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The Godblood Bride: Mending the Cursed Dragon Lord novel by Maui

Blurb

I was forced to replace my sister and marry Lord Gideon Carlisle, a crippled Dragon Lord rumored to be a monster whose brides always ended up dead.

But the real danger wasn’t my terrifying husband. It was Audrey, the fragile, innocent girl he took in and fiercely protected.

She lured me to a cliff, confessed to murdering his first two brides, and tried to shove me into the abyss.

When her clumsy attack failed and she nearly fell herself, Gideon’s shadow guard rushed in to save her. But he only saw the aftermath.

Audrey immediately burst into tears, pointing a shaking finger at me.

“It was her! She pushed me! She tried to kill me!”

Without hesitation, Gideon chose to believe his precious ward.

He looked at me with cold, golden dragon eyes, condemning his own wife without a trial.

He threatened me with dragon’s flame and locked me in my chambers, while Audrey smiled triumphantly behind his back.

I couldn’t believe a supposedly brilliant Dragon Lord could be so utterly blind, protecting the very monster who had cursed his life while treating me like the villain.

But I wasn’t the weak, original bride who would just accept this injustice and die quietly.

I calmly walked back into his study, pulled out a vial of Truth Serum, and forced it down Audrey’s throat so my blind husband could finally hear the truth.

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The Godblood Bride: Mending the Cursed Dragon Lord Chapter 1

Anya POV:
“For the glory of the Beaumont family, this marriage is your utmost duty, Elsa.”
The hypocritical voice of my ‘father,’ Lord Corbin Beaumont, echoed in the dressing room. His immaculate formal attire, embroidered with the golden dragon’s flame of a true Dragon Lord, mocked the cheap, silver-threaded scales of my substitute wedding dress.
I looked at him through the mirror. Yesterday, I would have cowered. But yesterday, before my dearest sisters Isis and Livia pushed me down the grand staircase, I was just a weak, “dragonless” disappointment.
The agonizing pain of shattered bones hadn’t killed me. Instead, it had broken the ancient seal deep within my soul.
The pure, primordial Dragon God bloodline had awakened, flooding my mind with lost dragon medical arts and a warrior’s unyielding pride. I was no longer the fragile Elsa. My true bloodline name, vibrating in my veins, was Anya.
“Is it my duty, Father?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. I turned, my gaze piercing his cold, blue eyes. “Or was it the duty of your precious, true-born Isis?”
Martha, my trembling maid, gasped from the corner. Corbin’s paternal smile vanished, replaced by a dark scowl. He wasn’t used to being challenged by a waste of a daughter.
“This union with Lord Gideon Carlisle is sanctioned by the Dragon King,” Corbin warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “He may be a paralyzed cripple with a damaged dragon soul, but you will serve him. Do you intend to defy the King?”
I took a slow, fluid step toward him. The newly awakened dragon instincts in my blood easily analyzed his stance—full of arrogance, completely open to attack. “Of course not. I will marry the ‘monster’ Lord Carlisle. But I have one condition.”
I let the silence stretch, enjoying the sudden flicker of unease in a Dragon Lord’s eyes.
“From the moment I step into that carriage, I am no longer a Beaumont. Consider the debt of my miserable upbringing repaid in full. A spiritual Parting.”
Corbin’s face cycled from red to white. A Parting was a grave stain on a noble’s honor, but he desperately needed this alliance to appease the King.
“Fine,” he squeezed the word through clenched teeth. “As you wish, you ungrateful wretch.”
“Then we are done,” I stated. I picked up the heavy bridal cloak, ignoring his seething rage, and walked out. The satisfying sound of a shattered dragon crystal goblet echoed behind me.
At the manor’s entrance, a plain, unmarked carriage waited—a final, petty insult. I climbed in, touching the hidden pouch in my sleeve.
Inside were fine bone and silver needles I had hastily crafted using the ancient dragon healing arts now burning in my mind. They were a surgeon’s tools, and a newly awakened warrior’s weapons.
The carriage lurched forward toward the dragon’s den. Gideon Carlisle, I thought, feeling the blood hum in my veins. I hope you’re ready for your bride.

