Lunacy

The jagged glass bit into Amelia Hayes' s cheek. "Help me," she choked into the phone, but her husband, Ethan Caldwell, snapped: "Amelia, for God' s sake, I' m in a meeting." A sharp blow, then darkness. She awoke not in her blood-slicked car, but in her opulent master bedroom, the calendar marking three months after her wedding. Three months into a marriage that had already begun to kill her. Ethan stood by the window, his voice softening, "Yes, Jessica, tonight sounds perfect." Jessica Thorne, his true love, the shadow over Amelia' s first life. The familiar ache in Amelia' s chest gave way to a chilling, new fury. For seven miserable years, she had given Ethan desperate, unyielding devotion. She endured his coldness, his brazen affairs, his emotional abuse, all for a flicker of his attention. She had become a shell, a caricature, ridiculed by Ethan' s circle and condescended to by his family. The profound injustice, the sheer blindness of his indifference, was a bitter pill. Her heart, once broken, now felt nothing but a hollow echo of unrequited love. Then, at a gala, a cruel act involving Eleanor' s ashes, and Ethan, without hesitation, shoved Amelia, his accusations echoing: "You are a disgrace." He comforted Jessica while Amelia' s head reeled from the impact. That was the final straw. No tears, no anger. Just a cold resolve. She delivered a small velvet box to his penthouse. Inside: the wedding ring and a divorce decree. "I. Want. You. Out. Of. My. Life. Forever," she stated, her voice clear. She was reborn to be free.

I'm a neurosurgeon making over half a million dollars a month. I support my husband, an army captain, and his entire parasitic family. After I saved them from financial ruin with a $5 million check, I planned the ultimate family vacation to Monaco—private jet, chartered yacht, all on my dime. The night before we left, my husband announced his ex-girlfriend, Dahlia, was coming. He had already given her my seat on the private jet I paid for. My new ticket? A commercial flight with a layover in a war zone. "Dahlia is delicate," he explained. "You're strong." His family agreed, fawning over her while I stood there, invisible. His sister even whispered to Dahlia, "I wish you were my real sister-in-law." That night, I found Dahlia in my bed, wearing my silk nightgown. When I went for her, my husband threw his arms around Dahlia, shielding her from me. The next morning, as punishment for my "behavior," he ordered me to load their mountain of luggage into the motorcade. I smiled. "Of course." Then I walked into my office and made a call. "Yes, I have a large quantity of contaminated material," I told the hazardous waste disposal service. "I need it all incinerated."

I woke up with a pounding headache and a man I didn't recognize sleeping next to me-Liam Hayes, the man I' d loved for years, only to realize he' d mistaken me for his ex-girlfriend, Bethany. It was a cruel echo of a past life I was desperately trying to escape. He stirred, calling out her name, and then his eyes landed on me. The warmth vanished, replaced by cold indifference. He nonchalantly offered to marry me, stating it was only for his grandmother and that his love belonged to someone else. In my last life, I said yes. I let him use me, tolerate me, and ultimately ruin my family for Bethany. He abandoned me on a stormy night, leading to a car crash that killed me and our unborn twins. But now, I was back, reborn in that very hotel room, at the precipice of ruin. I calmly told him nothing happened, that he was drunk and I had merely fallen asleep on the couch. He snarled, refusing to believe me, pulling away the towel I wore to reveal bruises he' d inflicted, accusing me of drugging him. Just then, Bethany's video call flashed on his phone, and he instantly cast me aside, his voice soft and loving for her. He threw my dress at me, ordering me out. Later, when I was packing my things, he taunted me, then made elaborate plans to send chicken noodle soup via private jet to Bethany in Europe, while I, his supposed fiancée, couldn't even get a glass of water. It was then that the last piece of my old heart turned to dust. The very next day, my parents, beaming, presented me with a penthouse key, convinced Liam and I would finally marry. My mother' s hand flew to her chest when I told them I no longer loved Liam, just as his call came in. He ordered me to take birth control pills, then sarcastically dismissed the designer bag he'd once given me. I simply replied, "That bag is old. You can just throw it away."

