Jv Lingxian

For sixteen years, my step-brother Holden Wolf was my entire world. Every design I sketched, every dream I harbored, was a secret love letter to him. Then he got engaged to a perfect social media influencer. When I finally showed him my heart in a portfolio of my life's work, he ripped it to shreds in a fit of rage. "This is sick, Chelsea! I'm your brother!" The humiliation didn't stop. He drunkenly forced himself on me while whispering his fiancée's name, only to blame me the next morning. "What were you doing in my bed? Your behavior is inappropriate." My own mother called, not to comfort me, but to accuse me of trying to seduce him and ruin his perfect life. After a lifetime of devotion, I was just a problem to be managed, a body to be mistaken in the dark. His love wasn't protection; it was a cage. So I dyed my hair platinum blonde, accepted my estranged uncle's offer to study design in New York, and vanished without a word. This time, I was saving myself.

For nine years, I was the "Wolfless Wonder," the shame of the Reyes Pack. I swallowed bitter suppressants every morning to hide my identity as a rare White Wolf, enduring my husband’s coldness just to stay by his side. But tonight, Alpha Dominick shattered whatever bond we had left. He walked into the Annual Gathering with his mistress, Chastity, clinging to his arm, pregnant and smug. When Chastity staged a miscarriage and blamed me, Dominick didn't ask for the truth. He dragged me to the hospital. "She needs blood," he snarled. "O-Negative. Like yours." He used the Alpha Command to force me onto the table. He watched as they drained me dry to save the woman destroying my life. "Alpha, her heart rate is dropping!" the doctor warned. "It will kill her!" Dominick didn't even flinch. "Keep going," he ordered. "Take what you need until Chastity is safe." As the machine beeped and darkness took me, the submissive wife died. I woke up in the morgue holding cell and made a choice. I signed the divorce papers, set the penthouse on fire, and vanished into the night. He thought I burned to death. He didn't know I escaped. Months later, he tracked a ghost to a vineyard in London. But he didn't find the broken girl he sacrificed. He found the White Wolf, glowing with silver magic, standing beside a new mate who actually cherished me. Dominick fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Annis, come home. I command you." I looked down at him and smiled. "Your voice doesn't work on me anymore, Alpha. You killed the part of me that listened."

I was ambushed in my guardian's Hamptons estate by his son's fiancée, Kaitlyn. Accusing me of being a homewrecker, she and her friends began live-streaming my public humiliation. They beat me, destroyed my father's priceless business legacy, and forced me to my knees to beg for forgiveness on camera. They shattered the last photo of my parents and then, after I groveled, crushed my mother's locket under their heels anyway. My world was a blur of pain and confusion. Julien was like a brother to me. Harvey, his father, was my legal guardian. The accusation made no sense. Just as they were about to strip me naked for their audience, Harvey arrived, his face a mask of thunder. But the real shock came later, when a terrified Kaitlyn confessed the truth. The attack wasn't about jealousy. It was a calculated act of revenge for a decades-old family feud, and Harvey's own son, Julien, was the secret mastermind who had set me up to be destroyed.

My father, a rising star in a crime family, decided to leave my mother. During the divorce, he asked me to choose who to live with. For the sake of my future, I chose him, the man who had money and power, over my penniless mother. My choice broke her heart. "He has money, Mom. You don't. I don't want to be poor anymore," I told her, a lie that felt like swallowing glass. She looked at me with utter betrayal before collapsing in tears. In my previous life, my love for her became the burden that destroyed her. After we were cast out, she worked herself to the bone to support me, only to die tragically trying to sell a kidney to pay for my medical bills. I followed her into death a week later. I didn't understand. I had loved her with all my soul, but my love only led to her suffering and death. Why did choosing love mean choosing ruin? Waking up again, I was fourteen, back at the moment of that devastating choice. This time, my love would not be a burden. It would be a weapon. I would get close to my father, dismantle his empire from the inside, and build my mother a fortress with the rubble.

