Xin Zhi

My mother was dying, her last wish to see the man I'd secretly married three years ago. But as I frantically called his phone, which went straight to voicemail, he was busy marrying my childhood rival in a lavish ceremony right outside the hospital. He publicly denied knowing me, his wife of three years, the secret benefactor who built his entire tech empire from the ground up. To humiliate me further, he allowed his new bride to broadcast a video of my deepest, most private trauma to all their wedding guests, dismissing my pain as "gossip." My mother died heartbroken from his betrayal. But they made a fatal mistake. They thought I was just a poor, pathetic wife they could discard. They didn't know I was the anonymous, globally feared tech mogul they'd been trying to impress all along. And I just gave my second-in-command a single order: "Burn it all down."

I made my husband, Damian, the youngest Chief of Surgery in the country. I built his career from scratch, defying my own family to marry him. Then, he asked me to give our au pair a six-figure salary and a company car. He called me a cold-hearted bitch when I refused, claiming she was a poor single mother of five. But I saw her wearing my missing diamond bracelet and carrying a Chanel bag worth more than my car. He flaunted their affair at a professional conference, calling me a "worthless capitalist princess" while she played the victim. For years, I'd spent a fortune trying to cure his infertility. It was our secret pain. Now, he was using it to justify his affair with a "hyper-fertile" woman he claimed could give him the sons I couldn't. As he stood on stage for his keynote speech, ready to accept an award, I walked past him to the podium. I had my own presentation to share with the live-streamed global audience-a slideshow of their eight-year affair, complete with hotel receipts and bank transfers.

The funeral director droned on about casket options, but Ethan Miller' s gaze was fixed on a TV screen showing Olivia Hayes, his Olivia, preparing for a lavish wedding. Just this morning, he' d been released from a clinical trial, given weeks to live-his body failing from experimental drugs. He was planning his own funeral, while she was planning her perfect life with another man, Daniel Stone. Three years ago, he' d shattered their world, staging a cruel breakup with a hired actress, making Olivia believe he was a gold-digger who never loved her. He watched her drop his engagement ring into a glass of wine, her eyes burning with hate. It had to be this way; he had to destroy their love to save her life, to force her to accept an organ transplant. Now, broke and dying, he tried to sell a painting of her, a last desperate act to repay kindness, but instead, he was humiliated by Olivia and Daniel, accused of being a thief, and left bleeding on the lobby floor. He was the villain in her story, despised for a secret sacrifice no one knew. Olivia dragged him to her mansion, forcing him into a claustrophobic shed, taunting him, and making him toil as a servant at her engagement party. He served champagne at the celebration of the life he' d given up for her, enduring the ultimate torture. When she confronted him, he delivered the final blow, denying any love, cutting her completely free. He sealed his fate, his death, making it his last gift to her. But a car crash swiftly brought Olivia to the brink of death once more, her transplanted kidney failing. With agonizing clarity, Ethan knew the horrifying truth: he was her perfect match, the ultimate price for the survival he' d signed away. He raced to the hospital, his dying body fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline. "Use me," he rasped, his voice steady. He whispered his desperate confession into her ear on the gurney beside her, a truth she might never wake to hear. Olivia woke to whispers of an anonymous donor, Daniel' s lies, and a persistent unease. The puzzle pieces clicked into place: his feigned cruelty, the shed, the rain, and his final whispered words. Ethan wasn' t a monster; he was a martyr, and he had sacrificed everything for her. Fueled by grief and rage, Olivia exposed the corrupt pharmaceutical CEO who orchestrated Ethan' s fate. But the victory was hollow; it wouldn't bring Ethan back. She stood at their dream cottage, the deed in her hand, the truth a crushing weight. "My death. Now we' re even." His words, echoing in her mind, ignited a stark realization. With tears streaming, she made her final choice: to join him, completing their tragic love story on her own terms.

My wife, Sarah, started acting strange about a week ago. She was walking on eggshells, her smile never quite reaching her eyes. Then came dinner, where she sprung it on me: "I was looking online and found a great clinic that does comprehensive health check-ups. They have a couples' package." It sounded reasonable, but the forced casualness in her voice made my stomach tighten. We were both in perfect health. I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw not concern, but a desperate, calculating fear. "Sarah, what' s this really about?" I asked, and the pretense of a normal dinner shattered. She confessed, not with words, but with a flinch: this was about Mark, her childhood sweetheart, who was dying and needed a kidney. The "comprehensive health check-up" was a screening – for me. "He' s not my ex-boyfriend!" she cried. "He' s my friend! And I' m just asking you to get tested. That' s all. It' s just a blood test. It' s not a big deal." Not a big deal? My body, my organ, reduced to a spare part. Then came the ultimate bargaining chip: "If you' re a match… and if you decide to do it… I' ll do anything. We can finally start our family. We can have a baby, just like you' ve always wanted." The baby I wanted so desperately was now a reward for donating my kidney to the man she truly loved. In that moment, I saw her with soul-crushing clarity. Her priority wasn' t me. It was him. My parents, her unwitting accomplices, had already been brought in. My mother, trembling, begged me to go. My father simply said, "Son, listen to your wife." I was trapped, but I refused to be just a means to an end. When I signed that non-disclosure agreement, forced by threats against my aging father, I was bleeding, desperate, and completely broken. But when I saw Sarah and Mark, pregnant, together in the hospital hallway, something cold and clear ignited within me. They thought they had won. They thought I was broken and silent. They were wrong.