My husband, Liam Sterling, once held me like a fragile, precious thing. Three years into our marriage, his touch turned to ice. He led Chloe Miller, the interior designer he now obsessed over, into our home. Today was her wedding day, a cruel game to force his hand. On my knees in a rust-scented warehouse, Liam' s gentle fingers stroked my neck. He smiled, but glacial eyes demanded Chloe' s wedding address. I pleaded, "I don' t know where her wedding is, Liam. She' s setting me up. She' s lying." He sneered, "Chloe was right, as usual. You' re just jealous of her." Then he brought out my brother, Ben, bound and gagged. Five snarling Dobermans lunged, their barks hungry. Liam whispered, his lips brushing my cheek, "If you don' t give me the wedding location, your brother will have a little 'playdate' with the Dobermans." His words were a cold knife, cutting deeper than any physical pain. A dog' s claw dug into Ben' s shoulder, tearing skin, drawing blood. His muffled cry tore through me. I begged, "Please, let my brother go! Take it out on me instead, Liam!" His face darkened, grip tightening on my chin. "Tell me, where is Chloe getting married?" He had forgotten everything we were. The man who swore to protect me now found cruel amusement in my agony. This wasn' t the first sign. Subtle perfumes, a whispered name in passion, then seeing him kiss her in the rain. He' d even told me, casually, "I' m keeping her. She entertains me. Men in our circle all do this." I tracked down Chloe' s abusive ex, hoping to end this nightmare. But she was smarter. She turned it into a scheme that branded me as the villain, telling Liam I paid her ex to marry her. And he believed her. When his assistant burst in with Chloe' s wedding location, Liam' s rage shifted. He ordered, "Help Mrs. Sterling back to her room." And as they dragged me away, I heard Ben' s whimpers, saw the Dobermans tear at him. Liam' s indifferent words echoed, "Honey, you know I can' t bear to punish you, so your brother will have to take the punishment for you." My world went black. Something snapped inside me. When I awoke in the hospital, Ben was alive, but mangled. "I can' t let you get hurt for me anymore. I have to leave him!" I cried. Ben sighed, "The world is vast, Ava, but the Sterling family is vastest." But I had a plan now, a secret escape clause in our marriage agreement. In ten days, Liam Sterling and I would never see each other again.

"Ethan, why the sudden resignation? You're heading to Norway?" the HR manager asked. I was Sarah Jenkins's longest-serving, most loyal assistant, but I had no reason to stay anymore. A bitter smile touched my lips as I remembered how I had been tricked into a marriage seven years ago with Sarah, who used me as a stand-in for her ex, David. Now, she was pregnant and needed a husband. I found them at "The Gilded Lily," Sarah tending to David's injury, her face full of adoration. I was invisible, a servant, bringing clothes for David. Even my son, Leo, saw it. He looked at their linked hands, hurt flickering in his eyes. That night, Leo, my son, whispered, "This is the 97th time Mom has made me sad. Three more times. When it gets to 100, we'll leave Mom and never come back." My heart ached. Sarah had promised to celebrate his birthday, but she was flaunting her relationship with David on social media. When she came home, reeking of alcohol, she shoved a toy at me. "This is for Leo." It was the one she'd forgotten. A wave of frustration washed over me. "Let's get a divorce." She stared at me, then curled her lips into a mocking smile. "Can you and your son survive without me?" The next day, I handed her the divorce papers. She signed them without looking, her mind on an international call. I hated her condescending gestures, the expensive suits she bought me that were meant for someone like David. "I can give you a marriage, I can give you money, but you can't hope for my love. I hope you always remember your place." Her words sliced my heart. What right did I have to be upset? I was just the assistant, the stand-in husband. At a family dinner, her mother constantly compared me and my son to David and his son, Lucas. Lucas, a spoiled brat, then falsely accused Leo of hitting him with a fork. Before I could defend Leo, Sarah slapped our son. "Still lying!" My eyes burned red. How could she? The world went silent. Leo, his cheek red and swollen, looked at her, his soft voice filled with defiance. "I hate you. I don't have a mom like you!" My heart shattered. She had given birth to him, but she had never raised him. She only knew how to hurt him. "You're disgusting, disgusting, disgusting!" I roared, grabbing Leo's hand, ignoring Sarah. She tried to grab me, but I pulled away. "David is still waiting for you." She let go, her eyes darting to him. My heart turned to ice. She chose him again. I leaned down to Leo, "How about we go to Norway tonight?" He nodded, his gaze firm. "Okay." This was it. There was nothing left for me here. I packed our bags, buried a box of old memories, and placed the signed divorce papers on the table. Then, I texted her: "100." Moments later, she replied, "What?" My face impassive, I typed back: "My son and I gave you 100 chances to hurt us. Today was your 100th time." No more. My son and I were flying into the night, leaving her, and our past, behind.

