made him think without quite knowing why of the park at Sibley Court in summer. It was a perfectly pleasant scent, but it wasn’t Mary’s. He was kissing the wrong woman.

Villicus Vadum: Soldier Of Fortune by Stewart Stafford I am the ghost of lupine Romulus, Founder of Rome, hear my tale, Of Villicus Vadum - young, driven, Steward to Senator Lucius Flavius. Villicus wanted Flavia, the senator’s daughter, But she was betrothed to Marcus Brutus; A consul of noble and virtuous stock, Villicus conspired to take Flavia's hand. Treachery and deception were his tools, Knavish peacock of Rome's epic stage, Sought to take Flavia from Marcus Brutus, To snatch and cage his treasured gem. Bribed a false soothsayer to trap her, Believing her beloved began with V, Flavia agreed to elope with him to Gaul, With Brutus vowing deadly vengeance. Fleeing to the bosom of Rome's enemy - Vercingetorix, at war with Julius Caesar, Villicus offered to spy on the Senate, While plotting to seize Gaul's throne. Queen Verica also caught his eye, Villicus was captured by Mark Antony, Taken to Caesar's camp as a traitor; Brutus challenged him to a duel. Brutus slashed him but spared his life, They dragged Villicus to Rome in chains, To try him for his now infamous crimes; Cicero in defence, Cato as prosecutor. Cicero argued Villicus acted out of love, And that his ambition merited mercy, Cato wanted death for his wicked threat, Julius Caesar pondered a final verdict. Villicus - pardoned but banished from Rome, Immediate death if he returned to Flavia, Villicus kissed the emperor's foot for naught, Flavia refused to join him in fallen exile. Now learn from this outcast's example, friends, That I, Romulus, warn you to avoid at your peril, Villicus Vadum, the wrath of the gods upon him, Until time ceases, sole spectre of night's edge. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Slow down, Jeremy,

Death can come in the form of a doppelgänger. There’s this myth as old as time that says when you meet someone who looks just like you, one of you will die. Who is the question. Who would die first? Me or her? According to the myth, the first to see the other one is bound to meet their end. In the same decade. Same year. Perhaps even the same day.

Challenging me is like swimming against the tides, you’ll eventually tire and will be swept away by the current. Understand this, I make the challenges, not the other way around. It’s time you learn that.

2. "HOW COULD anything originate out of its opposite? For example, truth out of error? or the Will to Truth out of the will to deception? or the generous deed out of selfishness? or the pure sun-bright vision of the wise man out of covetousness? Such genesis is impossible; whoever dreams of it is a fool, nay, worse than a fool; things of the highest value must have a different origin, an origin of THEIR own—in this transitory, seductive, illusory, paltry world, in this turmoil of delusion and cupidity, they cannot have their source. But rather in the lap of Being, in the intransitory, in the concealed God, in the 'Thing-in-itself— THERE must be their source, and nowhere else!"—This mode of reasoning discloses the typical prejudice by which metaphysicians of all times can be recognized, this mode of valuation is at the back of all their logical procedure; through this "belief" of theirs, they exert themselves for their "knowledge," for something that is in the end solemnly christened "the Truth." The fundamental belief of metaphysicians is THE BELIEF IN ANTITHESES OF VALUES. It never occurred even to the wariest of them to doubt here on the very threshold (where doubt, however, was most necessary); though they had made a solemn vow, "DE OMNIBUS DUBITANDUM." For it may be doubted, firstly, whether antitheses exist at all; and secondly, whether the popular valuations and antitheses of value upon which metaphysicians have set their seal, are not perhaps merely superficial estimates, merely provisional perspectives, besides being probably made from some corner, perhaps from below—"frog perspectives," as it were, to borrow an expression current among painters. In spite of all the value which may belong to the true, the positive, and the unselfish, it might be possible that a higher and more fundamental value for life generally should be assigned to pretence, to the will to delusion, to selfishness, and cupidity. It might even be possible that WHAT constitutes the value of those good and respected things, consists precisely in their being insidiously related, knotted, and crocheted to these evil and apparently opposed things—perhaps even in being essentially identical with them. Perhaps! But who wishes to concern himself with such dangerous "Perhapses"! For that investigation one must await the advent of a new order of philosophers, such as will have other tastes and inclinations, the reverse of those hitherto prevalent—philosophers of the dangerous "Perhaps" in every sense of the term. And to speak in all seriousness, I see such new philosophers beginning to appear.

You have changed. Once upon a time, Artemis Fowl would have vowed revenge.” “Once upon a time.

People say death is the end. For me, it’s only the beginning.

Sometimes, the best defense is a good offense.

Ignorance about one’s fate is the worst type of terror.

It’s not that people change of their own volition. They’re forced to by external exertions, by circumstances and tragedies.

The big deal is that no one looks at you the way I do. No one gets a glimpse at what’s mine.

Do you need Mommy too, Papa?” Adrian pauses before he says calmly, assertively, “I do.

to every one of us who defied logic and fell in love with villains.