The Aspen snow fell, mirroring the blanket of happiness cocooning Ava Reed as she drove to Ethan Hayes' s mansion, a drone – her heartfelt anniversary gift – beside her. Three years of love, whispered promises, and shared dreams were shattered when she overheard Ethan tell his friends she was just a "fun accessory," a "fling" he was ready to discard with a paltry directing gig as a "parting gift." The laughter that followed was ugly, turning her world to ice. She burst in, confronted him, and threw his cruel words back, walking out on the man who had reduced their love to a transaction. But the humiliation didn' t end there. He gave her personal gift to Seraphina Vance, his "real" fiancée, who then flaunted it and the film role Ava was meant to have. How could the man she loved be so indifferent, so actively cruel? How could her devotion be twisted into a casual deception? The public smear campaign that followed, orchestrated by Ethan and Seraphina, painted her as a desperate, unstable ex, ruining her career. She was adrift, lost, her entire identity systematically dismantled. Just as she reached her breaking point, a mysterious invitation arrived, leading her to a shocking truth that would not only reclaim her name and fortune but force Ethan to confront the devastating consequences of his betrayal.

The forest' s quiet shattered as a bleeding FBI agent burst through my cabin door, collapsing at my feet. My perfectly normal afternoon nap was over, replaced by the immediate, terrifying certainty that trouble had found our isolated home. Ben Carter, handsome even as he bled out, was shot, his partner dead, and he was tangled in a massive counterfeiting ring leading straight to Senator Thompson. My stomach dropped – this was the kind of mess my sheriff dad always warned against. But then, as he gasped for help, a deeper dread set in: he heard my unspeakable thoughts. He heard everything I knew about him, about Thompson, about the danger. My father arrived, intervening with Thompson's thugs, but not before he too picked up on my mental broadcasts, his face paling as he realized the depth of the conspiracy I'd unwittingly revealed. Our quiet life was over, replaced by federal agents, corrupt senators, and a constant, terrifying loss of privacy over my own mind. How could I possibly live like this? My ability, usually just a nuisance, had now put us all in mortal danger, linking us irrevocably to a corrupt politician who wanted Ben dead. This wasn't some fantasy hero journey; it was an exhausting, terrifying invasion of my every private thought, broadcasting them to everyone around me. Yet, as Thompson' s people sped away and Ben lay bleeding on our rug, a terrifying question formed in my mind: if my thoughts were this loud, could they also be my weapon?

My hand, the one that made my living as a guitarist, was on fire. A viral TMZ video showed my wife, Chloe, pressed against the ridiculously popular Caleb Hayes, the pop-country star she managed. They looked close. Too close. My world ended that night when Caleb' s fans threw acid at me because of the supposed affair, scarring my face and destroying my hand. Chloe tossed her keys, reeking of expensive perfume and his cheap cologne. "It was a publicity stunt, Ryan." Then she asked me, the man whose career she' d just ruined, to write a love song for Caleb. About them. I did it, pouring all my heartbreak into every note, only to walk into her office and find her in the arms of our label head, Marcus Vance, a man known for his predatory reputation. He mocked me, calling himself her "patron." My wife, the woman I loved, had cheated on me, scorned me, ruined me. Then came the car crash. The hospital. The miscarriage. And Marcus Vance, standing over Chloe's bed, claiming their child. I was just the irrelevant husband, mocked by the world. But Chloe' s strained accusation- "What about the evidence on my office computer?"-was no accusation at all. It was a message. My wife, the woman who seemed to revel in my pain, was sending me a clue. Why would she do that? Why would the woman who claimed my musical talent was worthless risk everything to hint at secret evidence? What did I not know about Chloe' s life, about her true motives, about this monstrous man Marcus Vance, that would lead her to such a desperate, cryptic plea? I drove like a madman to her office, my heart pounding with a desperate, new kind of hope. I had to know the truth. I had to find what she was hiding. And I knew, deep down, that finding it would change everything.

Ten years. That' s how long I' d spent in Ironwood, a frozen hell disguised as a "rehabilitation" facility, stripped bare. Finally, I was home, a woman I barely recognized, clinging to Marcus and Leo' s hollow promises of normalcy. I just wanted peace, to be safe. The recycled air inside felt foreign after the clean Alaskan crispness. But peace was a cruel illusion. I overheard them talking, my husband and my son, their voices low and urgent. "She took the fall," Marcus confessed, "It was convenient." My blood ran cold. The "Aegis data breach" that stole a decade of my life was no accident of negligence, but a calculated frame-up by my own family to protect Vivian. Their "sympathy" was a meticulously constructed performance. My husband, the man who comforted me, was having an affair with my adoptive sister, Vivian, who now held my former title. She paraded in front of me wearing the gown Marcus had commissioned for my anniversary. My son, Leo, defended her, then burned my cherished journals for him, making space for "Aunt Viv's" things. This house was not a home, but a gilded cage built on lies. My own father lauded Vivian as a family "asset," subtly shaming me. The trust that had flickered within me was extinguished, replaced by a cold, burning fury. They had conveniently buried me for ten years in a brutal Alaskan prison, then expected me to play along. My heart hammered with an overwhelming sense of injustice and betrayal. They thought I was still broken. They were wrong. Amidst the ashes of my old life, my mother's cryptic words from years ago echoed: "The Seraphina Protocol. My escape hatch." A meticulous archivist, a planner, was reawakening. The gala would be their stage, yes. But soon, it would be mine.

