Yuda Xiaojie

My husband, Austen, the man the world saw as my devoted admirer, was the artist of my pain. He had punished me ninety-five times, and this was the ninety-sixth. Then, a message from my stepsister, Joyce, buzzed on my phone: a photo of her perfectly manicured hand holding champagne, captioned, "Celebrating another victory. He really does love me more." A second message from Austen followed, "My love, are you resting? I' ve asked the doctor to come. I' m sorry it had to be this way, but you must learn. I' ll be home soon to take care of you." I had always known Joyce was the trigger, but I never understood the mechanism. I thought it was just Austen' s own brand of cruelty, ignited by Joyce' s lies. But then, I found a voice recording of Austen's. His calm voice filled the silent room, "...number ninety-six. A broken hand. It should be enough to appease Joyce this time. But my debt must be paid. Fifteen years ago, Joyce saved my life. She pulled me from that burning car after the kidnapping. I vowed that day I would protect her from everything and everyone. Even from my own wife." My mind went blank. Kidnapping. Burning car. Fifteen years ago. I was the one there. I was the girl who pulled a terrified, crying boy from the back seat just before it exploded. His name was Austen. He had called me his "little star." But when I returned with the police, another girl was there, crying and holding Austen' s hand. It was Joyce. He didn't know. He had built his entire twisted system of justice on a lie. Joyce had stolen my life-saving act, and I was paying the price. Every cell in my body screamed one word: Escape.

I spent a decade learning to save lives as a trauma surgeon, only to discover my parents had sold mine to the highest bidder. To end a turf war, I was forced back into the underworld to marry Ivan Hughes, a rival mob boss known for his brutality. I thought I was just a pawn in a business merger, but then my steady surgeon’s hands began to tremble, and a metallic taste filled my mouth. I ran my own toxicology report in secret. Positive for arsenic. My mother wasn't just forcing me into a loveless marriage; she was slowly poisoning me. I broke into my father's safe and found the truth: a birth certificate for Ivan’s secret son with his mistress, and a chain of emails between my mother and my fiancé. "The dosage is being increased," my mother wrote. "By the wedding night, she will be too weak to protest. You can dispose of her quietly after the heir is secured." My blood turned to ice. They were using me to transfer my trust fund to Ivan, planning to bury me and replace me with his mistress before the honeymoon even started. They thought they were killing a helpless girl. They forgot that a surgeon knows exactly where to cut to cause the most damage. I taped a microphone to my ribs beneath my white silk gown and walked onto the stage of our engagement gala. I didn't take the microphone to say "I do." I took it to burn their empire to the ground.

I stood at the gala, clutching my belly, waiting to tell Alpha Gabe about our child. I was the pack's "Wolfless" orphan, but I was his fated mate. Surely, an heir would change everything. But under the spotlight, Gabe didn't call my name. He wrapped his arm around Harper, a wealthy heiress, and announced she was carrying the future Alpha. When I screamed the truth, he didn't just deny me—he looked at me with pure disgust. "You are a genetic dead end," he spat. "Do not mistake my kindness for affection." They didn't exile me. They dragged me to the basement. First, they planned to steal my baby for Harper. Then, when jealousy rotted her mind, they decided to kill it. My own foster parents held me down, having sold me to clear their debts, while a doctor approached with a silver scalpel. "It's a Rogue mistake," Gabe said, watching me struggle against the straps. "End it." With seconds left, I begged for one final phone call. I dialed the number on an old, yellowed card I'd hidden for years. Gabe laughed, thinking I was calling a friend. But when the voice on the other end spoke, the room shook with an aura that forced the Alpha to his knees. "I am Antony Dean, the Lycan King," the voice roared through the speaker. "And I am ten minutes away." Gabe had rejected a nobody. He didn't know he had just declared war on the Princess of the Royal Pack.

