Ty Lyle

For five years, my celebrated surgeon husband was my hero, my devoted caregiver through a brutal battle with cancer. I thought our love was a blessing. Then a different hospital revealed the truth: I was perfectly healthy. I overheard him confess to his assistant, Brianna. My illness, the dozens of surgeries, the constant pain-it was all a monstrous, calculated lie. They had kept me sick to keep me dependent. They even performed an unnecessary hysterectomy, stealing my ability to have children as a twisted "compensation" for his mistress's obsession. His final betrayal was bringing a pregnant Brianna into our home, expecting me to raise their child. He truly believed I was so broken I would just accept it. But he made one mistake. He forgot the love letter he signed before our wedding, a promise that if he ever betrayed me, I would be free. When he sent me to the market for his mistress, I walked out of that gilded cage and never looked back.

Tentu, saya akan menambahkan POV (Point of View) ke setiap bab sesuai dengan permintaan Anda, tanpa mengubah format atau konten lainnya. On our fifth anniversary, I lay dying on the bathroom floor while my husband ignored my calls to celebrate with his "best friend." When my neighbor finally rushed me to the ER for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, my husband arrived hours later, annoyed that I' d ruined his night. But the real betrayal came when he forced me to drink tequila days after surgery, watching me bleed out just to please his mistress. At Elsa's launch party, Gideon snatched the shot glass and shoved the alcohol down my throat, mocking my pain as "drama." As a fresh pool of crimson soaked my dress, he didn't call 911. He turned to comfort Elsa, who was "shaken" by the scene. I survived only because of Alva, the reclusive billionaire next door, who shielded my dignity with his jacket while my husband stepped over me. Recovering in Alva' s care, I discovered the "award-winning" designs Gideon had gifted Elsa were actually mine-stolen from my college archives years ago. They thought I was the fragile, obedient wife who would die quietly in the background. They were wrong. I wiped the blood from my legs, accepted Alva's offer, and prepared to burn their stolen empire to the ground.

For two years, I was the perfect daughter-in-law, caring for my "paralyzed" mother-in-law to pay for a mistake my husband, Holden, never let me forget. The day I found out her paralysis was a lie was the day I also discovered he' d tricked me into signing our divorce papers. They moved his mistress into our home. When I tried to expose their lies, they had my leg broken and sent me for electroshock therapy, forcing a false confession while my husband watched. On the night of his wedding to her, I overheard him say his biggest regret was ever marrying me. That' s when the last of my love finally turned to ash. Months later, as I turned my back on his pathetic pleas for forgiveness, a speeding car hurtled toward me. Holden pushed me to safety, sacrificing himself. Now, he lies broken in a hospital bed, looking at me with hope in his eyes, asking if I can finally forgive him.

The terminal air was thick with the smell of my ruined life. My family archives, centuries of our legacy, were buried under a rich man' s playground, reduced to landfill by my own wife, Chloe. Then my phone buzzed, showing a picture of Chloe, beaming, beside her first love, Liam, in a hospital bed. The headline screamed about a "groundbreaking transplant." They didn't mention the tissue came from our seven-month-old, unborn son, induced early, sacrificed "for Liam." Chloe' s words, cold as ice, still haunted me while I tried to process that our son "never had a chance." Now, she and Liam were enjoying their twisted fairy-tale, while I was left with nothing but ashes and betrayal. My mother, the last shred of my family, became her next target. Used as leverage, she was pushed to her death, adding another layer to my agonizing loss. Why had my life become this twisted nightmare? Why couldn't I see the monster behind Chloe's beautiful mask? I was a fool, a pawn in her vengeful game against her own family, a convenient shield until I was no longer needed. I was trapped, but I wouldn't break. I would expose her. I would fight back.