The Godblood Bride: Mending the Cursed Dragon Lord Chapter 2

Anya POV:
The convoy stopped at a desolate outpost named Dragon’s Claw, a collection of rough stone buildings huddled against the biting wind. I sat alone in my dim room, the faint, acrid scent of crushed herbs lingering in the air.
I was carefully coating the tips of my newly crafted bone needles with a mild paralyzing sap—a low-tier dragon poison formula that had naturally surfaced in my awakened memories.
Martha paced frantically, her whispers a litany of worry, convinced my defiance of Lord Beaumont would turn my life in Carlisle’s castle into a living hell.
I ignored her. I knew the real battlefield lay ahead.
The door burst open, slamming against the stone wall. My two “dear sisters,” Isis and Livia, swept in, flanked by their sneering maids.
Isis, promised to the crown prince Alaric, was a vision in a fiery red riding habit. Her golden hair was perfectly coiled, her lips curved in a look of pure disdain. “Well, well. If it isn’t our little sister, rushing off to her doom.”
Livia, her ever-present shadow, chimed in with a giggle. “Don’t be so harsh, sister. Perhaps the crippled lord has a taste for sickly little things.”
Their maids tittered. Martha shrank into a corner, her face white with terror.
I slowly set down my needle, letting the ancient, arrogant blood of the Dragon God simmer beneath my calm exterior. I forced the soft, harmless smile of the old Elsa onto my face. “Did you two follow me all this way just to say that?”
My calm seemed to enrage Isis. She stalked forward, snatched a cup from the table, and sneered.
It was the inn’s cheapest mead, a drink considered “coarse fare” by dragon-blooded nobles. She flicked her wrist, and the dark, sticky liquid arced through the air, soaking the front of the only decent cloak I owned.
“Oh, dear,” she said, her voice dripping with fake surprise. “My hand slipped.”
I looked at the dark stain, then back at her. They expected tears. They expected the familiar cowering. Instead, I smiled, my newly awakened predatory instincts humming.
“It’s alright, sister,” I said softly. “My hand slips sometimes, too.”
Before she could process my words, my dragon-blood reflexes took over. I took a sharp step forward, my movements fluid and imperceptible, my foot intentionally “catching” on the leg of the table.
I stumbled, sending an entire platter of honey-drenched pastries sailing through the air. It landed with a wet smack squarely on the front of Isis’s pristine, expensive riding habit.
A shriek tore from her throat as the sticky jam and crumbs slid down her bodice.
“You dare!” Livia screamed, her hand flying toward my face.
To my awakened senses, her slap moved in slow motion, clumsier than a newborn hatchling. I sidestepped with effortless grace, my foot hooking neatly around her ankle with calculated precision.
Livia yelped, losing her balance and pitching forward, crashing directly into Isis who was desperately scraping the mess off her dress.
They went down in a tangle of flailing limbs and furious curses, their perfect hair undone, their dignity in tatters. Their maids just stared, mouths agape, too shocked by this “accident” to help.
I walked over to them, looking down at their sprawled forms. My voice was gentle, but the latent, icy pressure of my true bloodline leaked into my tone. “Are you alright, sisters? You should be more careful.”
My gaze fell on a small object on the floor, knocked loose in the scuffle. A brooch, fashioned with a single, small red dragon crystal. It was the only thing my mother had left me. I picked it up, letting a fraction of my dormant power touch the stone. It instantly flared with a warm, inner fire.
“And another thing,” I said, pinning the glowing brooch back onto my dress. “My things? You don’t get to touch them anymore. Every bit of suffering you inflicted… I will collect that debt. In full.”
They stared up at me, breathless, a primal, inexplicable fear dawning in their eyes. The oppressive aura rolling off me was not the weak Elsa they knew.
“We’re leaving,” I said to the petrified Martha.
By the time a frantic Lord Beaumont arrived, all he found were his two precious daughters—one hysterical, the other shivering with a terror she couldn’t explain—and an empty road stretching toward the mountains.
In the carriage, Martha finally found her voice, looking at me with awe and terror. “My lady…”
I ignored her, turning the dragon crystal brooch over in my fingers. Lord Beaumont must be furious, realizing the “lamb” he’d sent to the slaughter had suddenly grown fangs. But his real worry would be the lack of an official welcoming party from the groom—a profound insult in dragon society.
I, on the other hand, didn’t care. If Gideon Carlisle wouldn’t come for his bride, then his bride would march right into his lair. I was getting into that castle, armed with my ancestors’ arts, one way or another.

