Xiao Ye

Liam once bought me an island and filled a gallery with my art, showering me with a love so grand it felt like magic, a devotion I mistook for safety. Then, one Tuesday, it shattered. "Chloe is pregnant," he stated, his adopted sister, the one who called me 'sis,' and the child was supposedly his. I watched, numb and disbelieving, as he dismissed my pleas, his eyes cold as ice, twisting reality to protect her reputation above all else-our marriage, our family, even our infant son, Leo. His twisted logic knew no bounds; he forced me into an impossible lie, threatening to destroy me if I refused, transforming our home into a gilded cage where I was trapped, a hostage to his obsession. The nightmare deepened when Chloe, in a sickening act, diluted Leo's life-saving medicine, causing his death; yet, Liam, blinded by his loyalty to her, believed her teary lies over my anguished truth, leaving me utterly alone in my grief. As if that wasn't enough, she desecrated Leo's ashes with cat litter, and Liam, with terrifying calm, forced me to clean the vile mixture with my bare hands, shattering what little spirit I had left. The final insult came at a charity gala: Liam, to satisfy Chloe's cruel whim, forced me-severely allergic-to eat shrimp, causing me to collapse as he publicly announced Chloe's fake pregnancy, erasing my existence. His betrayal led to my brutal assault by his enemies, orchestrated by Chloe, where Leo's ashes were scattered, and in utter despair, I consumed the last dose of an experimental amnesiac, praying for oblivion. Three years later, I am Anya, a flower shop owner in France, my past a blank slate, living a peaceful life with Ben, the kind doctor who has grown to love me. But the past is not done with me yet. Liam arrives, a ghost of his former self, consumed by a desperate need for redemption, unraveling the fragile peace I've built and dragging me back to a history of trauma, betrayal, and a dead child I cannot remember, yet feel with every fibra of my being.

I lay on a mildewed mattress in a run-down motel, my body trembling from withdrawal. Once the most feared "Gossip Queen" in Hollywood, I was now a forty-three-year-old ghost staring at a cracked mirror, waiting for the end. The door clicked open, and Brittany Potts stepped in, looking immaculate in a beige trench coat that cost more than my life. She didn't come to help; she tossed a waiver of marital assets onto my bed and handed me a cup of coffee laced with something that smelled like bitter almonds. She laughed, telling me my husband, Bennet, was already in the Bahamas celebrating my death. I froze when I saw the sapphire pendant around her neck—my mother’s necklace, which had vanished the day she died. As the poison began to burn through my chest, Brittany leaned in and whispered her final secret: she was the one who cut the brake lines on the car that killed my father when we were teenagers. My entire life had been a lie. The pills, the scandal, the bankruptcy—it was all a masterpiece of betrayal orchestrated by the two people I trusted most. I died on that filthy floor, suffocating on my own rage and the taste of chemicals, praying for a single chance to make them pay. But when I opened my eyes, the pain was gone. I was sitting in my old bedroom, the morning sun shining on a calendar that read September 15, 2024. My mother’s voice, warm and alive, called me for breakfast from downstairs. I was eighteen again, back in my senior year at Crestview Academy, and the monsters who destroyed me were still pretending to be my friends. This time, I’m the one who holds the shears.

I stood over the fresh dirt of my four-year-old son's grave. My husband, the Don of the Stark family, didn't hold my hand for comfort. He only adjusted his cuffs and checked that the diamond necklace he forced on me looked good for the cameras. "Stop crying," he whispered into my hair. "You're making a scene." Two days later, I woke up to the sound of shattering glass in the nursery. A strange boy stood there, smiling over the broken remains of my son's favorite snow globe. "This is Cody," my mother-in-law said coldly. "He's family. He stays." When I demanded he leave, Eli looked at me with dead eyes. "Material things can be replaced, Harper. The boy stays." Suspicion led me to the library door, where I heard the impossible truth. Cody wasn't a distant cousin. He was Eli's illegitimate son. And worse—while my son was drowning alone in the pool, Eli hadn't been at a business meeting. He had been in bed with his mistress. I realized then that the silver bracelet he had gifted me wasn't jewelry. I pried it open and found the blinking red light of a tracker. I was a prisoner in a cage of gold. So, I decided to die. I staged my suicide at the bridge, vanished into the night, and paid a shadow doctor to wipe my memories clean. I became Avery. I was happy. I was free. Until six months later, when a man in a black suit walked into my small-town cafe and looked at me with the eyes of a wolf. "Harper," he growled. "Come home."