The first thing I felt was water in my lungs, then nothing. Now, I woke up in a sterile hospital room, my head throbbing, with three years of my life mysteriously wiped clean. My father explained it away as an "accident," a fall into a lake, but the icy demeanor of my supposedly devoted bodyguard, Liam, and the saccharine sweetness masking venom from my stepsister, Brittany, painted a disturbing picture. "You valued him," my father said of Liam, confirming my worst suspicions about a past I couldn't recall, yet instinctively recoiled from. The "caring" nurse, the dismissive father, the subtly cruel stepsister-they all confirmed a horrifying truth: I was the obsessed, pathetic fool in a one-sided romance. This betrayal was cemented when Brittany, in a staged "accident," showered Liam with attention, and he, without a moment' s hesitation, left me in my hospital bed to comfort her, his "concern" for her a stark contrast to his disdain for me. Why had my past self been so blind? What dark secrets lay buried in those missing three years that made me cling to a man who despised me and a family that clearly harbored ill will? The humiliation burned hotter than any fever. But in that cold realization, a new resolve was forged. The pathetic Chloe was gone, drowned in that lake. With a click, I deleted Liam' s picture and contact from my phone. My amnesia was not a curse; it was a clean slate, and I vowed to reclaim my life and burn down the world of those who had wronged me.

My sister Sarah' s last message was a cold, digital money transfer. "Chloe, take this money. Pay off Liam' s debts and live a good life. I' m tainted now, I can' t live and drag you down." No goodbye. Just a command and a confession. I knew where she would go-the bridge. I ran, but I was too late. A single shoe, hers, lay by the railing. Everything went silent. I found Liam at a high-end restaurant, laughing with another woman. "Ashley has passed my test," he announced. "I' ll propose to her in three days. She' s good enough to be a stand-in for my late fiancée." A test. My sister' s dignity shattered for a test. Her body sold for a test. Her life, thrown away from a bridge, for a test. The money on my phone burned, her sacrifice for a lie. Then, she was just a "dirty whore," and I was the "pure" replacement. He wanted me to wear his dead fiancée' s symbol and marry him. But on our wedding day, I had a surprise for Liam Sterling. I wouldn' t be his perfect doll. I would be her vengeance.

My biological parents, the Duncans, finally threw me out, discarding me like trash onto the wet Chicago pavement. Minutes later, trapped in a kidnapper's van, I heard my own brother Andrew on speaker, coldly telling them to do whatever they wanted with me – they didn't care. Stella, the perfect daughter they raised in my place, even chimed in with fake sympathy, reinforcing their blatant disregard for my life. I survived the kidnapping, even a stabbing where I saved a stranger, only for Andrew to accuse me of faking it all for attention and sympathy while still demanding I return to their gilded cage. Why did my own family hate me so much, even choosing to let me die repeatedly, while showering affection on a girl who clearly manipulated them? I jumped into Lake Michigan, not to end my life, but to escape their suffocating lies and build a new one, free from the ghost of Jocelyn Chavez.

The day my wife, Jen, ghosted me was the day of my nephew's baptism. I was supposed to be in San Diego, but instead, I was in Austin, staring at my phone, a cold dread creeping into my gut. A notification popped up: an Instagram story from Jen showing her hand intertwined with a man' s, captioned, "Finally picking up where we left off. This time, I'm not letting go." My custom 8-bit heart wedding ring, symbolizing everything we built, was gone from her finger. It was Ethan Lester, her high school sweetheart, the washed-up football star now selling cars. My furious comment on her post vanished, then her call came, her voice filled with a fury I didn't recognize. "You're so toxic, Andrew!" she yelled. "You need to apologize. Not to me. To Ethan. He's my true love, and you've been nothing but a placeholder!" Four years, my love, my work, reduced to a placeholder. Later that night, the 'true love' showed up at my house, boasting about my wife being 'always his,' a smug parasite preying on her because he smelled our company's money. He lunged at me with a pathetic punch, which I easily countered, pinning him face-down on my lawn. Suddenly, a holographic interface shimmered before my eyes, revealing Ethan' s terrifying debt: maxed-out credit cards, delinquent auto loans, gambling debts, and an eviction notice. He wasn't just a parasite; he was desperate, drowning, and our company was his life raft. Then, a new glow appeared: "Designated Soul Swap Protocol Activated. Targets: Jennifer Hewitt, Ethan Lester. One-Time Opportunity. Execute? Y/N." A cold, sharp clarity cut through my rage. This wasn't just a system; it was a solution, a way to show Jen exactly what her "true love" was made of, and I mentally selected 'Y.'

Sure! Here’s the translation: --- I was repeatedly licked by a wet tongue while I slept. I pushed the puppy away with my eyes closed: "Stop it, Dobby..." A hoarse male voice sounded: "Robbie? Not satisfied with me, now you're hitting on my brother?" The system in my mind screamed frantically: "Your novel has been ruined! Hurry and charm the male lead to get back on track!" I opened my eyes, and the stunning man in front of me was none other than the male lead of my novel, Luo Yu. The other male lead is his twin brother, Robbie. I swallowed hard and lunged forward to wrap my arms around his neck. "Don't be mad, he's not as big as you." The allure of his beauty was intoxicating, and before returning to the main plot, I decided to stray off course. After all, what I excel at most is seducing others to sleep with me. --- Let me know if you need anything else!

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.