Hydro Therapy

Lanny experienced his first overwhelming desire; in a haze, he ended up in bed with Belen. Over the next three years, though he never confessed his feelings, he became intensely obsessed with her body. Belen believed that with time she could win his heart, but instead received the news of him dating the other girl. "I've been pursuing her for a long time, and she finally agreed to be my girlfriend," Lanny said, looking into her eyes. "Let's not keep in touch anymore." Belen granted his wish and disappeared completely. But Lanny regretted his decision, desperately searching the world for her. He knelt before her in abject humility and pleaded, "Belen, come back to me, please?"

For five years, my husband Damian fed me a bitter daily "tonic," claiming it was to help my fragile health. He told the entire pack I was a "withered wolf," too broken to shift and too barren to give him an heir. I believed him, until the new nanny walked in wearing my silk robe, smelling of my perfume and his sweat. Damian didn't even try to hide it. He demanded I sign a check to support his mistress's five children, sneering that since my womb was a "graveyard," I should pay for his legacy. He planned to humiliate me publicly at the Medical Summit, using me as a case study of failure to legitimize his illegitimate brood. But he made a fatal mistake. He thought I was too weak to check the books. My loyal Beta brought me the truth just hours before the speech. The tonic wasn't medicine; it was Wolfsbane, designed to suppress my Alpha wolf. And the infertility? It wasn't me. Medical records proved Damian had a vasectomy weeks before our wedding. He had been poisoning me and gaslighting me for half a decade to steal my fortune. I injected a dangerous stimulant to clear the fog and crashed his stage. I didn't just expose his sterility to the world; I stripped him of his rank and exiled him as a Rogue. As security dragged the screaming traitor away, a scent hit me—thunderstorms and raw, terrifying power. Alistair Finch, the most dangerous Alpha on the coast, rose from the VIP section. He walked straight to me, sparks flying as he touched my skin. "He is nothing," Alistair growled, pulling me into his arms. "And you are finally Mine."

I stood in the center of the rose garden, convinced the Underboss of the East Coast was finally going to defy his father and put a ring on my finger. Instead, Desmond walked toward me holding another woman's hand. "Dallas," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is Chelsea. My fiancée." He told me it was just business, a merger to secure shipping routes. He expected me to stay in the shadows as his mistress, his "pet canary." When I refused to be his dirty little secret, his family sold me like cattle to Kennedy Simmons, the crippled Don of the West Coast, just to get rid of me. But the ultimate betrayal happened the night before I left. On the family yacht, Chelsea pushed me overboard. I screamed for help in the freezing dark water. I watched Desmond dive in. I reached out for him, but he swam right past me. He chose to save his wealthy fiancée, the "asset," and left me to drown. In that moment, the girl who loved him died. I realized his brother Antone, who I thought was my friend, was just a stalker using me to get close to Chelsea. I was nothing but collateral damage to the people I had worshipped. I didn't die that night. I boarded the plane to Seattle with a frozen heart. They thought they were selling me to a monster. They didn't realize they were handing me a King. The next time the Morgans saw me, I wasn't their victim. I was the woman coming to burn their empire to the ground.

The ninety-ninth time I tried to kill myself, I was sent to the hospital. For seven long years, I had lived in a fog of grief, believing my husband, Ethan, had died in a fiery car crash. But then, in that sterile white room, I saw him. Ethan. Alive, vibrant, and kissing Olivia Hayes, his former sister-in-law, who cradled a prominent baby bump. Their child. In that instant, the truth crashed down on me. There was no crash, no death. He had abandoned me to elope with Olivia, living a happy life while I wasted away: my hair turning gray, my wrist scarred with 300 marks for every missed month, while he cried with joy over her pregnancy. My world went black. When I came to, I was back in time, seven days before our first wedding anniversary. Ethan stood before me, his eyes filled with intoxicating adoration, murmuring sweet words. Yet, the image of him kissing Olivia, the name "Olivia Hayes" flashing on his phone, burned in my mind. He left me to check on her, claiming she was unwell, while I knew the truth. I was blindsided by my trust. I thought of what he put me through, what he planned to do to me. The betrayal felt like a gaping wound. I looked at him, then called my brother, David. "I want to come live with you abroad," I said, my voice cold. "And David, could you please help me arrange something? I need a body. A fake one. I want to give it to Ethan on our wedding anniversary. Seven days from now."