The promotion letter for the head of the German division lay heavy in my hand. It was the job I' d always wanted, the future I' d painstakingly built, but I' d turned it down a year ago. "Don' t go, Ethan," Olivia had pleaded, her eyes filled with tears. "I need you here." So, I stayed, sacrificing my career, taking a lesser role to support her dreams, to be her stable foundation. Tonight was my 25th birthday, a simple steak dinner I' d cooked. The second plate sat empty. Olivia had texted hours ago: "Something came up with my study group. Will be a little late." I scrolled through social media, a habit born of waiting. Then I saw it: Alex Stone, Olivia' s younger colleague, his arm wrapped tightly around her at a loud, crowded bar. They were beaming, heads together, Olivia holding a colorful cocktail, not a textbook. The caption read: "Celebrating with the best." The air left my lungs. It wasn't just the picture; it was the casual intimacy, the audacious lie. A celebration. On my birthday. A sharp, cold feeling spread through my chest, a feeling I had ignored for too long. I remembered every sacrifice: selling my classic car for her tuition, sleepless nights proofreading her papers while she was out with "friends from class," driving hours in a snowstorm to fix her flat tire, only to be chastised for being late. I had given and given, believing that was love, building my world around her. But she was building a separate one without me. The pain was immense, but beneath it, something hard and resolute stirred. I had been patient. I had been loyal. I had been a fool. The unlit candle on the cake, a symbol of a celebration that never happened, haunted me. I didn't light it. I simply leaned forward and blew, extinguishing a flame that was never truly there. The silent puff of air in my mind was a roar. The decision was made, not in anger, but in the desolate quiet of profound disappointment. I was done. I picked up the promotion letter again. This time, it wasn't a sacrifice; it was an escape. I opened my laptop, pulled up my email, and wrote a short, direct message. A new chapter was about to begin, alone.

For five years, my life was Liam Vance, the visionary I helped build an empire with, sketching user interfaces on napkins and designing the very buildings that housed his dreams. Then he brought Chloe Davis home, an aspiring influencer all wide eyes and soft smiles, and my world started to crack. He began showering her with affection, calling her "pure," while subtly eroding my confidence, telling me I was "too ambitious," "like a shark." The criticism was a constant hum, culminating in his promise to marry me "just as soon as you learn to be as sweet and compliant as Chloe." The humiliations started small, then grew brutal. I was forced to kneel and spoon-feed Chloe while our friends watched, locked in a freezing server room until I missed a career-defining project, and made a human target for a combat drone, all while his staff called her "Mrs. Vance." Each atrocity chipped away at me, symbolized by the architectural models he' d had custom-made for our future, each one now sinking into the river, a painful reminder of a lie. I had no choice but to endure, trapped by the scholarship he funded for my younger brother, Ethan, my only family, my only weakness. But when, at a public gala, he let his men strip me naked and throw me onto a stage while he proposed to Chloe, something inside me snapped. Then, there was Ethan. In a cold, glass-walled conference room, Liam, fueled by a possessive rage, pulled a gun and shot my innocent brother, killing the only family I had left. The world went silent, everything turning to dust, but in that void, a cold, sharp resolve began to crystalize. I burned the last model, a miniature wedding chapel, watched our future turn to ash, and finally, unequivocally, walked away, leaving him and five years of memories behind.

The rain beat a mournful rhythm against the chapel windows, a fitting backdrop for my son Leo' s funeral. It was too small, too quiet for a boy who deserved the world. Then, through the numbing haze of grief, I heard it-my wife Sarah' s voice, cool and utterly devoid of sorrow, conversing with her ex-fiancé, Mark. "He was an obstacle, Mark," she' d said, her words slicing through me. I listened as she confessed she' d withheld Leo' s life-saving medicine, calling him "an accident" and "a sacrifice" for her career ambitions. My own wife had murdered our son. The revelation twisted my world, leaving me gasping for air in our silent, empty house. She returned home, a mask of the grieving widow, and proceeded to erase every trace of Leo from our lives, throwing away his toys, his clothes-his very existence. "He was going to get better, Sarah," I pleaded, the memory of his hopeful eyes burning. "He said you were taking him for special medicine." Her callous dismissal, a wave of her hand, shattered any semblance of the woman I thought I knew. Who was this monster wearing my wife' s face? "You' re a freeloader, David," Mark sneered, as they openly plotted their corporate takeover, built on my stolen AI, "Project Chimera"-a project I' d named for Leo. "It' s going to get ugly, Sarah," I promised. "You have no idea." My revenge wouldn' t be for me; it would be for my son.