The Godblood Bride: Mending the Cursed Dragon Lord Chapter 3

Anya POV:
We finally reached the lands of Gideon Carlisle.
In the distance, perched atop a volcanic peak, Goldspire Castle clawed at the sky like a dormant beast. Its black rock walls were embedded with massive, raw dragon crystals that pulsed with a cold, faint light under the bruised sky.
But our progress was halted at the border of the domain. A massive, black dragon crystal, taller than a man, served as a boundary stone. Carved into its polished surface was the Carlisle crest: a roaring golden dragon.
The castle’s drawbridge was raised, the portcullis down. A line of guards in black, heavy plate armor stood like statues before the gate, their leader, a knight captain, watching our approach with an expression of pure indifference.
The Beaumont steward in charge of my escort trotted forward to parley. He returned moments later, his face pale. “They refuse us entry,” he stammered. “They say the lord gave no order for the bride’s arrival today.”
It was a calculated humiliation. A small crowd of locals had already gathered at a distance, their whispers buzzing like flies as they pointed at our sad little procession.
“How can they do this?” Martha wailed from inside the carriage. “It’s an insult! It’s against all custom!”
I pushed open the door and stepped out. Every eye turned to me. I wore the cloak Isis had stained, but my back was ramrod straight. I allowed a fraction of my true, ancient dragon aura to seep into the air. Instantly, the whispering crowd fell dead silent, an inexplicable dread chilling their spines.
I walked to the front of our party, directly facing the knight captain. He loomed over me, his gaze like ice from behind his helmet’s slit. But in the face of his hostility, my blood only sang with absolute arrogance.
“I am Elsa Beaumont,” I announced, my voice not loud, but carrying a piercing clarity that demanded submission. “Your future lady.”
The captain let out a short, harsh laugh. “The lady of this castle will be welcomed by our lord himself. You, woman of unknown purpose, will leave this land immediately.”
The insult was deliberate, meant to strip me of all legitimacy.
I smiled. “I am not here in the name of House Beaumont. I am here by the will of the Dragon King’s Command.”
From the folds of my cloak, I produced a scroll. It was made of cured dragon hide, tough and pale, and sealed with the royal wax imprint of a fiery dragon. As my fingers touched the seal, my own dormant power hummed in faint, dismissive recognition of the royal magic.
“The command is here,” I declared, holding it high for all to see. “To see this seal is to see the King. Lord Carlisle is a vassal to the Dragon King. Does he mean to defy his sovereign and turn away the bride the King himself has sanctioned?”
The Dragon King’s Command was the highest law in the land. Its authority was absolute. A ripple of fear went through the crowd of onlookers; many dropped to their knees.
Even the proud knight captain bent a knee, though his head remained defiantly high. A subtle sheen of sweat appeared on his brow, perhaps sensing the unnatural, terrifying pressure radiating from this supposedly “dragonless” bride.
“We do not defy the King,” the captain said, his voice a low growl. “But our lord’s orders were clear. No one enters without his leave.”
“Then I am not ‘no one,’” I said, taking a step toward the gate. “I am his bride. Now, I command you. Open the gate.”
The castle guards shifted, their eyes flicking between the royal seal in my hand and their unmoving captain.
I turned to my own escort, the Beaumont guards who were looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Your mission was to see me inside this castle. Fulfill your duty.”
Caught between my order and the authority of the royal decree, the Beaumont captain drew his sword with a grimace. “Force the gate! Escort the lady inside!”
A pathetic, short-lived scuffle broke out. My guards made a half-hearted attempt to push forward, met by a solid wall of Carlisle shields.
Just then, a long, deep horn blast echoed from the castle’s depths. The grinding of chains began, and the massive drawbridge started to lower.
The fighting stopped. Everyone stared at the dark, yawning maw of the gatehouse.
From the shadows within, a deep, raspy voice, like stone grinding on metal, carried across the distance. “Let her in.”
I straightened my stained cloak, lifted my chin, and walked alone across the drawbridge. I passed between two lines of guards, their gazes a mixture of awe, resentment, and suspicion. They expected a trembling lamb; instead, they watched a predator casually strolling into a rival’s den.
The great hall was vast and dim, lit only by the faint glow of the dragon crystals embedded in the high walls. At the far end of the hall, shrouded in shadow, was an enormous throne of black obsidian.
A man was sitting on it. Even seated, his presence was immense, radiating a palpable, crushing pressure that made the ancient dragon blood in my veins boil with an intense urge to fight. He wore black, scale-patterned formal wear, and a silver mask covered the left half of his face.
He was not in a wheelchair. His legs were crossed casually, one hand resting on the arm of the throne, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm.
This was Gideon Carlisle.
Our eyes met across the cavernous space. I saw the eye his mask did not hide. It was not the eye of a man. It was pure, molten gold, the burning, slitted pupil of a dragon.
And as his predatory gaze locked onto mine, I didn’t flinch. Instead, my own eyes reflected the unyielding, ancient arrogance of a Dragon God.