My fiancé of seven years, the heir to a mafia dynasty, claimed amnesia three weeks before our wedding, forgetting only me. Then I overheard him laughing on a video call, calling it the perfect "hall pass" to sleep with an influencer before he was tied down. He flaunted his affair, abandoned me with a broken arm after a staged car crash to save her from a scratch, and planned to leave me homeless. He called me his "property," a doll he could play with and put back on the shelf when he was done. He thought I’d be waiting for his "miraculous recovery." Instead, I disappeared, leaving behind his ring and a simple note: "I remember everything. Me too."

Ethan Miller poured his heart and soul into supporting his wife, Izzy, a struggling artist, and their little daughter, Lily. Then, a dazzling charity gala ripped his world apart when he discovered Izzy wasn’t a struggling artist but Isabella Vance, a ruthless heiress, who mocked his naivete and called him a mere "interlude." The woman he loved turned monstrous, plotting to use their innocent daughter, Lily, as a bone marrow donor for her old flame Julian’s son, forcing Ethan to donate his own rare blood under threat of homelessness. Even after Julian's son pushed Lily, fracturing her skull, Izzy twisted the knife, forcing Ethan to apologize, then secretly ordered kidnappers to “cancel his ticket”—meaning kill him and Lily—when they failed to extort her, resulting in Lily’s arm being brutally broken. How could the woman he adored, the mother of his child, be so utterly devoid of empathy, so cruel and calculated, turning their entire marriage into a twisted performance? Shattered and with Lily gravely injured, Ethan made the only choice left: he severed ties with the monster, filing for divorce and escaping with his daughter to the quiet refuge of his parents' home, determined to build a life free from Izzy’s dark machinations.

The screen on Ethan's phone glowed, showing a missed video call from his sister, Sarah. He swiped to check the voicemail, but it wasn't a message; the call had connected, and his phone had recorded what happened next. The shaky video revealed his sister' s office, but a woman he didn't recognize, Jessica Riley, sat in Sarah's chair, laughing with his brother-in-law, Mark Thompson, as they mocked Sarah's supposed foolishness. Then the camera moved, revealing Sarah herself, curled on the floor, her hair matted, clothes in rags, a metal chain around her neck, and an empty dog bowl beside her. Jessica cooed, "Time for dinner, sweetie," kicking the bowl, while Mark dropped bread, saying, "Eat up, doggy." Ethan watched in horror as his brilliant sister scrambled for food like a starved animal. A cold rage seized him, cracking his phone screen, and with a dangerously calm voice, he called his assistant: "Get the jet. We're going home. Now." Landing in the US, Ethan found his childhood home overgrown and dreary. Kicking the door open, he discovered Sarah chained to a radiator, skeletal and terrified, whimpering at his approach. This was his sister, treated like an animal in her own home. Mark, Brenda, and Jessica appeared, feigning concern, claiming Sarah was "unstable" and producing forged medical diagnoses, trying to dismiss the horrific scene with a piece of paper. Ethan' s control finally snapped. He knew Sarah' s strength, her intelligence; this cruelty was inflicted upon her. He watched as Mark, arrogant and unrepentant, tried to silence Sarah's weak confession of forced signatures. When Mark raised a hand to strike her, Ethan intervened, his grip like steel, "Don't you ever touch her again." Mark spouted lies, accusing Sarah of ruining the company, blaming her for the bruises and injuries that covered her body. The scene escalated as Ethan, blood boiling, called his assistant, David, who arrived with a team of men. He ordered Mark, Brenda, and Jessica secured, stating, "You are a parasite, Mark. And you own nothing," before hitting him. Mark, still defiant, claimed control of Hayes Innovations and the board. Ethan calmly directed David to search the house for evidence, then gently unclipped Sarah, scooping her into his arms. She was light as a child, trembling, whispering, "He'll hurt you. He'll hurt us both." Ethan vowed, "He has no idea what I'm capable of." He saw the raw marks on her neck, fueled by fresh fury. Sarah huddled in his jacket, whispering how Mark had gaslighted her with fake videos. Ethan knew the videos were lies. Kneeling, he gently told her, "We're going to your office." When she panicked, terrified of Jessica, he reassured her, "It's time for everyone to see the real CEO of Hayes Innovations." With a flicker of her old self, an almost imperceptible nod, she agreed. He left the villains secured, telling David to find every piece of evidence they had used against her. Holding Sarah's hand, he led her out, ready to fight.