The roar of the Cheyenne crowd was familiar thunder, but on my 100th matchup against Wesley Johns, it felt heavy. I' d beaten him ninety-nine times straight. Just before I entered the chute, my fiancée Bree held my arm, pleading, "Caleb, please... let him have it." I refused, swinging onto the bull, ready for another easy win. My rope snapped. I hit the dirt, my ankle exploding with pain, hearing a crack louder than the crowd. Wesley won. From the ground, I watched Bree run not to me, but straight to him, embracing him victoriously. Their friends cheered, "That new rope worked like a charm!" My blood went cold as Bree presented my dream prize, a custom saddle, to Wesley. "You don't mind, do you, Caleb?" she asked, her voice bright. In a haze of pain and disbelief, I branded the pristine saddle with a searing iron, a scar for her betrayal. Bree screamed, accusing me of cruelty, diverting medics to a scatheless Wesley. Later, packing my bags to leave her ranch and our engagement, I overheard her call, "Marry him? Oh, honey, please. The plan is to invite him to the wedding. He can watch me marry Wesley." She laughed. My hand froze on the doorknob as the pieces clicked: her protection, Wesley's reputation, my humiliation. The old 'W' brand on my chest, burnt by Wesley himself, throbbed. I left without a word, my professional career shattered, my leg broken. Scrolling through a rodeo forum weeks later, a vintage silver belt buckle, identical to my lost father's, caught my eye. It was the prize at a dusty, unsanctioned rodeo. A new purpose ignited within me. I had to ride, even with a cast. My ride was the performance of a lifetime. But before I could claim what was mine, Bree appeared, ready to challenge me again.

The air in the Wharton lecture hall was thick with ambition, the final presentation stretching before me, my future almost within reach. Then, Liam, my childhood friend and the boy everyone expected me to marry, slid a folded note across the table that read: "Ava, will you bear all my failures for me?" The moment my eyes registered the words, glowing, semi-transparent text, like a Twitch chat, materialized in my vision. [LOL, the author is starting the 'Fate Swap' plotline.] [She'll take the fall for Chloe's academic fraud, get expelled from Wharton, and her family will disown her. Total social death.] [And the best part? Liam, the 'author' , will dump Chloe afterward, claiming he' s heartbroken over Ava' s downfall. He' ll spend the rest of his life 'missing' her, playing the tragic, devoted man. What a psychopath.] My blood ran cold. Liam? The author? A fate-swapping system? He watched me, his eyes full of a pleading hope that now seemed monstrous. He thought he was the writer of this story, and I was just a character to be sacrificed. How could he, the boy I' d known my whole life, see me as nothing more than a pawn in his sick fantasy? Furious, I picked up my pen, ready to rewrite my own ending.

My father called the LeBlanc artistic gift a blessing, a legacy. But for me, with its storm-like intensity that consumed my mother, it felt like a curse. To stabilize my talent, he arranged my marriage to one of three powerful men. I thought I was choosing a partner, until I overheard my presumed fiancé, Cade, with Daisy Miller. He declared I was just "a means to an end," a "broken songbird" whose artistic "secrets" he'd plunder. Daisy, his true partner, would be the real star. The betrayal stung, but far worse was the shock when I found my mother' s unique Amati violin was gone. Cade had given it to Daisy, who gleefully admitted she' d taken it apart for her "art," selling pieces for decorative boxes. Then, at our Legacy Gala, Daisy staged a public accusation, framing me for vandalism, with Cade, Finn, and Silas readily condemning me. My mother' s soul, shattered for parts. My world, reduced to a transaction. The art, the legacy, the very essence of me-all desecrated and dismissed. The grief boiled into a furious, incandescent rage. They thought me unmanageable, but I realized I was merely trapped. With nothing left to lose, I raised my violin and unleashed the storm. Not the expected music, but a powerful, defiant wave of sound that exposed their falsity. I wouldn't be a songbird in their gilded cage. There was only one who might understand, not control: the "unstable" recluse, Ethan Vance. I wrote him, proposing not subservience, but an alliance.

I had it all – a secured Yale scholarship, a bright future, and a best friend, Scarlett, who seemed genuinely happy for my success. She even convinced me to take the SATs with her, 'just for fun,' like we always did everything together. But that 'fun' was a sinister plot. Scarlett, consumed by a poisonous envy I never recognized, used a dark web app called 'Score Swapper' to steal my nearly perfect SAT result, making it hers. My future, meticulously built, crumbled instantly. Yale revoked my scholarship, my name smeared by Scarlett' s aunt, our school guidance counselor, with fabricated misconduct papers. Former friends abandoned me, and even my boyfriend, Blake, stared at me with pure disgust, completely believing Scarlett's cunning lies. Publicly shamed, isolated, and utterly heartbroken, I couldn't fathom such a cruel, calculated betrayal. My world went dark when Scarlett, her face twisted in a chilling smirk, lured me to an abandoned construction site, whispering, 'You should have just stayed dumb, Ava,' before pushing me to my death. But then I woke up, screaming, tangled in my bedsheets-the day before the SATs. My previous life wasn't a nightmare; it was a devastating memory. I was back. This time, I wouldn't just survive. This time, Scarlett, you' re going to pay for every single thing you did.