For a decade, I lived a shadow life as Ava Miller, executive assistant and secret wife to tech CEO Ethan Cole. My days were for him, my nights for suppressed art dreams harbored in secret. I was his indispensable, yet invisible, fixture—a doormat, friends called me—all for a forgotten childhood kindness. But my carefully constructed world shattered when his public girlfriend, Tiffany, brazenly presented my most private keepsakes—my treasured journals, secret sketches, and beloved wooden box—on Ethan's desk. Instead of defending me, Ethan laughed. "Pathetic," he sneered, then fed every piece, every memory, into his industrial shredder. The whirring sound didn't just chew paper and wood; it devoured my soul. I stood frozen, watching my life become confetti. That single act of cruel indifference, the 99th and final blow, ripped away the blind devotion I'd held for a lifetime. How could the boy who once protected me as a child become this monster who so carelessly destroyed my most sacred memories? The agonizing pain of feeling utterly worthless was a sudden, chilling clarity. As the shredded fragments fluttered, a singular, cold resolve settled in me. The debt was paid, the sacrifice complete. My resignation was filed, my lawyer called for immediate divorce, and a one-way ticket for my dream fellowship booked. He thought he annihilated me. He only set me free. But what happens when the man who destroyed your life finally learns the devastating truth about who you really are, and the profound, life-saving secret you've held for decades?

Ava Chen and Ethan Hayes were New York City's infamous power couple. Their marriage a glossy battlefield of icy glares and public humiliations. Beneath the gilded façade, it was a cold war, fought relentlessly. But the bitterness had deep roots, stretching back to their wedding day when Ethan never appeared. Instead, he launched a hostile takeover of her family's empire, leading to her father's arrest. Ava's supposed best friend, Chloe, sealed their fate by maliciously editing a video, making Ethan believe Ava only married him for power. Ava, heartbroken and defiant, lied and confirmed his fears. Years of public mockery and private torment followed. Ava's health crumbled, culminating in a terminal cancer diagnosis. When she sought peace, Ethan cruelly dismissed her, moving Chloe into their penthouse and openly flaunting their affair. Chloe's insidious manipulations went further, faking a pregnancy and framing Ava for a "miscarriage," cementing Ethan's hatred and forcing Ava into a devastating divorce. Shattered by the betrayal of both her husband and her lifelong friend, facing death, Ava felt an unbearable injustice. The depths of Chloe's malice, including the truth about the doctored video and her true love for Ethan, left Ava broken and desperate for oblivion. With nothing left, Ava made a radical choice: an experimental neuro-therapy to erase every agonizing memory of her past, determined to find a quiet peace and disappear from a life that had only brought her pain.

I was Northwood Academy's charity case, my worn backpack and second-hand uniform screaming my poverty louder than any whisper. Living miles from this privileged world, with my disabled dad and our crushing bills, escaping was my only thought. But Jessica Thorne, the queen bee, made sure I never forgot my place. It started with the "First Annual Northwood Philanthropy Prize." My name was called, not for an award, but for public humiliation. They presented me with a massive cardboard check: "$0.00 – For Being Our Charity Case." Laughter swelled, burning my face, but I kept my expression neutral. Then, I overheard them: "The Sterling Bet." The school' s elite rich boys, led by golden boy Ethan Vanderbilt, schemed to fake a relationship with me, build me up, then publicly shatter my reputation right before the SATs, ensuring my future was ruined. My blood ran cold. This wasn't merely mockery; it was calculated sabotage, a crueler kind of war. Jessica's venomous glare confirmed she endorsed it, her bizarre comment about me being a "cheap knock-off" adding a chilling, unsettling layer to their game. Were they truly this bored and cruel? But they underestimated the girl with nothing to lose. They wanted to play? Fine. I would play too. With an icy resolve hardening my heart, I smiled, accepting Ethan's offer of "help." My goal was no longer just survival. It was a calculated heist, and their resources would be my vault. I would win.