I spent a decade as Ashton Maxwell' s shadow, building his empire and warming his bed, only for him to announce his engagement to a senator's daughter right in front of me. When assassins struck that night, he didn't just choose her; he used my body as a human shield against a grenade and then shot me himself to prove his loyalty to her family. I survived, reinvented myself as Grecia Munoz, and returned to burn his world to the ground, eventually forcing him to hand over his entire empire in a desperate plea for forgiveness. He promised to disappear so I could find peace with a kind doctor named Garrick. But Ashton' s definition of love was a sickness. To "protect" me from what he called a weakness, he secretly destroyed Garrick' s career and reputation, driving the only innocent man I ever loved to jump off a bridge. He thought this would drive me back into his arms, into the safety of the monster he created. Instead, I drove to the Hamptons, to the pristine dream home he had built for our future. He knelt before me, begging for understanding, claiming he did it all for us. I didn't offer forgiveness. I raised the pistol he had once given me, aimed at the heart I had already broken, and ended the nightmare once and for all.

For four years, I was the grieving wife of a mafia Don, drowning in the memory of our dead son. My husband, Eli, held me through it all. But a trip to the records office on the anniversary of our son's death revealed a devastating truth. He had another son. A secret family. Worse, I discovered he was with his mistress the day our son died, having dismissed the security that could have saved him. He let me believe it was my fault. When I tried to leave, he brought his mistress and their son into our home, framing me as a madwoman. His mother accused me of hurting the boy, and Eli punished me by locking me in a dark, flooding room—a cruel echo of our son's drowning. To “cure” his new heir of my son’s “ghost,” they had my baby’s grave dug up. On a yacht, Eli held me down as his mistress emptied the ashes into the ocean. Then they left me to die in the water. When I washed ashore, his mistress was waiting to deliver the final, soul-crushing blow. She hadn't scattered the ashes. She’d flushed them down a toilet. I didn't want to escape him. I wanted to erase him. I found a neuroscientist with an experimental procedure and made my request: wipe the last ten years. I didn't want to leave my husband; I wanted to make it so he never existed at all.

The world came back in a rush of white. White ceiling, white sheets, the sterile smell of antiseptic. My head throbbed. I was in a hospital. My fiancé, Cameron, rushed to my bedside, his face creased with worry. I decided to play a prank, pretending I had amnesia. "Who... who are you?" I whispered. His relief evaporated, replaced by a calculating look. He showed me a picture of another woman, Hannah Nichols, an intern at his family's company. "She's the woman I love," he said, his voice flat. "But you and I are getting married. Our families have an agreement. A business merger. It's too important to fail." My mind reeled. The man I loved was telling me our entire relationship was a lie. I felt a surge of fury. "Then call it off," I snapped. He grabbed my wrist, panic in his eyes. "If this merger falls through, my family is ruined. Hannah... she's very fragile. The stress would destroy her." My life, my love, my future-it was all just collateral damage in his pathetic, selfish drama. I was nothing more than a business deal. The witty, proud Alicia England, heiress to a tech empire, reduced to a bargaining chip. Later, I heard him on the phone, his voice soft and tender. "Don't worry, Hannah. It's all under control. She has amnesia. She doesn't remember a thing. Love me? Of course, she loves me. She's been obsessed with me since we were kids. It' s almost pathetic." My heart shattered. He thought I was a broken, forgetful fool he could manipulate. He was about to find out how wrong he was.