The last thing I felt was the pillow smothering my face, the cheap floral scent filling my lungs as my struggles grew weaker. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Ms. Davis' s chilling hiss: "You crazy girl, how dare you disrupt the young lady' s party! I' ll kill you!" She wasn' t lying. My life, so bright just hours before, was ending in a dark, dusty storage room. It all began on my graduation day, Sarah Miller, the valedictorian, standing on stage. But when I arrived at my family home for the lavish celebration, the doors were shut, my key wouldn' t turn. Inside, through the window, I saw Emily Davis, my guardian' s daughter, wearing my dress, accepting congratulations from my friends, being called by my name. A cold wave of nausea washed over me. I pounded on the door, screaming, "Let me in! I' m Sarah Miller! That' s an imposter!" No one believed me. They saw a frantic, disheveled girl and a poised, elegant young woman inside. Ms. Davis slapped me, shrieking, "How dare you disrupt the young lady' s party! I' ll kill you!" They dragged me away, threw me into a windowless storage room, and locked me in. Hours later, Ms. Davis returned with a pillow. "You just couldn' t leave it alone, could you?" she whispered. "You make too much noise." Then, she pushed it down. My consciousness dissolved into suffocating blackness. Then, I gasped, shooting upright. Sunlight streamed through a familiar window. I was in my bed, in my room at the Davis house. My heart pounded. The floral scent was gone. No pain, no darkness. My phone rang, a shrill, insistent sound. The screen lit up with a date. It was the day my college admission results were announced. I wasn' t dead. I was back.

For years, I sat in the front pew of our small-town church, completely devoted to Pastor Caleb Thorne. He was everything-handsome, charismatic, his words making God feel close. I lived for his smile, for any small chance to be near him. Then, one Sunday, Caleb dropped a bomb: he was engaged to Mariah, my cold, calculating stepsister. My world shattered. In a moment of sheer desperation, I foolishly vandalized his car. But what followed was far worse: Caleb orchestrated a twisted 'miracle,' declaring it a sign from God that I was his true partner. I was trapped in a nightmare marriage. Nine months pregnant, I overheard Caleb' s chilling whisper to Mariah, her accomplice: 'Make sure it doesn't survive.' My own husband and stepsister, plotting to murder my child. They sneered at me, planning my next humiliation: I' d be forced to work off my 'sins' in a dirty bar, every penny I earned going to them. My baby died. My heart was ripped open. How could the man I loved, the man who claimed God led him to me, be such a monster? How could he and my stepsister be so utterly heartless? But in that despair, a flicker of defiance sparked. With a kind nurse' s help, I faked my own death, escaping their clutches. Years later, as Anna, I' m building a new life and awaiting a new beginning. Caleb thinks I' m gone. He thinks he won. He' s about to find out how wrong he is.

Life in the Hayes mansion was a glittering facade, but my ninth pregnancy held a secret, a glimmer of hope powered by an unseen System. I' d lost eight babies, each a piece of my soul, clinging to the promise that this ninth, this final hope, would finally grant my escape from this gilded cage. Then, a whispered conversation in the dead of night shattered every illusion: my loving husband, Ethan, calmly admitting to engineering eight miscarriages, viewing them as 'necessary accidents' to secure 'our' child's rightful inheritance with his pregnant mistress, Chloe. The gold-plated walls of my marriage crumbled around me, each 'accident' a deliberate act of murder, his every tender gesture a calculated lie designed to destroy me, culminating in his brazen offer to adopt his mistress's child, the very heir he'd killed mine for. Was I truly so broken, so naive, that he expected me to quietly raise the very child conceived on the graves of my lost babies, accepting this ultimate betrayal as a 'new beginning'? A cold, burning rage replaced the grief in my heart, fueling the realization that my System-granted escape was no longer just for the baby, but a fight for my very soul against this calculating monster. He thought his carefully orchestrated scheme had entrapped me forever, but as the System's countdown ticked, I began to meticulously craft my own escape, not just from his gilded prison, but from his very existence, ensuring his world would burn just as mine had.

The man I gave up a twenty-billion-dollar inheritance for asked me to go to prison for his mistress. In the same breath, he told me to kill our unborn child. While his mother's actions caused me to miscarry our son in a derelict warehouse, he was on television announcing his engagement and *her* pregnancy. The betrayal wasn't just private; it was a public execution. So I picked up my phone and made a call I hadn't made in five years, to the one man he never knew existed. "Father," I choked out, "I need you."