On the day of getting the marriage certificate, Eva was betrayed by her love and best friend. She was drowning her sorrow until midnight. Unexpect to her, she accidentally got a CEO husband on her way coming home. After having a flash marriage with him, she found that her newly-married husband was a murderer! A star who had died miserably, a series of murders, and the resurrection of the victim... In front of so many dangers and secrets, she gradually indulged herself in his protection. But, where should her love go?

Everyone knew Kristine loved Colton. Still, his heart clung to a woman overseas-someone he spent most days with, now pregnant with his baby-and Kristine still asked him to marry her. On their registration day, however, he never came; his "true love" had flown back. Seven years of loyalty later, Kristine walked away, blocked him, and left his city. Colton didn't blink-until he saw her at the courthouse, arm-in-arm with another man, and the proud CEO went pale. He went after her, desperation overtaking him. "I'm sorry. Please give me another chance." She snapped, "Could you stop? I'm already married."

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.

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.

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!"

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.

"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."

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.

The heavy thud of the release stamp was the only goodbye I got from the warden after five years in federal prison. I stepped out into the blinding sun, expecting the same flash of paparazzi bulbs that had seen me dragged away in handcuffs, but there was only a single black limousine idling on the shoulder of the road. Inside sat my mother and sister, clutching champagne and looking at my frayed coat with pure disgust. They didn't offer a welcome home; instead, they tossed a thick legal document onto the table and told me I was dead to the city. "Gavin and I are getting engaged," my sister Mia sneered, flicking a credit card at me like I was a stray dog. "He doesn't need a convict ex-fiancée hanging around." Even after I saved their lives from an armed kidnapping attempt by ramming the attackers off the road, they rewarded me by leaving me stranded in the dirt. When I finally ran into Gavin, the man who had framed me, he pinned me against a wall and threatened to send me back to a cell if I ever dared to show my face at their wedding. They had stolen my biotech research, ruined my name, and let me rot for half a decade while they lived off my brilliance. They thought they had broken me, leaving me with nothing but an expired chapstick and a few old photos in a plastic bag. What they didn't know was that I had spent those five years becoming "Dr. X," a shadow consultant with five hundred million dollars in crypto and a secret that would bring the city to its knees. I wasn't just a victim anymore; I was a weapon, and I was pregnant with the heir they thought they had erased. I walked into the Melton estate and made an offer to the most powerful man in New York. "I'll save your grandfather's life," I told Horatio Melton, staring him down. "But the price is your last name. I'm taking back what's mine, and I'm starting with the man who thinks he's marrying my sister."

I went to the City Clerk’s office for a routine copy of my marriage license to finalize a trust fund audit. I expected a simple piece of paper, but the clerk’s pitying look told me my entire life was a lie. "The license was never finalized, Ms. Oliver. In the eyes of the state, you are single." The three-hundred-guest wedding at the Plaza and the Vogue features meant nothing. My husband, Gray Cooley, had intentionally filed the documents with a "procedural defect" so he could discard me without a legal divorce. Moments later, an iCloud invite titled "Our Little Secret" popped up on my screen. It was a photo of my best friend, Brylee, holding a positive pregnancy test at our Hamptons estate. Gray’s text to her was the final blow: "Happy anniversary, babe. This baby is the best gift. Once the trust unlocks today, we’re done with the charade." I soon discovered they were even stealing my career, reassigning my architectural masterpiece to Brylee while preparing my eviction notice. Gray's mother called me a "barren mule" in a leaked recording, mocking the infertility I suffered after saving Gray’s life in a construction accident. I wasn't a wife; I was a three-year placeholder used to secure his inheritance. How could the man I bled for treat me like a disposable prop? How could my best friend carry his child while pretending to comfort me through my darkest moments? The betrayal burned until it turned into a cold, hard stone of fury. I didn't cry. Instead, I walked into the penthouse of the Barretts, the Cooleys' most powerful rivals. I signed a marriage contract with Kane Barrett, the man the tabloids called the "Beast of Wall Street." "I want a wedding," I told his father, my voice steady and lethal. "Bigger than the one I had with Gray." If they wanted me gone, they would have to watch me become the woman who owns their world.