My whole life, I believed in a quiet promise: that the boy my parents took in, Daniel, the brother I never had, would one day be my husband. I spent years capturing his every moment through my camera lens, building a portfolio that was less art and more a diary of a love I thought was undeniably mutual. That belief shattered the moment he walked in with Sarah, a woman who radiated polished beauty that instantly made me feel clumsy and plain. "Ellie, meet Sarah," he beamed, a joy I'd never seen directed at me, "my fiancée. Your future sister-in-law." Sister-in-law. The word seared into me, branding a permanent boundary on the future I'd painstakingly built brick by brick. He was my protector, yes, but I realized too late he was protecting a sister, not a future wife. The ice spread through my veins, but the worst was yet to come. Sarah, sweet as syrup, accused me of assault, even tearing our childhood photo, a treasured irreplaceable, right in front of Daniel. He didn't hesitate; he chose her, his face a mask of cold disappointment as he told me, "Maybe this shouldn't be your home." My world fractured, yet in the wreckage, a chilling clarity emerged: I wouldn't fight for a love that didn't see me, or a home that no longer welcomed me. I would leave, taking my photography and my broken heart to Europe, to build a future that was entirely my own, a life without him.

For ten years, I poured my life, my youth, and every cent into building a tech empire with Alex. My desk, once beside his in the CEO' s office, was now a cramped corner, and my new job? Fetching coffee for his pregnant fiancée, Emily, who' d been with the company barely six months. Then came the brutal blow: Alex announced their engagement, glowing beside Emily, never once meeting my eyes. The next day, I was demoted to "Executive Assistant." My core designs for our decade-long project were presented to the board, but I wasn' t invited. Emily emerged, feigning sympathy, telling me Alex found my work "amateurish" and that the project had "evolved under her direction." That night, I quit, taking my secret AI chip blueprints with me, the ones Alex knew nothing about. He scoffed, "She\'s nothing without me. She\'ll be back begging in a week." He had no idea what was coming. Weeks later, at the annual tech gala, Alex cornered me, demanding the blueprints, accusing me of theft. Emily, ever the victim, tried to orchestrate a severe allergic reaction to humiliate me, but in a twist of fate, she triggered it on herself. As chaos erupted, security stormed in, targeting Alex' s company, and a chandelier crashed. Alex, with Emily in tow, fled, leaving me for dead. Injured and abandoned, I limped out, but Alex reappeared, cradling Emily, his eyes alight with murderous rage. He ordered his men to strip me in front of hundreds, exposing every scar from the battles I' d fought for him. As Emily feigned a worsening condition, he ordered my rare blood type to be forcibly harvested, seeing me not as a person, but a walking blood bag. I blacked out, believing he'd finally succeeded in destroying me. But the real story was just beginning. I woke up, not broken, but reborn, ready to claim a future where Alex was nothing but a painful, distant memory.

On our tenth wedding anniversary, I believed I would finally become a true wife to Pastor Caleb Hughes, the man I dedicated my life and my "Voice of an Angel" to. But as I approached his study door, I heard voices that shattered my world. His mistress, Maria, demanded my voice for her unborn child, and Caleb agreed to steal it through a "medical procedure" after a staged accident. My blood ran cold, realizing my decade-long marriage, my faith, my entire life, was a calculated lie to steal my sacred gift. The next morning, humiliation became physical torment as Caleb paraded Maria as the "First Lady," giving her my mother's heirloom locket and watching impassively as my voice, my very essence, was brutally taken. My loyal friend, Debra, rushed to help, only to be thrown against the marble stairs by Caleb' s guards, dying for trying to save me. What monster plots such a betrayal, then callously lets my only friend die for it? In my desperation, I signed divorce papers in my own blood and leaped from the bell tower, seeking an end to the unbearable pain. But I didn't die; instead, I woke in a hidden convent, discovering my "angel voice" was actually a birthright, a divine power to heal and to judge. Now, as the Matriarch of the ancient Cantors, I will return to claim justice and unleash my reborn voice upon those who stole everything from me.