The biting Appalachian cold bit at Ethan as he siphoned gas from an old man's truck, a desperate act to get medicine for his feverish girlfriend, Jocelyn. He risked everything, driven by love and a sense of duty, even enduring public humiliation and losing a priceless family heirloom when caught. But as he stumbled back to the volunteer house, shattered by the day's events, he heard laughter from inside. "Did he really fall for it?" Jocelyn's voice, sickly sweet and mocking, echoed, followed by Caleb's gleeful confirmation about their "game." His sickness, his humiliation, his love – it was all a cruel bet, a series of pranks to win Caleb back. The world collapsed. The girl he' d risked everything for had orchestrated his downfall, twisting his concern into a weapon against him. His heart, once filled with genuine care, curdled into a cold, hard knot of disbelief and betrayal. How could someone he loved so deeply be capable of such calculated cruelty? What kind of monster plays with another's trust and life just for a twisted game of revenge? He wouldn't just leave. He wouldn't just suffer. With a quiet, steely resolve that replaced every ounce of his former pain, a new plan formed in his mind. He would turn their cruel game on its head.

My engagement party was just one night away. A celebration of big money, big families, and my upcoming marriage to Izzy Hayes. But first, a "surprise" at a remote pump house, arranged by Izzy and my supposed brother, Liam. When I arrived, there was no Izzy, no Liam, just shadows. Then came the blows. Blinding, searing pain, and the sickening crunch of my Achilles tendons. I woke up in a hospital, weak and blind, my legs burning with infection. Through a medicated haze, I heard my own mother, Eleanor, casually discussing amputating my legs. "Do what you must," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "He won't be needing to carry on the Vance name anyway." She and Liam were plotting, gloating about securing the Vance empire, about how I, her own son, would no longer be a problem. The cold certainty hit me: this barbaric attack, my disfigurement, it was their doing. My home wasn't a homecoming; it was a death trap. Rage, pure and cold, flooded me. Then I learned my kind father, Marcus, who secretly saved Eleanor's life with his kidney, was now being tortured at Victor Sterling' s "wellness retreat." Drugged and slowly dying from organ rejection, all part of their larger conspiracy. They stripped me of everything, but they underestimated my will to fight. Feigning unconsciousness, I fumbled for my hidden burner phone. This was just the beginning.

Five years ago, I married Marcus Thorne, a powerful tech CEO. I cherished a fragile hope for our future, despite losing our first child and my father' s sacrificing his health to save Marcus' s life. That hope shattered at his company' s biggest gala. A young intern, Chloe, visibly pregnant, seized the microphone and triumphantly announced, "Marcus and I are expecting a child." The humiliation was absolute, but Marcus swore it was a drunken mistake. Yet three years later, I discovered he' d built a secret family with Chloe – not one child, but three, with another on the way. He dared to tell me, "I need heirs, Elara. You can' t provide them," as if I wasn't carrying our miracle baby. The very next day, Chloe, at his urging, hit me with her car at the airport. Marcus watched me bleed, then ripped my medical consent forms, sneering, "She doesn' t deserve to be saved." I lost our baby. Hours later, my father, whose life Marcus had once owed him, died while Marcus threatened his ventilator. How could my husband betray me so utterly, then inflict such unimaginable cruelty? My world, already scarred, was utterly destroyed. The raw grief, the agonizing injustice, threatened to consume me. But as I stood on a hospital rooftop, ready to end it all, a voice pulled me back. Liam. He once told me he owed me his life. Now, it was time for him to save mine, and for me to reclaim every piece Marcus had stolen.

I escaped after three years, coughing up blood, only to be diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Returning home, I found my house the same, but a sheriff' s car was parked outside, and a folded document, my death certificate, was handed to my husband, Ethan. Inside, the smell of my stew filled the air, but my daughter Molly called Ethan' s sister-in-law, Debra, "Mom." Ethan, seeing me, erupted in cold fury, throwing a letter at me, claiming it was from me, saying I' d run off with a trucker, and demanded to know why I' d crawled back. He shoved me into the cold mudroom, treating me like trash, while Debra, with fake pity, watched. Later, as Ethan silently applied burn cream to the blisters Debra accidentally caused, he asked if the life I chose was worth it. Despite having the chance to reveal I'd been held captive by Debra's cousins for three years, I looked at his hardened face and the shadow of Debra, and lied, saying leaving him was the best decision I ever made. My daughter Molly, coached by Debra, then falsely accused me of pushing her, shattering Ethan's last shred of faith and earning me an immediate "get out of my house." But at the clinic, the doctor who diagnosed my cancer cut my pant leg, revealing not only a new broken bone, but old scars, malnutrition, and a fresh burn, telling Ethan, "These are signs of long-term abuse and neglect, Mr. Scott, not a life of ease." This moment of doubt in Ethan's eyes, fueled by the doctor' s words, ignited a flicker of hope that the truth might finally emerge.