My name is Chloe, and I am a monster-or at least, that' s what he calls me now. I gave Ethan Vance everything: my immortality, my power, the very essence of my being so he could walk in the sun again, so he could feel the warmth of a human life. My reward? A cold, damp basement, chains biting into my wrists and ankles, and the unending hatred in his eyes, a venom he now directs entirely at me. He got his humanity back, but the process left a scar on his soul, turning him into a tech mogul who secretly hunted my kind, imprisoning them in labs to steal their power. I was offering myself as the perfect sacrifice, begging him to stop hurting my kin, the others. But he just whispered, "Their suffering is part of your punishment. But your suffering… that' s the main event." His fiancée, Olivia Reed, giggled, watching me starve as Ethan nudged a bucket of blood just out of my reach: "If you want it, you' ll have to crawl for it. Just like the animal you are." He expected me to grovel, to break, to succumb to the gnawing hunger that clawed at my insides. But as I looked at his merciless face and Olivia' s smug one, something inside me broke-or perhaps, something was finally forged. I knew I would not be his plaything forever. He thought these chains and this hunger were his ultimate weapons against me, but he was wrong. I had one of my own. A final, irreversible way out. And I was going to use it.

For five years, I lived for Marcus, my boss-a phantom in the shadows, cleaning up his messes, raising his son, Leo, and silently loving him. I secretly nursed a fragile hope, even as he brushed off my unspoken feelings with a dismissive, "You're too young, Ava. Don't get tied down with an old man like me." Yet, in the next breath, he' d ask me to pick up Leo from school. Then came the corporate espionage, a mission that went sideways fast, and Marcus was captured. The rival CEO, a ruthless man named Victor Thorne, contacted me, demanding my deadliest secret-a vulnerability I' d found in his company's system. I gave it up without a second thought; Marcus' s life was worth any cost. He came back shaken but unharmed, and I felt hollowed out, used. The next day, I heard him talking to our PR manager, Celeste. "She always tried to get me to commit. Never met such a desperate woman!" Celeste purred, "You have to admit, she's useful." "Useful?" Marcus scoffed. "If she wasn't so good at digging up dirt, I would have fired her years ago! Her puppy-dog eyes are exhausting." My world shattered. Every sacrifice, every late night, every ounce of love I' d poured into him, into his son-it was all a joke, a convenience. I was just…useful. My heart didn' t just break; it disintegrated. I realized I' d mistaken a job for a home, a boss for a savior. Later that week, everything fell apart even more. A routine operation turned into an ambush, and gunfire erupted. A bullet tore through my shoulder. Another grazed my side. Pain exploded through me. The last thing I heard before darkness consumed me was Marcus' s frantic cry over the comms system: "Ava! No! Please, God, please, bring her back to me..." Too little, too late.

The cold floor bit into Chloe' s cheek as rough hands pulled at her, accusations screaming in her ears – accusations of ruining lives, of being a disgrace. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open to sunlight streaming through her window, the familiar comfort of her own bed; she was back. But the relief was fleeting as the news anchor's voice cut through the quiet night, detailing a scandalous video of her, filmed at the prestigious Hawthorne Hotel, showing illicit activities that had gone viral. Her phone exploded with a torrent of hate, each comment a sharp object piercing her, while her fiancé, Mark, stormed in, his eyes blazing, demanding answers and throwing his phone down to reveal the damning video, accusing her of everything. Even as police detailed irrefutable evidence of her presence with DNA, timestamps, and surveillance footage, she knew it was impossible-she had been home all day-and a chilling impossibility settled over her as a desperate thought began to form: how could it be her, yet not be her?

Three days before my wedding, I walked into my fiancé Matthew' s bachelor party, custom watch in hand, ready to surprise him. Instead, a chilling whisper cut through the pulsating Vegas bass: "Relationship swap dare? Genius... a hall pass weekend with Nicole Chavez." My heart froze as I watched Matthew, the man I was about to marry, pin his high-school flame against the glass, kissing her passionately. When he saw me, there was no guilt, only annoyance, then a dismissive shrug: "It's just a game, babe. A dare. If you're upset, go hang out with my brother, Andrew. It's fair, right? A swap." My carefully planned life shattered, the custom watch turning into a lead weight in my hand, but Matthew' s smug confidence that I would still marry him despite his brazen betrayal ignited a cold, quiet rage within me. As I turned to leave, his brother Andrew found me, offering a glass of water and a startling question-a chance to swap grooms at the altar.

