Gui Chen

For three years, I was the perfect wife to tech CEO Atticus Monroe, trading my architecture career to become his personal chef and perfect hostess. My world shattered when I brought him an eight-hour bone broth and overheard him confess to a friend. "I'm just... bored." His boredom quickly turned into an affair with his ex-fiancée, Isla. He spent nights at her apartment, then came home to blame me for his unhappiness. At a family gala, when I finally stood up to their public humiliation, Atticus grabbed my arm so hard it left a deep, purple bruise. He had cheated, humiliated, and hurt me, yet he refused my pleas for a divorce, desperate to maintain his perfect image. But his grandfather saw the bruise. He saw the video of Atticus and Isla. After punishing his own grandson, he handed me a check. "Go build the life you deserve." So I did. I filed for divorce to reclaim the life, and the career, I had sacrificed for him.

I suspended a five-year-old student named Leo for pushing another child down the stairs. As the head child psychologist at an elite academy, I was used to difficult children, but there was a chilling emptiness in Leo's eyes. That evening, I was abducted in the faculty parking lot, dragged into a van, and beaten unconscious. I woke up in a hospital, every inch of my body aching. A kind nurse let me use her phone to call my husband, Franco. When he didn't answer, I opened his social media page, my heart pounding with fear for him. But he was fine. A new video, posted just thirty minutes ago, showed him in a hospital room, gently peeling an apple for the little boy I had suspended. "Daddy," Leo whined. "That teacher was mean to me." My husband's voice, the voice I had loved for a decade, was a soothing murmur. "I know, buddy. Daddy already took care of it. She won't ever bother you again." The world tilted on its axis. The attack wasn't random. The man who had vowed to protect me forever, my loving husband, had tried to have me killed. For another woman's child. Our entire life was a lie. Then the police delivered the final blow: our five-year marriage had never been legally registered. As I lay there, broken, I remembered the wedding gift he'd given me—40% of his company. He thought it was a symbol of his ownership. He was about to find out it was his death sentence.

Seven years ago, I was Jocelyn Fuller, a girl desperate for love, standing in front of Ethan Lester' s apartment, begging him not to leave. He looked down at me, his face cold, and uttered words that shattered my world: "Don't be naive, Jocelyn. We're from different worlds." He took the money my father offered and vanished, leaving me so broken I tried to end my life twice. The devastation didn't just fade; it festered, hardening me into the CEO of Fuller Properties, a name synonymous with power in New York real estate. Now, Ethan Lester stands outside my skyscraper, looking up with desperate hope, roles agonizingly reversed. I made him wait for five hours in the freezing wind, just as I had waited for him, relishing the chilling echo of my past pain. I wanted to know why he had abandoned me, why he chose money over our love, and why he looked so utterly defeated now. This time, the game was on my terms, and his payment was just beginning in a meticulously cruel revenge.

The poison in my veins had two years left, just like me. Two years I' d spent trapped in a gilded cage by Ethan Lester, the man I once loved. He believed I betrayed him, orchestrated his family' s slaughter, a lie I carried to protect him from a truth that would have led him to self-destruction. I endured his hatred, the scars, the daily degradations, all while my life slowly ebbed away. Then came the night Sabrina, his new woman, a viper wearing a sweetheart's smile, orchestrated the unspeakable. She lured my little brother, Andrew, the only innocent left in my world, to the compound. She planned to drain his blood for a twisted art project. I found him, strapped down, and I screamed for her to take me instead. But Ethan, blind with rage and manipulated by Sabrina' s lies, saw my reaction as defiance. He threatened Andrew, trying to extract a "confession" from me. My truth would kill him; my silence guaranteed my brother's fate. He offered me everything I' d ever wanted – a future, marriage – if I just confessed. I couldn't. Sabrina, with a subtle push, guided his hand, and the blade sliced across Andrew' s throat right before my eyes. My world shattered as I watched him die, Ethan' s hand, bloodied, still on the knife. As I lay dying beside my brother's cooling body, my last words shattered Ethan' s delusions, revealing the true traitors. Now that it' s all over, all I want to know is: Can a man who destroyed everything he claimed to love ever atone for the irreparable damage he caused?

The screech of tires was my familiar lullaby, echoing another broken bone, another shattered illusion. I was Sarah, the trophy wife, trapped in a gilded cage, enduring a curse of endless resurrections. My husband, Ethan, always attentive to his perfect Ashley, had just shoved me into the path of a speeding sedan. For her, of course. He didn't care that I lay mangled on the asphalt, only annoyed by the inconvenience, the mess. Ashley, his scheming mistress, later set a trap: a near-fatal allergic reaction, and then framed me to ensure my "dissection" at a remote research facility. They believed they were finally ridding themselves of me, sending me to a permanent end. But what they didn't know was my secret, my bitter hope: 99 deaths down, one to go. Each resurrection had chipped away at my soul, leaving only a hollow anticipation for the final, permanent end. This was it. The hundredth. The profound relief of true oblivion, of peace, washed over me as they led me away. I was finally free, not knowing that my truest liberation would come not from the permanent death I craved, but from a rebirth I never expected.

