Wu Xiaoyan

I was a brilliant scientist, but in my family, I was always the shadow to my perfect, manipulative sister, Jetta. On the day I was set to receive the prestigious Harrison Award, my family was only focused on her graduation party, dismissing my life's work as a mere hobby. That same day, I was brutally attacked in my own lab. The men who did it used Jetta's keycard and sneered that she sent them to "teach me a lesson" and put me in my place. Bleeding out on the cold floor, I made one last desperate call to my fiancé, Hayden. "Stop being so dramatic," he snapped before hanging up. "This is Jetta's big day. Don't you dare ruin it for attention." My mother came downstairs, saw nothing but a mess, and left a voicemail scolding me for being selfish. My soul ripped free from my body, forced to watch them celebrate. I saw the love in Hayden's eyes-not for me, but for Jetta. To them, my death was just another one of my "attention-seeking stunts." Now, as a ghost trapped in my own home, I watch them find my body and slowly piece together their neglect from my journal. But they've overlooked the one thing that will expose it all: the memory pendant around my neck, which recorded every horrifying second of the truth.

I was an artist hired to be a companion for the reclusive billionaire, Kane Miller. I fell in love with the broken man I thought I was saving. Then I discovered the truth. He was secretly recording our intimate moments, only to use deepfake technology to replace my face with my stepsister Coral' s. I wasn't his lover; I was a body double for his obsession. When Coral framed me for assault, Kane didn't just believe her-he watched as his guards beat me. Later, he sent thugs to shatter my right hand, destroying my career as an artist. To protect Coral's reputation before her wedding, he had me thrown in a detention center, coldly calling me a "plaything" he was done with. He destroyed my body, my career, and my heart, all for a woman who was lying to his face. But in that cold cell, I got an offer from the stepfather who had once cast me out. He wanted me to marry a disabled tech heir, Keegan Marks, in exchange for my mother's massive trust fund. I took the deal. I walked out of that jail, left the city, and flew to marry a stranger, finally choosing to escape the man who broke me.

The world came back in a blur of twisting metal and the horrifying screech of tires. One moment, we were driving. The next, a truck had run the red light. In the passenger seat, my head throbbing, I watched my boyfriend, Adrian, scramble to comfort his first love, Cassie, who was crying in the backseat. He didn't even glance back at me, his girlfriend of five years, as he helped her out of the wrecked car. Paramedics arrived. Through the haze of pain, I watched Adrian hover over Cassie, refusing to leave her side for a second. It was like I wasn't even there anymore. He didn't remember my birthday, never knew my favorite food, and never cared that I was allergic to the flowers he bought for me, the same ones Cassie loved. I had been a side character in their love story, a placeholder until the real star of his life returned. I had been obsessed with Adrian Payne, but it wasn't love; it was a sickness, a trauma bond I had mistaken for devotion. Why did I do that? Why did I let him mold me into someone so submissive, so unlike myself? It felt like I was being controlled by some invisible force, a plot that wasn't my own. The spell was broken. The obsession vanished. All that was left was a cold, empty feeling and a sudden, desperate longing for someone else: Kellen Campos, my childhood sweetheart, the boy I had left behind five years ago. I booked the first flight to New York.

My five-year-old son, Liam, suffered severe brain damage from an allergic reaction. A car accident left me with shattered ribs and a new heart beating in my chest. My husband, Mark, seemed broken by our tragedy. Then, I overheard his phone call. "Olivia, it's done. Liam is no longer a problem. The accident went perfectly. They said her heart was a match for you. It was almost too easy." I was paralyzed. He planned it all. He fed Liam peanuts, knowing his fatal allergy. He orchestrated my crash to get my heart for his mistress, Olivia. We were pawns, obstacles to be removed so his son, Ethan, could inherit everything. Mark walked in, feigning concern. He even asked me to give blood for Olivia, whose body was rejecting my heart. He dragged me out of bed, ignoring my weakness and bleeding hand. He was draining my son too. I fainted from blood loss. Mark then suggested we place Liam in a facility and "adopt" Ethan. But in his monstrous suggestion, I saw my escape. His phone was left behind. His password was Ethan's birthday. I found a video: Olivia giving Ethan peanut crackers and pointing to Liam. It was deliberate. I forwarded the video, emailed my friend, a neurosurgeon in Switzerland, and deleted the history. I bundled Liam and slipped out. I mailed divorce papers and the USB with the video to Mark's office. "I'm leaving, Mark," I told him, then hung up. Mark eventually found Liam's room empty. The nurse, witnessing Olivia's manipulative act, showed Mark security footage of Olivia pinching Ethan and falsely blaming me. Mark erupted. He threw Olivia out, showering them with cash, telling them he never wanted to see them again. I landed in Zurich, found freedom with Liam. The news came: Mark suffered a severe spinal injury in an accident, paralyzed. He left everything to me for Liam. I founded a non-profit for children with brain injuries. Liam thrived, discovering a gift for piano. Then, my transplanted heart began to fail. I was preparing for the end, writing birthday letters for Liam. Ben burst in: "We found one! A perfect match. A directed donation from a patient in the States." It was Mark. He had arranged it, his ultimate atonement. He had his life support removed. I watched his final message, then deleted the file. A new heart. A new life. Our new life.