（This is a novel of female frequency, and you have to go in this direction to generate pictures） Elara, the revered Adjudicator of The Crossroads, stepped back into her office after a brief retreat. It was supposed to be a peaceful return. But the air hummed with an unsettling wrongness. Her sacred seat was occupied by Seraphina, the young daughter of Elara's oldest friends, Silas and Clara. In her hand, Seraphina held Elara's Quill of Reckoning. "You stand accused," Silas declared, his face grim, as Clara's cold eyes echoed the blatant lie: betrayal, an attempt to steal the Quill. Elara watched, powerless, as her Aura of Authority was seized. Pain, sharp and absolute, tore through her as she was condemned to The Abyss-eternal torment. Her last conscious thought was a desperate "How?" How could her Quill obey another? How could her cherished friends do this? The scene replayed, a searing brand on her soul. But then, she gasped, waking in her own chambers-her Aura whole, back on the day it all began. She had been granted a second chance. This time, Elara would not be a fool. This time, she would fight.

The lawyer, Mr. Henderson, pushed the document across the polished mahogany table. "Sign here, Sarah, and Ethan Vance will be legally declared deceased." My husband, Ethan, was gone, lost in a sailing accident off the Hamptons. But the grief I displayed was a carefully constructed facade for the world. His body was mostly unrecoverable, they said, trying to save his influencer girlfriend, Chloe Bellweather. Unbeknownst to them, divorce papers rested on Ethan' s desk, untouched by my hand, clear evidence of his intent to leave me for Chloe. Now, there would be no divorce. The bulk of Ethan' s immense estate, a fortune beyond any settlement, was irrevocably mine. A small, cold smile touched my lips, one Mr. Henderson thankfully missed. This wasn't about newfound wealth; it was about vengeance. Years ago, my mother, Linda, died in a hit-and-run, unsolved, on a remote highway. The powerful Vance family, Ethan' s family, I knew, were inextricably connected to that night, to its cover-up, and to the decades of injustice. A simmering rage had slowly transformed into a cold, meticulously calculated plan for payback. This inherited fortune was not a comfort; it was potent fuel for a lifelong quest. My sister and I had waited long enough for justice. As I left the lawyer' s office, stepping into the city' s noise, I felt a chilling satisfaction. Phase one was complete. The Vances had no idea their meticulously planned downfall had just begun.

My wife, Sarah, was everything to me – kind, loving, my whole world. We shared a quiet life, anchored by our love and the little silver locket I gave her on our anniversary. Then an email arrived with no subject, just a raw link. It led me to a dark web forum, and an image that shattered my reality: a woman, explicit, wearing Sarah's irreplaceable locket. My stomach twisted into knots. The comments were vile. But the locket… It was hers. Was this really my Sarah, the woman I loved? I hired a PI, desperate for answers. What he found was worse: photos of my wife entering a cheap motel with a stranger. The world tilted. The charity-organizing Sarah, the kind-hearted woman I married, seemed utterly incompatible with this betrayal. Was she a stranger? How could this be happening? When I confronted her and the man at a deserted warehouse, he knocked me out cold. Waking up, I demanded answers, only for Sarah to confess a truth far more complex and dangerous than I ever imagined: a years-long undercover operation to avenge her father, smeared to death by the very forum I uncovered.