My husband Mark insisted all our earnings fund our "shared future," but his idea of a partnership involved a $150 weekly allowance for me, while he managed everything else. When I spent my hard-earned bonus treating colleagues to lunch, Mark exploded, publicly shaming me, canceling the payment, and emptying my card on the spot. His hypocrisy shattered when I discovered him lavishing expensive gifts on his intern, Jessica, who then announced her pregnancy with his child. My "future" was a lie, and his control spiraled into terrifying physical and emotional abuse, trapping me in our home. How could the man who promised a life together become a manipulative captor, building a secret family while choking the life out of me? As I secretly packed to escape, Mark found me. In a drunken fury, he turned violent, then lunged at Jessica, who arrived just then, paperweight in hand. In a blur of instinct, I shoved a bookshelf. He fell. Dead. Ruled accidental, his demise freed me, yet the true cost of my liberty, and the woman I’ve become, remains to be seen.

My wedding day was supposed to be perfect, a cascade of ivory lace and a secret smile for the life growing inside me. I was marrying Ethan, the brilliant tech entrepreneur, the man who had swept me off my feet, the father of our child. Then, a knock on the door, and my maid of honor’s whispered words shattered everything: "His plane went down. No survivors." Grief crushed me, a physical weight, obscuring the world in a blur of hushed voices and endless pain. My rock, my older brother David, shielded me as I navigated the nightmare of loss, our future obliterated. Weeks later, a ghost of Ethan arrived – his identical twin, Marcus – with his "spiritual guide," Isabella, a woman with unnervingly serene eyes. But one sleepless night, voices from the library pierced the silence: Eleanor, Ethan’s mother, was confronting "Marcus," calling him Ethan. My blood ran cold as I heard him confess he faked his death for Isabella, claiming she had aggressive leukemia, promising to return when she was gone. The man I loved, the father of my child, had orchestrated this monstrous betrayal, making me mourn him while he was alive and with her. Then came the anonymous video: Ethan and Isabella, their raw, animalistic passion a calculated act of cruelty designed to inflict maximum pain, and it worked. My despair turned to a cold, hard rage, culminating in a decision only he forced me to make. I called David, my voice trembling with fury: "He faked his death. I want him to believe I’m gone because of him. I want to disappear." This time, my disappearance wouldn't be a tragedy; it would be the first act of my retribution, a masterpiece of his own making.

A misunderstanding started the beginning of their story. On her way to find her sister, Joyce bumped into Arvin and spent a wild night together. Obsessed with her sweetness, he wanted to keep her to be his side, always. After drafting a contract, she agreed to be his lover for one month. By the time the contract expired, she had stolen her heart. His limitless adoration, however, brought her nothing jealousy which led to danger. Overwhelmed with endless conspiracies, betrayal, and desperation, she left with strong resentment. Years later, she came back to avenge herself. Little did she know that she had already stepped into his trap.

The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world. In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief." But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius. Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be.

Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun. Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos. As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage. The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice. Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her.

Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.

Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered. Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak. She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her. Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears. Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home."

The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand. Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn. She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back.

My wealthy husband, Nathaniel, stormed in, demanding a divorce to be with his "dying" first love, Julia. He expected tears, pleas, even hysteria. Instead, I calmly reached for a pen, ready to sign away our life for a fortune. For two years, I played the devoted wife in our sterile penthouse. That night, Nathaniel shattered the facade, tossing divorce papers. "Julia's back," he stated, "she needs me." He expected me to crumble. But my calm "Okay" shocked him. I coolly demanded his penthouse, shares, and a doubled stipend, letting him believe I was a greedy gold digger. He watched, disgusted, convinced I was a monster. He couldn't fathom my indifference or ruthless demands. He saw avarice, not a carefully constructed facade. His betrayal had awakened something far more dangerous. The second the door closed, the dutiful wife vanished. I retrieved a burner phone and a Glock, ready to expose the elaborate lie he and Julia had built.

Her sister is marrying her ex. So she brings her best friend as her fake fiancé. What could possibly go wrong? Savannah Hart thought she was over Dean Archer-until her sister, Chloe announces she's marrying him. The same man Savannah never stopped loving. The man who left her heartbroken... and now belongs to her sister. A weeklong wedding in New Hope. One mansion full of guests. And a very bitter maid of honor. To survive it, Savannah brings a date-her charming, clean-cut best friend, Roman Blackwood. The one man who's always had her back. He owes her a favor, and pretending to be her fiancé? Easy. Until fake kisses start to feel real. Now Savannah's torn between keeping up the act... or risking everything for the one man she was never supposed to fall for.

The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.

My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.