Rain hammered against the asphalt as my sedan spun violently into the guardrail on the I-95. Blood trickled down my temple, stinging my eyes, while the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers mocked my panic. Trembling, I dialed my husband, Clive. His executive assistant answered instead, his voice professional and utterly cold. "Mr. Wilson says to stop the theatrics. He said, and I quote, 'Hang up. Tell her I don’t have time for her emotional blackmail tonight.'" The line went dead while I was still trapped in the wreckage. At the hospital, I watched the news footage of Clive wrapping his jacket around his "fragile" ex-girlfriend, Angelena, shielding her from the storm I was currently bleeding in. When I returned to our penthouse, I found a prenatal ultrasound in his suit pocket, dated the day he claimed to be on a business trip. Instead of an apology, Clive met me with a sneer. He told me I was nothing but an "expensive decoration" his father bought to make him look stable. He froze my bank accounts and cut off my cards, waiting for the hunger to drive me back to his feet. I stared at the man I had loved for four years, realizing he didn't just want a wife; he wanted a prop he could switch off. He thought he could starve me into submission while he played father to another woman's child. But Clive forgot one thing. Before I was his trophy wife, I was Starfall—the legendary voice actress who vanished at the height of her fame. "I'm not jealous, Clive. I'm done." I grabbed my old microphone and walked out. I’m not just leaving him; I’m taking the lead role in the biggest saga in Hollywood—the one Angelena is desperate for. This time, the "decoration" is going to burn his world down.

Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband’s Maybach usually idled was empty. When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn’t find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn. Caden didn’t even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father’s legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn’s party without a second glance. Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara’s health and managing every detail of Caden’s empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room. How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice. I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I’d drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause—if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for. I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I’d forgotten.

For three quiet, patient years, Christina kept house, only to be coldly discarded by the man she once trusted. Instead, he paraded a new lover, making her the punchline of every town joke. Liberated, she honed her long-ignored gifts, astonishing the town with triumph after gleaming triumph. Upon discovering she'd been a treasure all along, her ex-husband's regret drove him to pursue her. "Honey, let's get back together!" With a cold smirk, Christina spat, "Fuck off." A silken-suited mogul slipped an arm around her waist. "She's married to me now. Guards, get him the hell out of here!"

I stood at my mother’s open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule. While the priest’s voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?" When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone—he brought Charla with him. He claimed she’d had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child." He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me. "He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect. Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.

"Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. She torched their wedding portrait at his feet while he sent flirty messages to his mistress. With her chest tight and eyes blazing, Stella delivered a sharp slap. Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, and left him a hidden bombshell. On launch day she vanished; that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered. When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged. With a smirk, she said, ""Out of your league, darling."

Elliana, the unfavored "ugly duckling" of her family, was humiliated by her stepsister, Paige, who everyone admired. Paige, engaged to the CEO Cole, was the perfect woman-until Cole married Elliana on the day of the wedding. Shocked, everyone wondered why he chose the "ugly" woman. As they waited for her to be cast aside, Elliana stunned everyone by revealing her true identity: a miracle healer, financial mogul, appraisal prodigy, and AI genius. When her mistreatment became known, Cole revealed Elliana's stunning, makeup-free photo, sending shockwaves through the media. "My wife doesn't need anyone's approval."

After five years of playing the perfect daughter, Rylie was exposed as a stand-in. Her fiancé bolted, friends scattered, and her adoptive brothers shoved her out, telling her to grovel back to her real family. Done with humiliation, she swore to claw back what was hers. Shock followed: her birth family ruled the town's wealth. Overnight, she became their precious girl. The boardroom brother canceled meetings, the genius brother ditched his lab, the musician brother postponed a tour. As those who spurned her begged forgiveness, Admiral Brad Morgan calmly declared, "She's already taken."

Maia grew up a pampered heiress-until the real daughter returned and framed her, sending Maia to prison with help from her fiancé and family. Four years later, free and married to Chris, a notorious outcast, everyone assumed Maia was finished. They soon discovered she was secretly a famed jeweler, elite hacker, celebrity chef, and top game designer. As her former family begged for help, Chris smiled calmly. "Honey, let's go home." Only then did Maia realize her "useless" husband was a legendary tycoon who'd adored her from the start.

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Sunlit hours found their affection glimmering, while moonlit nights ignited reckless desire. But when Brandon learned his beloved might last only half a year, he coolly handed Millie divorce papers, murmuring, "This is all for appearances; we'll get married again once she's calmed down." Millie, spine straight and cheeks dry, felt her pulse go hollow. The sham split grew permanent; she quietly ended their unborn child and stepped into a new beginning. Brandon unraveled, his car tearing down the street, unwilling to let go of the woman he'd discarded, pleading for her to look back just once.