I woke up after five years in a coma, a miracle, the doctors said. The last thing I remembered was pushing my husband, Derek, out of the way of an oncoming truck. I saved him. But a week later, at the county clerk's office, I discovered a death certificate filed two years ago. My parents' names were on it. And then, Derek's signature. My husband, the man I saved, had declared me dead. Shock turned to a hollow numbness. I returned to our home, only to find Anjelica Hardin, the woman who caused the crash, living there. She kissed Derek, casually, familiarly. My son, Errol, called her "Mommy." My parents, Alva and Glyn, defended her, saying she was "one of the family now." They wanted me to forgive, to forget, to understand. They wanted me to share my husband, my son, my life, with the woman who had stolen it all. My own son, the child I had carried and loved, screamed, "I want her to go away! Go away! That's my mommy!" pointing at Anjelica. I was an outsider, a ghost haunting their happy new life. My awakening wasn't a miracle; it was an inconvenience. I had lost everything: my husband, my child, my parents, my very identity. But then, a call from Zurich. A new identity. A new life. Catherine Anderson was dead. And I would live only for myself.

My husband accused me of putting his assistant in the hospital. He claimed the AC I turned on, despite her protests, caused her to collapse from severe cramps. I was eight months pregnant and the office was dangerously hot, but he still blamed me. To "make it up to me," he invited me to a party at an exclusive club. I woke up on the floor of a glass-walled freezer. Outside, my husband, Austen, stood with his arm wrapped around a perfectly healthy Deb. He raised a glass to the city’s elite, toasting to “cooling down” his hot-headed wife. They watched as his men stripped me to my underwear and forced my bare knees onto a floor of ice. They poured buckets of freezing water over my head and my pregnant belly until I felt a warm trickle between my legs. I was bleeding. I was losing our baby. While I lay there, Austen pounded on the glass, screaming at me to apologize, to tell him I forgave him so he wouldn't have to be the monster. He sneered that I was all alone, that my father was dead and no one was coming to save me.

I was an architect, designing futures, and I finally had my own: a baby with my fiancé, Ethan Riley. Then, a brutal attack left me in darkness. Ethan told me it was a mugging, that they saved me but couldn't save my eyes. I believed him, clinging to him in my new black world. But then, one night, I overheard his cold confession: he had orchestrated it all. My blinding, the termination of my pregnancy, even the removal of my uterus, were all to secure Isabella' s future-a woman from his past he felt indebted to, who turned out to be his secret wife and mother of his child, Mia. My fiancé, the man I loved, was a monster who had meticulously planned to destroy me and replace me with his secret family. He moved his mistress and their child into our home, telling me they were a struggling friend and her daughter, expecting me to be grateful for Isabella's "care." Even his parents joined in, treating me as a discarded, blind burden. The pain, the betrayal, was unimaginable. My entire life had been a horrific stage for his twisted play. Why would he do this? How could someone I loved so deeply inflict such monstrous cruelty? But in that deepest dark, something new ignited within me. He thought he had broken me, that the darkness would be my prison. He was wrong. It would be my shield. I would play the part of the blind victim, gather my evidence, and make him pay. This wasn' t the end of my story; it was the start of a war he would never see coming.

My life was supposed to be a dream, a bright future with my husband Andrew, leaving my wealthy Napa Valley life behind for love. But our condo fell through, leaving me, a six-month pregnant woman, stuck in my in-laws' cramped, stale house. That Black Friday, my mother-in-law Maria, obsessed with a TV, used my pregnant belly as a battering ram in a store, live-streaming my humiliation. The video went viral, branding me an "entitled Karen," costing me my job, and leading to ceaseless online attacks. When I collapsed in agony, fearing miscarriage, Andrew just turned over and went to sleep, while Maria called me a "drama queen." His father then suggested a divorce, saying my tarnished reputation would hurt Andrew's career, and Andrew nodded in agreement. My baby was gone, lost because Maria actively sabotaged my birth control and then shoved me, and Andrew abandoned me in my darkest hour. Did they truly believe they could destroy me and get away with it, simply because I chose love over my family' s wealth? They thought my family' s reputation was my greatest weakness, but they were wrong. I let them move into my family's guesthouse, watched their greed, and meticulously planned how I would dismantle their world, piece by piece.