My father was jailed, our family disgraced. To save my dying mother, I married Ethan Blackwood, the CEO who ruined us. Our cold wedding; Ethan instantly declared it no love match. My father died a week later. I begged for mercy, but Ethan revealed my father drove his own to suicide-now I was his prisoner, his gilded cage. For five years, I lived as a beautiful facade, a tormented shadow. Ethan's relentless abuse, and his mistress Isabelle, a venomous fixture. Pregnant, a faint hope stirred. But Isabelle faked illness, accusing me of poison. Ethan believed her. He forced an injection, and I lost our child. My world shattered. That last glimmer of light extinguished. My mother' s pact became a cruel joke. He made me swallow contraceptives, then burned the small memorial I made for our son. "He was your son too!" I screamed. "How could you?" Truly nothing left. I walked out and climbed to the Starlight Observation Deck, ready to jump. Ethan appeared, frantic, revealing our son' s actual ashes were safe. Too late. "I'm tired, Ethan. So tired," I whispered, then jumped. I survived, but my will to live was gone. Ethan finally saw the monster he' d become, his revenge's devastating price. He begged for atonement. But as snow fell, my last words: "If there's a next life, let's not meet."

The last thing I remembered was dying alone on a cold concrete floor, my family ruined, my life a story someone else wrote. But then a cold, mechanical voice declared me a "supporting character" and a "villainess," my narrative arc complete. My decade-long devotion to Ethan Vance, the golden boy, was dismissed as a mere "transaction" when his true love, Clara, appeared. He effortlessly took all credit for my work, systematically destroyed my family' s legacy, and left me for dead, branded the jealous antagonist. Was my entire existence just a cruel, predetermined role in someone else' s story, my suffering merely a plot device for their happiness? Then, I gasped, finding myself eighteen again, facing the very beginning of that horrifying script – but this time, I knew it was my second chance to seize control and rewrite my own damn narrative.

Ethan Carter, a successful architect, and his powerful tech CEO wife, Victoria Sterling, enjoyed a seemingly perfect life. Five years into their marriage, their sleek Upper East Side apartment epitomized their shared success. However, this polished facade shattered when Vic became infatuated with Jax Ryder, a raw musician. Her obsession quickly spiraled into a blatant, public affair, cracking their perfect world. What followed was a horrifying campaign of torment. Vic publicly humiliated Ethan, pushed him down stairs, and even attempted to poison him. She brought her lover into their home as Ethan' s "caregiver," then shamelessly traded Ethan' s life to a vengeful business rival to save Jax. The ultimate betrayal: she drugged Ethan and surgically removed his kidney, without consent, to save Jax' s grandmother. Ethan endured unimaginable humiliation, despair, and a profound sense of injustice, silently tracking each betrayal by casting away one of ninety-nine cherished stones. He watched, heartbroken, as his wife became a cruel stranger, wondering if she understood the destruction she wrought, or if she simply didn' t care. But when he discovered Vic had secretly filed for divorce to appease Jax, Ethan finally broke. Empowered by the empty stone jar and the bitter truth, he took control, finalized their divorce himself, and vanished, poised to reclaim his life from the ashes of her cruelty.

I was stabbed by a thug when the big screen on the street happened to be playing an interview with the film emperor, Fu Lingze. The reporter asked who I was to him, and he said, "She is my housekeeper." With just that one word, "housekeeper," he erased the ten years of love we had shared. I collapsed in a pool of blood, watching the big screen as he embraced the daughter of a billionaire, smiling with a look of indulgence. Three years later, he burst into my wedding ceremony, kneeling and begging for my forgiveness. I said, "I'm sorry, big star, but I've lost my memory and don't remember what our relationship was." My fiancé immediately played an old video: "Baby, look, he said with his own mouth that you are his housekeeper."

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.

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."

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!"

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.

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.

Linsey was stood up by her groom to run off with another woman. Furious, she grabbed a random stranger and declared, "Let's get married!" She had acted on impulse, realizing too late that her new husband was the notorious rascal, Collin. The public laughed at her, and even her runaway ex offered to reconcile. But Linsey scoffed at him. "My husband and I are very much in love!" Everyone thought she was delusional. Then Collin was revealed to be the richest man in the world. In front of everyone, he got down on one knee and held up a stunning diamond ring. "I look forward to our forever, honey."