"The divorce papers are on the table. Sign them." Olivia's voice was cold. After ten years as her "invisible husband," a signed contract, and a son I raised as my own, our arrangement was finally over. But the finality hit differently when I saw the new portrait on the grand staircase: Olivia, radiant, linking arms with Daniel Clark, and beside them, my son Leo, beaming up at Daniel with an adoration he never showed me. Daniel was back, and I was erased. They made it clear I was nothing more than a paid service. Mrs. Hayes, Olivia's mother, sneered, "Olivia, out of the kindness of her heart, has secured you a position at a mid-level tech firm. It's more than you deserve." A dismissal, a final pat for the loyal dog. Then, at the mall, the ultimate betrayal. Leo recoiled from me, screaming, "He's not my dad! I want Daniel to be my dad!" Daniel, with a fake sympathetic smile, put his arm around Leo, while Olivia silently condoned it. It wasn't just my marriage ending; it was my fatherhood, too. The words didn't cause sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy thud, as if something inside me finally died. Ten years of sacrifice, of unrequited love, meant nothing. Why had I poured every ounce of myself into a family that saw me only as a placeholder, a loyal dog? What even was I to them? I signed the divorce papers, a final and clean break. That night, I collected the few remnants of my life-my coding projects, my mother's photo-and walked away, leaving behind the gilded cage, ready for a new beginning, a life where I wasn't just a service, but a man finally choosing to live for himself.

The antiseptic smell of the hospital room wasn't the only thing suffocating Olivia Reed. After a horrific car accident, she found herself trapped, not by her injuries, but by a chilling betrayal. Her fiancé, Ethan Miller, the man she' d loved for years, was having a secret affair with Tiffany Sterling, Olivia' s adoptive sister from the family who had taken her in, only to treat her as an inconvenience. The Sterlings, her birth family, who' d cast her out and now barely tolerated her, doted on Tiffany, their "real" daughter. As Olivia lay injured, Tiffany taunted her with messages and photos, culminating in the cruel reveal that Ethan and Tiffany were having a baby and getting married. The "love" Ethan had shown felt like a well-rehearsed performance, his every word a lie. From a named star he' d promised Olivia, now designated for Tiffany, to the custom-designed wedding bands Olivia herself had created, now gracing Tiffany' s finger. The crushing weight of betrayal, the realization that her entire life was built on a foundation of lies, was almost unbearable. Why had she been so blind? How could they all be so cruel? But just as despair threatened to consume her, a lifeline appeared. Liam Hayes, a tech mogul, offered a marriage of convenience, an escape, a clean break. Olivia wiped away her tears, detached herself from the suffocating past, and rose. She was done being a victim.

"Ava, it's a decision from the top. There was nothing I could do." My team lead handed me a box of tissues as I was summarily dismissed, the official reason being a fabricated error. Everyone knew the real reason: my boyfriend, Nathan Hayes, was making room for Chloe Davis, his high school sweetheart and the company' s co-founder, back from abroad. Just then, Nathan' s black Maybach pulled up, and Chloe emerged, linking her arm through his. He walked past me as if I didn' t exist, guiding Chloe into the building. My heart tightened. I went to our penthouse, cooked his favorite ribs, and sent him a picture: "Coming home for dinner? Made your favorite honey-glazed ribs." The message was read, but no reply came. Of course not. He was with Chloe. Days later, Nathan finally came home. He saw my pharmacy bag: "You went to the hospital?" I lied, saying it was just a cold. He pulled me into an embrace: "You're not mad I fired you, are you?" I said no. I couldn't be. Three years ago, he saved me from my mother' s gambling debts, and I became his. His kept woman. Then, Chloe's friend, Brenda Smith, found me. She showed me texts of my messages to Nathan, saying he and Chloe laughed about how pathetic I was. She slapped me, slammed my head against the table. I woke up in the hospital, Nathan by my side. He didn' t care about my pain; only about Chloe' s reputation. A part of me had died that day. Nathan wanted his "white knight" and his obedient canary in a cage. But he didn't know his "golden canary" had started digging her own way out.

He was my guardian, my "Uncle Ethan," the man who promised to always be there after the fire took Mom and Dad. On my eighteenth birthday, I believed his devoted attention, his constant presence, meant we were meant to be more than family. But when I whispered, "I love you, not like an uncle," his eyes turned to ice. "These feelings are inappropriate," he flatly stated, his voice chillingly foreign. Humiliation burned. He called me 'delusional,' cut off my funds, and dated a woman who openly mocked me. Then came the 'accident' – a knife wound, a trap set by his new girlfriend, with him blaming me and contacting Juilliard to destroy my dreams. He changed the locks, leaving me to bleed alone. Why would the man who once shielded me now actively ruin my life? Was his cruelty a twisted lesson, or something far darker? The answer arrived with Olivia' s text: a faded photo of my mother and a chilling caption: "Did you know he was obsessed with your mother? You were always just her shadow." His 'care' was a grotesque projection of a sick, unrequited love for my dead mother. I was a surrogate. But no more. A sudden lifeline from my parents' past offered the means to cut the ties, expose his manipulations, and carve out a real future where I was seen for myself.