For five years, I, Scarlett King, abandoned my East Coast dynasty to be the secret mistress of tech mogul Julian Thorne, believing our intense, private connection was true love. Tonight, at a lavish charity gala, my heart pounded as Julian bid on my grandmother' s vintage Cartier watch, a public claim I secretly craved. But as the gavel fell, winning the priceless heirloom, Julian turned away from me, announcing his executive assistant, Brianna, as his fiancée and sliding my cherished family watch onto her wrist for the entire ballroom to witness. My world shattered under the weight of the roaring cheers, and Julian, with a devastating smirk, whispered only to me, "Don't look so sad, kitten. This changes nothing for us. My nights are still yours." He viewed me as a mere plaything, a dirty secret to be kept in a box, utterly betraying five years of unwavering loyalty and a twisted kind of love. Shortly after, a cold text banished me from "our" penthouse, giving me one hour before security escorted me out, my life with him reduced to an inventory for a storage unit. How could he so brutally discard five years of my life, my love, my trust, for a conventional wife and a public spectacle, acting as if my public humiliation was just a minor inconvenience to our "games"? How dared he imply I was just a disposable mistress, easily replaced and forgotten in his climb to conventional wealth? As his condescending shadow fell over me, I stood up, declared "We're done, Julian," and walked away, ready to build a new kingdom from the ashes of his betrayal.

I died alone on a cold hospital bed, my father gone, my life shattered by my best friend Madison and my boyfriend Kevin. Madison had drugged me, sold me to a cartel in Cancún, and watched a video of my humiliation go viral. They turned everyone against me, Kevin branding me a slut, my university expelling me, and the cyberbullying driving me to despair, while Madison used my stolen identity to destroy my family. My father, my secret protector, died after loan sharks Madison sent hounded him, leaving me with nothing but overwhelming grief and a searing sense of betrayal. Then, I opened my eyes in the sorority house living room, hearing Madison's saccharine voice, realizing I was back: the day it all began, but this time, I wouldn't be the victim.

My name is Ethan; I used to be a Michelin-starred chef, but now I' m the trophy husband to Victoria, a real estate mogul who keeps me on a humiliating $200 allowance in our luxurious Hollywood Hills mansion that feels like nothing more than a gilded cage. When a severe car accident badly injured my dominant hand, requiring $5,000 for urgent, career-saving surgery, Victoria' s voice on the phone was cold, accusing me of "leeching" and attempting to find "new ways to grab her money" before she abruptly hung up, dismissing my pain as a mere annoyance. That callous denial cost me everything, leaving me with permanent nerve damage that utterly crushed any hope of ever cooking professionally again. Yet, she simultaneously showered her platonic "childhood friend" Liam with extravagant tokens of affection, like a $75,000 vintage watch, flaunting his "BestieGoals" on Instagram. Later, still suffering at the hospital with my throbbing hand, I learned she was hosting a massive drone party at our house, spelling out "Welcome Home Liam!" while I waited for a ride that simply never came. The anger and hurt I used to feel, the desperation for her attention, all evaporated, replaced by a chilling numbness, a profound, almost eerie detachment. What else could I say, sitting across from her at breakfast, as she scrolled through Liam's posts with a small smile, never once looking at me, never once acknowledging the depth of her complete disregard? So, when she eventually scoffed, "Aren' t you even a little bit jealous?", I met her gaze, truly seeing her for the first time, and replied with absolute, unnerving calm, "No, Victoria, why would I be?" That night, I ripped off my wedding ring, gave it to a cab driver, and made a call that promised a new life, a new kitchen, and new freedom, far from her suffocating golden trap.