Michael thought he had built a good life. His son, Leo, a brilliant debate champion, was headed to Yale on a full scholarship, a testament to hard work. Michael, a humble handyman, had willingly sacrificed his own dreams for his wife Jessica' s demanding, "modestly paid" corporate career. Then the phone rang. A multi-car pile-up. Leo, critical. Michael frantically tried to reach Jessica, but she was unreachable. He tracked her phone across the country to a lavish Miami yacht party, where she was cheering on her "nephew" Ryan with extravagant gifts. When she finally did answer, her voice was sharp, dismissing him because she was in a "very important business meeting." Leo died. How could the woman he loved, the one he sacrificed everything for, be so cold? He overheard her casually refer to their shared life as "slumming it," a revelation that shattered his world. Weeks later, he learned that Ryan, the spoiled relative Jessica adored, was responsible for the accident that killed Leo. Yet, Jessica protected him, openly preferring him over their dead son. His entire existence with Jessica, a profound, agonizing lie. Who was this woman? And why had she hidden immense wealth while he struggled? Michael found a hidden bank statement, zeros stretching endlessly, confirming decades of deception. He had lost his son, his wife, and his life as he knew it. With his body failing from stress-induced illness, Michael chose to leave, walking away from the ruins of his past, seeking a different kind of peace.

I spent six years pouring my heart, my hidden family fortune, and my shelved art dreams into Ethan’s Silicon Valley startup, "Innovatech." It was my birthday, and a velvet ring box in his jacket pocket made my heart race with anticipation. This was it – the culmination of our love, the proposal I’d been waiting for. But my world shattered with a single Instagram post: Ethan, on one knee, proposing. Not to me, but to Isabella Rossi, his lifelong "what if," at an exclusive Napa restaurant. The diamond on her finger flashed, blinding me with betrayal. He later breezed in, claiming Isabella had a rare heart condition, making her "dying wish" his priority. He then publicly humiliated me, appointing her to my suppressed dream role and framing me for corporate theft. In front of our colleagues, he slapped me, callously grinding my precious clay sculpture under his heel, dismissing my pain with a casual "sorry about the coffee." Six years of unwavering loyalty, reduced to a staged corporate scheme, an outright assault. How could the man I loved believe I was a thief and sabotage my entire life? The injustice burned hotter than the scalding coffee on my arm. With nowhere left to turn, my father offered a lifeline: Liam Hayes, son of the very venture capitalists who funded Innovatech. My path was clear: New York, a new life, and a fight that was just beginning.

Our wedding invitations were chosen, promising a beautiful future with Mike, my college sweetheart of eight years. Then, Mike arrived, face ashen, eyes haunted. He thrust an envelope at me: "I can't do this, Sarah." Pure terror consumed his face as he fled. That was just the first loop. Friends whispered about "what they saw" and abandoned me. I lost my job to "disturbing incidents." My beloved cat mysteriously died, then my mother collapsed, eyes wide with paralyzing fear. My father, seeing something monstrous in me, whispered, "It's better this way," as he smothered me. Each time, I woke on "breakup day" again, trapped in a horrifying cycle. Everyone I loved vanished, terrified of *me*, yet I had no idea why. What was I? What was happening when I slept that drove them to such profound fear? Desperate, I wired my apartment with hidden cameras. The footage I played back shattered my world: *I* was the monster. Crawling on all fours, vacant eyes, unnatural speed, guttural sounds – it was utterly terrifying.

It was a deliberate conspiracy. She was sent to the bed of the 'disabled' man. Three months later, she was found to be pregnant. She was framed, got ruthlessly kicked out of the house, and became homeless. When the truth was unmasked and the secret of his body was revealed, she turned around and left with a mystery and the child.

She had been set up and slept with a strange man for a night. The fact that she lost her virginity had ruined her reputation and become a joke in the eyes of everyone. Signing the contract, she became a surrogacy mother for him. Every night they spent together was burning with desire. Love gradually burgeon deep inside them. But when her goal was achieved and the baby was just born, she was ruthlessly driven out, and she didn't have the chance to see her child. Resentment, betrayal, and disappointment filled her heart. She made up her mind to leave. When she came back like a phoenix rising from ashes, he realized that what a wrong decision he had made.

The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world. In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief." But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius. Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be.

Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun. Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos. As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage. The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice. Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her.

Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.

Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered. Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak. She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her. Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears. Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home."

The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand. Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn. She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back.

My wealthy husband, Nathaniel, stormed in, demanding a divorce to be with his "dying" first love, Julia. He expected tears, pleas, even hysteria. Instead, I calmly reached for a pen, ready to sign away our life for a fortune. For two years, I played the devoted wife in our sterile penthouse. That night, Nathaniel shattered the facade, tossing divorce papers. "Julia's back," he stated, "she needs me." He expected me to crumble. But my calm "Okay" shocked him. I coolly demanded his penthouse, shares, and a doubled stipend, letting him believe I was a greedy gold digger. He watched, disgusted, convinced I was a monster. He couldn't fathom my indifference or ruthless demands. He saw avarice, not a carefully constructed facade. His betrayal had awakened something far more dangerous. The second the door closed, the dutiful wife vanished. I retrieved a burner phone and a Glock, ready to expose the elaborate lie he and Julia had built.

Her sister is marrying her ex. So she brings her best friend as her fake fiancé. What could possibly go wrong? Savannah Hart thought she was over Dean Archer-until her sister, Chloe announces she's marrying him. The same man Savannah never stopped loving. The man who left her heartbroken... and now belongs to her sister. A weeklong wedding in New Hope. One mansion full of guests. And a very bitter maid of honor. To survive it, Savannah brings a date-her charming, clean-cut best friend, Roman Blackwood. The one man who's always had her back. He owes her a favor, and pretending to be her fiancé? Easy. Until fake kisses start to feel real. Now Savannah's torn between keeping up the act... or risking everything for the one man she was never supposed to fall for.

The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.

My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.