My family has a secret, a curse: our condemnations come true. To protect everyone, I chose silence, living as a janitor, assumed to be mute. My wife, Nicole, a ruthless pharmaceutical heiress, married me only because her superstitious grandfather believed a "silent man" would protect their fortune. I accepted my humiliating role for my devout mother, who just wanted to see me settled. Then, my mother, trying to help a pregnant Nicole, baked her a pecan pie-a seemingly innocent act. But Matthew, a family protégé now Nicole' s lover, intercepted the pie, knowing he had a deadly nut allergy. I tried to warn him, but my silent throat failed me as he took a bite, then collapsed in agonizing anaphylaxis. Nicole screamed, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at my mother, who stood frozen with terror. The next day, Nicole ordered my frail mother taken to a state nursing home with a dark reputation, dismissing my desperate plea as an accident. When I confronted Nicole at Matthew' s hospital bedside, she scoffed, revealed my life was a charade based on a fortune teller's whim, and had her bodyguards brutally beat me. As I lay broken, years of silence shattered, and a raw condemnation tore from my throat: "May you lose what you love most and live a life of bitter loneliness." This curse, a power I had tried to bury, was now loose, and it was only the beginning of their downfall.

My husband, Andrew, told me he was dying from an inoperable brain tumor, then drove his car off a pier, a grand gesture to spare me, his unassuming librarian wife, from a long, painful goodbye. In my first life, I believed him. I jumped into the freezing bay, screaming my secret – I' d just won ten million dollars in the Powerball, enough to save him. But his eyes met mine in the dark water, cold and calculating, utterly devoid of hope. He didn't swim to the surface; he swam to me, his charming smile replaced by a grimace of pure greed. He held my head under the water, stealing my life and my fortune as my lungs burned. Then, I woke up. I was back on the pier, the screech of tires echoing, Andrew' s car once again sailing into the bay. It was happening again, but this time, I knew. My love for him had drowned, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He wasn't taking anything from me ever again. This time, I was the one in control, and I started to scream, not from grief, but from a white-hot rage ready to burn down everything they had built.

Ethan Miller, a meticulously dedicated executive assistant, harbored a quiet, consuming love for his brilliant, cold CEO, Seraphina Croft, for a decade, meticulously executing their long-standing, seemingly playful pact: he would propose 99 times, and on the monumental 100th attempt, she promised to finally say yes. On the highly anticipated 100th proposal day, standing hopeful and alone on the iconic steps of the New York Public Library, Ethan didn't receive a message from Seraphina; instead, his phone exploded with viral images showing her radiant and passionately kissing her trendy fitness influencer boyfriend, Chase Dubois, at a Silicon Valley gala. Left utterly humiliated and publicly scorned, Ethan became an overnight internet sensation, dubbed "The Library Groom," a pitiful figure against the grand facade as speculation, pity, and cruel mockery flooded online forums about the woman who had so callously stood him up. His heart, which had swelled with unwavering hope through countless rejections, now reeled from the brutal reality: was his decade of silent devotion and tireless support nothing more than a convenient tool for her public image, a disposable accessory to her soaring career? As a violent thunderstorm mirrored the turmoil within, and Seraphina then casually suggested a "101st proposal" purely to fix her tarnished PR, Ethan, finally seeing her true manipulative nature, made a decisive, life-altering choice: he severed all ties, resigned from AuraCorp, and vanished into the pouring rain, determined to build a new life from the ashes of his shattered love.

Seven years ago, I secretly gave Michael, my then-boyfriend, a life-saving kidney. I faked a cruel betrayal, vanishing to manage my deteriorating health and mounting medical debt, ensuring his future. Now, I watch him, a celebrated CEO, accept an award on TV. My old phone buzzes. It's him. "Seven years," he says, "you chose money over me. Any regrets?" My bitter laugh is my only reply, as I clutch my $2000 overdue dialysis bill. Weeks later, we collide at a clinic. He's vibrant, with a new fiancée, Jessica. I, frail and scarred, try to ask for a loan. His fiancée, Jessica, stages a fall, scattering my medical reports at his feet. He reads my kidney failure reports, sneering, convinced I'm faking for cash. At a gala, he forces me to chug a bottle of whiskey for thirty grand. I comply, knowing it's poison. I collapse, vomiting blood, the room erupting. Everyone sees the greedy ex getting her comeuppance. The internet savages me, labeling me a gold-digger. Yet, the vitality in his stride – that was my sacrifice. The man I saved now believes I’m faking illness, mocking my pain. As I lay dying, my best friend finally cracks, screaming the truth: "She gave you her kidney, you bastard! That anonymous donor? That was Emily!" His face, once sneering, turned to horror. But would this revelation be enough to save me, or would his ultimate atonement demand an even greater sacrifice?

Ethan, the heir of the Firman Family, was forced to marry Sophia, no matter how rich and powerful he was. What made things worse was that his newly-married wife was no other than the one his sworn enemy loved. Their affection was as transient as a flash of an eye. His gentleness was replaced by cruelty, which pushed her down into the abyss of despair. It was hard to tell right from wrong in the battle of love. However, winner takes all. Being involved in this competition, she had no idea whether she was the one they truly loved or just a pawn that they used to restrict each other.

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."