I, Sarah, a government scientist, finally returned home after three years buried in advanced aerospace tech, eager to reunite with my husband, David, at LAX. But instead of David, a greasy stranger grabbed me, claiming to be my husband, Kevin, while David and my best friend Jessica appeared – not to save me, but to validate the lie, treating me like I was insane. My entire life was twisted: photos morphed, a locket changed, and my own parents whispered for me to accept "Kevin," as I was publicly branded a delusional homewrecker, prompting a horrifying first timeline that ended in tragedy. How could every single piece of my reality be rewritten overnight, my very memories gaslighted by those closest to me? Reeling from the unimaginable betrayal, I refused to break, and with one critical detail – a distinct mole on "my" shoulder in a fake wedding video, a mole only my best friend possessed – I found the crack in their perfect digital prison, ready to fight for my stolen truth.

At fifty, my body broken and worn, I lay dying on a cold, stained mattress. Every ounce of my being had been spent on Ethan Vance, the man who now stood across the room in his expensive suit, callously discussing his future with Chloe Harrison – the stepsister who had effortlessly stolen the life intended for me, leaving me with nothing but exhaustion and regret. "Scarlett was just a means to an end," Ethan smoothly confessed to Chloe, his voice dripping with deceit. Then, adding to the crushing weight of betrayal, my supposed brother, Marcus Thorne, revealed the ultimate lie: "Scarlett, I was never your brother. I was adopted solely to protect Chloe, the true Harrison family heir in their privileged eyes." The double betrayal was a physical agony, yet I was too weak to even stir. My life felt like a cruel, wasted joke; my deepest love, a meticulously crafted illusion; my very family, a grotesque sham designed purely for my exploitation. As darkness finally consumed me, the profound weight of this ultimate deception was unbearable. How could I have been so astonishingly naive? How could I have sacrificed everything for those who, with chilling indifference, orchestrated my downfall and used me as a mere pawn? The burning injustice of my stolen identity, my sabotaged existence, ignited a furious despair that transcended death itself. Then, a sharp, life-affirming gasp. I bolted upright, my hands young, smooth, undeniably twenty-two again. This was the exact pivotal moment, the critical turning point that had led to my tragic past. But not this time. The past was dead, replaced by a fierce determination. I was alive, I remembered everything, and my destiny was mine to reclaim.

Their lives were switched after a fateful car accident. When Ivy woke up in the hospital, she remembered nothing, including her own name. However, a strange man who addressed her as "Cassie" told her that they were engaged. She married this charming billionaire and indulged in his limitless adoration. What she didn’t know was that she had stolen her twin sister’s happiness. When the truth was revealed, he still wanted to be with Ivy, but she refused him relentlessly and left. Five years later, he finally met her again. As he looked affectionately into her eyes, he wanted nothing but one more chance to win her heart back.

I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector. That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world. The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor. The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist. Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch—a titan of industry and my best friend’s father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared. "Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb. Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen. "Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back." I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

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.

I woke up on silk sheets that smelled of expensive cedar and cold sandalwood, a world away from my cramped apartment in Brooklyn. Beside me lay Ezra Gardner—my boss, the billionaire CEO of Gardner Holdings, and the man who could end my career with a snap of his fingers. He didn’t offer an apology for the night before; instead, he looked at me with terrifying clarity and proposed a cold, calculated business arrangement. "Marriage. It stabilizes the board and solves the PR crisis before it begins." He dressed me in archival Chanel and sent me home in his Maybach, but my life was already falling apart. My boyfriend, Irving, claimed he had passed out early, yet his location data placed him at my best friend’s apartment until three in the morning. When I tried to run, I realized Ezra was already ten steps ahead, tracking my movements and uncovering the secret I’d spent twenty years hiding: my connection to the powerful Senator Grimes. I was trapped between a CEO who treated me like a line item on a quarterly report and a boyfriend who had been using me while sleeping with my closest friend. I felt like a pawn in a game I didn't understand, wondering why a man like Ezra would walk up forty flights of stairs on a broken leg just to make sure I was safe. "Showtime, Mrs. Gardner." Standing on the red carpet in a gown that cost more than my life, I watched my cheating ex-boyfriend’s face turn pale as Ezra claimed me in front of the world. I wasn't just an assistant anymore; I was a weapon, and it was time to burn their world down.