My husband, Mark, GreenScape' s CEO, always prioritized his ambition, and I quietly supported him, sacrificing my own dreams. I meticulously managed our flagship Willow Creek project, pouring months of my life into it. Mark claimed to be in Boulder for a crucial zoning appeal. But then, an Instagram post shattered that illusion: Mark, playing 'eco-warrior' in Denver with Ashley, our new coordinator, her hand on his arm, a gushing caption highlighting her initiative. I "liked" the post. Immediately, Mark called, furious, accusing me of mocking Ashley and ordering me to retract it. Later, Ashley posted a victim statement on our company portal, subtly implicating me. Mark demanded a public apology, threatening to pull me from Willow Creek. My colleagues turned away. Mocking her? I, who truly understood hard work, was being gaslit by a man who dismissed my severe allergies as "drama." The blatant threats, years of neglect, and casual disregard for our marriage solidified into one cold, unyielding truth. This wasn't about an Instagram post; it was about him. They expected an apology, me to grovel. I closed the portal, a quiet, chilling resolve settling in. Little did Mark or Ashley know, my escape plan was already set. Our divorce papers were signed months ago-by him-back when he was too consumed by Ashley' s manufactured crises to even notice. My real project was complete. It was time for his world to unravel.

My life was supposed to be a success story, a talented architect married to a rising firm owner, living comfortably in Chicago. But at the annual holiday gala, my husband, Mark, publicly humiliated me by gifting my deceased mother's irreplaceable locket to his conniving intern, Tiffany, who then carelessly shattered it. What followed was a cruel spiral of blatant infidelity, his dismissal of my grief, gaslighting about his constant neglect, and their calculated plot to destroy my career; he even staged a fake suicide attempt for Tiffany, forcing me to donate my rare blood type on the day of my most critical professional presentation, then watched as they celebrated with my stolen project and commissioned my anniversary gown for his mistress. Lying in that sterile hospital room, sedated and weak, I understood the full extent of their calculated cruelty; every betrayal was a deliberate, agonizing twist of the knife, leaving me stripped of everything and simmering with a cold, unwavering fury. As Mark brazenly handed over my stolen designs to Tiffany, dismissing my accusations of plagiarism, I finally made the call I vowed I never would: to my reclusive, powerful father in New York, demanding he pull every string and dismantle Mark' s entire empire, piece by piece.

After finding out that her fiance cheated on her and with her half-sister no less, Sandra drowned her sorrows in the comfort of another man. Levi thought it was just going to be a one night fling but he was in for a wild surprise. Shamelessly, she came to him with a marriage agreement. She wasn't in search of love, but rather just a husband. She didn’t care if he was a playboy, as long as he was a handsome one. She was quite content with everything under her control...or so she thought. He wasn't about to give up his tricks that easily.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Donna's previous life had been a complete mess. Despite her family's objections, she married Andrew, building a life with him from nothing and enduring years of hardship by his side. But when success finally came, he betrayed her-having an affair with her stepsister, Sakura. Worse, the two conspired against her, ultimately having her locked away in a psychiatric hospital. In the end, she was pushed from a building. She and the child she was carrying passed away in agony. Now reborn, Donna was determined to rewrite everything. But fate had other plans. She awoke not in her own body, but in someone else's-Bonnie, a woman whose life was even more entangled in chaos than her own. Bonnie had been used by her fiancé, Randor. He cheated on her with his secretary, then coldly orchestrated her death during a cruelly planned surgery. Donna sighed at the cruel irony. If this was the form her rebirth had taken, then so be it. She would start by helping Bonnie take revenge on that despicable man she once called her fiancé!

She fell into her sister's trap and had a one night stand that left her pregnant. Four years later, when she returned with her kid, a charming but bossy gentleman entered her life. From the moment she laid eyes on him, she found him familiar, but couldn't figure out why until she saw her son stand next to that man...

For three years, I documented the slow death of my marriage in a black journal. It was my 100-point divorce plan: for every time my husband, Blake, chose his first love, Ariana, over me, I deducted points. When the score hit zero, I would leave. The final points vanished the night he left me bleeding out from a car crash. I was eight weeks pregnant with the child we had prayed for. In the ER, the nurses frantically called him-the star surgeon of the very hospital I was dying in. "Dr. Santos, we have a Jane Doe, O-negative, bleeding out. She's pregnant, and we're about to lose them both. We need you to authorize an emergency blood transfer." His voice came over the speaker, cold and impatient. "I can't. My priority is Miss Whitfield. Do what you can for the patient, but I can't divert anything right now." He hung up. He condemned his own child to death to ensure his ex-girlfriend had resources on standby after a minor procedure.