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September 22, 2026
Old Lady of the Iron Crown novel by Edilaine Beckert

Blurb

I was sweating on a stained cot in a rundown clinic, enduring agonizing labor to deliver my twins.

My boyfriend, Viper, the President of the Raven MC, was right next door. But he wasn’t there to support me. He was buying the whole clubhouse a round of drinks to celebrate his new girlfriend’s birthday.

Instead of coming to see his newborn children, he sent a thug with a loaded Glock and a legal contract. The prospect shoved the cold steel against my forehead, demanding I sign my parental rights over to the club and walk away with nothing. If I refused, he promised to dump our bodies in the swamp. In the hallway, the club girls laughed, calling me a worthless charity case.

“Sign the paper, or I leave three corpses in this bed.”

I clutched my fragile babies to my chest, my heart turning to dead ash. I had given that man my youth and loyalty, only to be discarded like trash. I didn’t understand how someone could be so ruthlessly cruel to his own flesh and blood.

Before the hammer could drop, a mysterious man in a tailored suit calmly walked in and shattered the prospect’s wrist. He took one look at the faded scar on my shoulder, ran a rapid blood test, and revealed a truth that shook my world. I wasn’t an unpatched stray, but the long-lost daughter of the most feared motorcycle club president in the country. Now, with a two-hundred-bike army at my back, it was my turn to hunt.

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Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 1

Roxy POV:

I clamped my teeth into the edge of the yellowed pillow, my back arching as another wave of tearing pain ripped through my pelvis. Sweat soaked the stiff, stained sheets beneath me.

Beside the metal cot, the old nurse dropped a pair of rusty surgical shears into an enamel tray with a sharp, echoing clang. She did not bother looking at my face. Her bloodshot eyes flicked over my bare left shoulder, sneering at the pale, uninked skin where a patched woman would carry club property marks.

“Stop crying like a stuck pig,” the nurse muttered, her thick fingers digging brutally into my swollen belly to force the contractions. Her breath reeked of cheap rolling tobacco and stale gin. “Viper has better things to do than watch an unpatched stray ruin good linens.”

The mention of his road name made my stomach convulse. I forced my trembling hand up and shoved her heavy forearm away with every ounce of strength left in my exhausted frame.

“Keep your hands off me unless you’re catching these babies,” I rasped, my throat raw from hours of silent labor.

I sucked in a ragged breath, blinking through the haze of sweat and tears to fix my gaze on the cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the clinic’s water-damaged drywall. I refused to close my eyes. If I closed them, the darkness would pull me under, and I had to keep these children alive.

From the asphalt outside, the thunderous rumble of heavy Harley-Davidson V-twin engines vibrated through the clinic’s single-pane windows, making the glass rattle against its wooden frame. Bass-heavy thrash metal bled through the shared wall of the Raven MC clubhouse next door, followed by a chorus of drunken cheers.

Footsteps echoed along the bare clinic hallway. High heels clicked loudly on the warped floorboards, accompanied by shrill, mocking laughter.

“Did she drop those brats yet?” a blonde sweetbutt drawled from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a half-empty bottle of bourbon in her manicured hand. “Viper said if she isn’t out of this room by sunrise, the prospects are dumping her cot in the alley behind the dumpsters.”