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.

I sat on the edge of the examination table, the crinkle of the sanitary paper sounding like thunder in the sterile room. The doctor didn't even look at me as he confirmed the news: the pregnancy was over. My husband, Keyon, didn't answer my call. He just sent an automated text: "In a meeting." When I returned to our cold mansion, I found his iPad glowing with a message from his "muse," Katina. He was throwing her a secret gala tonight-on our third wedding anniversary. He told her he couldn't wait to escape the "boring" and "draining" atmosphere I created at home. Keyon didn't stumble in until 3 AM, smelling of Katina's perfume with a smear of red on his collar. When I handed him the divorce papers, he laughed in my face. He called me a "glorified housekeeper" with no skills and no future, promising I'd be back in three days begging for a subway ticket. He even bet his friends ten thousand dollars that I wouldn't survive a week without his name. He had his assistant cancel my credit cards and block my gate access before I even reached the end of the driveway. He wanted me to starve. He wanted me to crawl. He sat in his office, mocking the "desperate" woman who pawned her three-million-dollar wedding ring for scrap metal just to pay for a meal. I stood on the rainy curb, watching the man I had protected for three years treat my life like trash. He didn't know about the ultrasound I just threw in the bin. He didn't know that while he was calling me "dull," I was the one secretly writing the code that kept his billion-dollar empire from collapsing. As I slid into a cheap Uber, I opened a hidden, encrypted app on my phone. The screen refreshed to a dashboard for an account Keyon didn't know existed. The balance was ten figures long-the accumulated wealth of "Solaris," the world's most elusive tech genius. Keyon thinks he just evicted a parasite, but he's about to find out he just declared war on the only person who can hit "delete" on his entire life.

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, Ethan Vance, made me his trophy wife. My best friend, Susanna Thorne, helped me pick out my wedding dress. Together, they made me a fool. For three years, I was Mrs. Ethan Vance, a decorative silence in his billion-dollar world, living a quiet routine until a forgotten phone charger led me to his office. The low, feminine laugh from behind his door was a gut-punch; inside, I found Ethan and Susanna, my "best friend" and his CMO, tangled on his sofa, his only reaction irritation. My divorce declaration brought immediate scorn and threats. I was fired, my accounts frozen, and publicly smeared as an unstable gold-digger. Even my own family disowned me for my last cent, only for me to be framed for assault and served a restraining order. Broke, injured, and utterly demonized, they believed I was broken, too ashamed to fight. But their audacious betrayal and relentless cruelty only forged a cold, unyielding resolve. Slumped alone, a restraining order in hand, I remembered my hidden journal: a log of Ethan's insider trading secrets. They wanted a monster? I would show them one.

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.

Zane and I were together for ten years. When he had no one, I stayed by his side, supporting his hockey career while believing at the end of all our struggles, I'll be his wife and the only one at his side. But after six years of dating, and four years of being his fiancée, not only did he leave me, but seven months later I receive an invitation... to his wedding! If that isn't bad enough, the month long wedding cruise is for couples only and requires a plus one. If Zane thinks breaking my heart left me too miserable to move on, he thought wrong! Not only did it make me stronger.. it made me strong enough to move on with his favourite bad boy hockey player, Liam Calloway.