“She thinks she’s still the Prez’s Old Lady,” another girl snickered, blowing a cloud of sour vape smoke into the sterile air. “She never even earned a bottom rocker. Just a charity case from the Vance house.”

I bit my lower lip until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, anchoring my slipping consciousness. My fingernails dug into the rusted iron rails of the cot until the skin around my cuticles split. Let them laugh.

A fresh contraction slammed into my spine like a sledgehammer. Gasping, I reached toward the battered nightstand where my cracked smartphone lay. My fingers shook violently as I stretched for the lifeline I still foolishly believed in.

Pain spiked again, turning my arm to lead. My hand slipped, knocking the phone off the edge. It hit the dusty concrete floor with a hollow plastic crack, sliding beneath the bed.

The old nurse gave a dry, raspy chuckle and kicked the device deeper under the frame with the steel toe of her boot. “Save your battery, girl. Viper is two bottles deep in top-shelf tequila. He won’t answer you.”

Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and feral. I shoved myself forward, leaning halfway off the mattress, and seized the filthy collar of her lab coat in a death grip.

“Pick it up,” I snarled, staring straight into her rheumy eyes with a cold, murderous focus that made the old woman freeze. “Pick it up right now, or the first thing I do when I stand up is break your jaw.”

The nurse swallowed hard, the cruel smirk fading from her leathery mouth. Without a word, she bent down, hooked the phone with the tip of her boot, and dragged it back within my reach.

I snatched the phone, swiped my sweat-streaked thumb across the spiderwebbed screen, and hit Viper’s speed dial.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Four agonizing times while the room spun around me.

Finally, the line clicked open. The deafening roar of the biker bar poured through the speaker—glasses clinking, pool balls cracking, and men roaring with laughter over an engine revving indoors.

“Viper…” I choked out, fighting for air. “It’s time. The babies are coming. I need—”

“Oh, look who decided to call,” a sweet, venomous voice purred through the receiver. It wasn’t Viper. It was Sierra.

My heart seized in my chest.

“Sierra,” I whispered, my grip tightening on the plastic casing until the glass creaked. “Put him on.”

“He’s a little busy, darling,” Sierra chuckled, her tone dripping with mock pity. “He’s buying the whole clubhouse a round to celebrate my birthday. And my new spot on his rear fender. Why don’t you pack your little duffel bag and crawl back to whatever ditch you came from?”

“Put Jaxson on the phone!” I screamed, using his real name, raw rage tearing through my vocal cords. “They are his children!”

A heavy rustle came through the line, followed by a deep, familiar gravelly voice that used to whisper promises against my collarbone.

“Tell that crazy bitch to stop calling,” Viper’s voice cut through the noise, cold and utterly devoid of warmth. “I told her we’re done. I don’t care about her or whatever bastards she’s dropping. If she calls this phone again, I’ll send Axel’s boys to wipe her out.”

The line went dead with a harsh, rhythmic tone.

I stared at the black screen, the final ember of hope inside my chest snapping and turning to cold, dead ash. The man who had taken my youth, used my family loyalty, and treated me like a disposable ghost had just signed his own eviction from my soul.

The nurse tossed a basin of lukewarm, murky water onto the bedside table, splashing cold droplets across my cheeks. “Told you so,” she sneered, regaining her nerve.

I didn’t wipe the dirty water from my face. I turned my head slowly, looking at her with eyes so hollow and lethal that the woman stepped back, dropping her gauze roll onto the floor.

A massive, tearing pressure built at the base of my pelvis. The bodies inside me were demanding their freedom.

“Get your hands ready,” I commanded, my voice dead and steady despite the agony splitting my hips apart. “Because I’m delivering them right now, and if you drop either of them, you won’t leave this room alive.”

I gripped the cold iron headboard with both hands, muscles straining until the tendons in my neck felt like steel cables, and pushed with everything I had left.

The world narrowed to the sound of my own ragged breathing, the scent of fresh blood, and the metallic burn in my core.

With a slick, heavy slide and a sharp cry from the nurse, the first baby arrived into the cold air of the clinic.

Three minutes later, a second, smaller contraction expelled my second child. Two thin, furious wails rose in unison, piercing straight through the heavy bass rattling the walls from the Raven clubhouse.

The nurse crudely tied off the cords, snipped them with the dull shears, and bundled the blood-streaked infants into coarse, scratchy gray towels before dumping them unceremoniously against my chest.

My trembling arms snapped around the two tiny, fragile bundles, pulling them flush against my skin. They were warm. They were breathing. They were mine.

Out in the hallway, the sweetbutts laughed louder. “Five bucks says she and those runts don’t make it past the state line before they starve,” the blonde shouted.

I looked down at the tiny faces pressed against my collarbone, brushing my bloody lips against their damp foreheads.

“Never,” I whispered into their downy hair, tasting salt and iron. “No Raven will ever put their filthy brand on you. I swear it on my life.”

Dizziness crashed over me in a black, suffocating wave as the blood loss caught up to my pulse. The cracked mirror blurred into gray mist.

Just as my eyelids grew too heavy to fight, the clinic’s reinforced front door slammed open with the splintering roar of deadbolts tearing through wood, followed by the heavy, measured strike of combat boots hitting the concrete.

Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 2

Roxy POV:

The world rushed back in a violent wave of cold air and sharp pain. A heavy hand shook my shoulder roughly, wrenching me from the dark haze of unconsciousness.

My eyes flew open. Instinct took over before my vision even cleared, and I curled my upper body protectively over the two small bundles tucked beneath my thin blanket.

Standing over my cot was a thickset man wearing a faded leather cut emblazoned with the Raven MC raven-and-skull back patch. Stale beer, cheap weed, and grease rolled off him in suffocating waves. He was one of Viper’s enforcer prospects.

“Wake up, charity case,” the man grunted, slapping a stack of crinkled legal papers and a cheap ballpoint pen onto my chest.

The papers fluttered across the blanket. The bold header at the top read: Irrevocable Surrender of Parental Rights and Termination of Old Lady Affiliation.

My stomach twisted into a hard, cold knot. I swept my arm across the blanket, knocking the papers to the filthy concrete floor.

“Get out,” I rasped, my throat raw and burning.

The prospect sneered, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “Viper is being generous, Roxy. You sign the brats over to the club as property of the chapter, and you walk away with fifty bucks and your skin intact. You refuse, and I toss you into the swamp behind the salvage yard.”

I looked down at the papers on the floor, where Viper’s messy, arrogant signature was already scrawled across the witness line. A dry, humorless laugh escaped my cracked lips.

Reaching down with trembling fingers, I hooked the edge of the nearest page, brought it to my chest, and tore it cleanly down the middle.

“Tell Jaxson,” I said, meeting the thug’s gaze, “that he can burn in hell.”

The prospect’s face darkened with ugly rage. With a curse, he reached behind his hip, whipped out a black Glock 19, and shoved the cold muzzle hard against the center of my forehead.

“You don’t make demands, bitch,” he spat, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Sign the backup copy, or I leave three corpses in this bed.”

I didn’t blink. I didn’t flinch. I tilted my chin up against the steel barrel, keeping my arms locked tightly around the sleeping twins behind my ribcage. If I was going to die, he was going to have to look me in the eye while he pulled the trigger.

Before the hammer could drop, the squeak of hinges cut through the tension. The clinic door swung open smoothly.

A tall man stepped into the dingy room. He wore a crisp, tailored black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, dark trousers, and wire-rimmed gold glasses perched on his straight nose. In his left hand, he carried a heavy silver medical case.

He moved with the terrifying, silent precision of an apex predator walking into a sheep pen.

The prospect jumped, spinning the Glock toward the newcomer. “Who the fuck are you? This is Raven territory! Turn around and—”

The tall man didn’t waste a single breath on words.

He didn’t drop his silver case. His right hand blurred forward with blinding speed, his gloved fingers clamping around the prospect’s gun wrist like a hydraulic vice.

A sickening crack echoed through the room as bone splintered under pure brute force.

The prospect shrieked, dropping the Glock onto the floor as his hand dangled at an impossible, grotesque angle.

The tall man kicked the weapon under the metal sink with a clean flick of his polished boot. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm, melodic, and cold enough to freeze boiling water.

“Get out,” the man said softly through the quiet room. “Or I will sever the radial artery in your other arm and watch you bleed out before you reach the hallway.”

The prospect clutched his shattered wrist against his chest, whimpering, and scrambled backward out the door like a kicked dog, stumbling over his own boots.

The heavy clinic door clicked shut. Silence descended.

The man turned toward my cot. The sterile yellow light glinted off his gold-rimmed glasses, obscuring his eyes for a second before he looked down at me and the twin bundles in my arms.

I shoved myself deeper into the corner of the iron frame, baring my teeth like a cornered wolf. “Who sent you? If Viper sent a clean-up man, you’d better kill me right now.”

The man set his silver case on the stainless steel tray, popping the latches with two crisp clicks. He pulled out a pre-filled syringe of clear fluid.

“You can call me Doc,” he replied, his deep, resonant baritone vibrating in the small space. “And Jaxson Vance doesn’t have the rank or the bloodline to command me to do anything.”

He stepped closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the harsh fluorescent light above. “You’re hemorrhaging. Lie back.”

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, thrashing my arm out to strike the syringe away.

The violent movement dragged the collar of my torn, oversized hospital gown down my left shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of my collarbone and the pale, mottled skin beneath.

Doc’s hand froze in midair.

Behind the gold rims of his glasses, his pupils contracted into pinpoint needles. His gaze locked onto the faint, irregular burn scar etched deep into my shoulder blade—a faded, jagged mark shaped like a rearing stallion surrounded by an iron ring.

The air left his lungs in a sharp, ragged hiss.

I caught the strange intensity in his stare and yanked the fabric back up over my shoulder, wincing at the flare of pain in my pelvis. “I said get away from me!”

Doc took a slow, deliberate breath, his jaw clenching so hard that a muscle ticked beneath his bronze skin. When he looked back at my face, the clinical detachment in his demeanor had shattered, replaced by a dark, volatile storm of restrained fury.

“Be still, little bird,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a strange, reverent tremor. “I am going to stop your bleeding. And then I am going to take a single drop of your blood.”

Before I could fight, his gloved hand clamped gently but immovably around my bicep, pressing the needle smoothly into my IV port. The cool analgesic flooded my veins, instantly blunting the knife-like edges of my labor pains.

My limbs grew heavy. My eyelids fluttered as the exhaustion of thirty hours of labor dragged me downward.

Through the thickening fog of my vision, I watched Doc take a sterile lancet, prick the tip of my ring finger, and press a bead of crimson blood into a glass micro-vial fitted with a gold circuit chip.

He slotted the vial into a portable black diagnostic analyzer resting inside his case.

Ryder POV:

The analyzer’s digital sequence bar crawled across the LCD screen with agonizing slowness.

10%… 45%… 88%…

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped beast. My knuckles turned stark white where I gripped the edge of the rusted clinic table, denting the thin metal under the pressure of my fingers.

Beep.

The screen flashed solid, blazing crimson.

GENETIC MATCH: CROSS BLOODLINE. DIRECT DESCENDANT: 99.98% PATERNAL CORRELATION (RICHARD “IRON” CROSS).

I closed my eyes for three brutal seconds, swallowing the roar of sheer, unadulterated madness clawing at my throat.

Twenty years. Twenty long, bloody years of tearing through every state line from California to Maine, hunting for the lost daughter of the IronHorse mother chapter.

And here she was. Lying on a blood-soaked rag of a mattress in a rundown back-alley clinic, discarded like trash by a two-bit, bottom-feeder MC Prez who wasn’t fit to shine her boots.

I turned back to the bed. Roxy was fast asleep now, her pale, sweat-sheened face peaceful beneath the grime, her arms still locked around her newborn twins with the ferocity of a mother who would burn the world down before letting them go.

The Cross blood ran pure in her veins. She was royalty in an empire built on asphalt and iron, and these bastards had treated her like roadkill.

I reached inside the breast pocket of my custom leather vest, pulling out the encrypted satellite transceiver.

I flipped the toggle to the emergency override frequency and keyed the red button.

“Prez,” I whispered into the mic, my voice steady, low, and deadlier than a hollow-point round. “Code Red. The princess is found. Send the horde.”

Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 3

Roxy POV:

A sharp crackle of static broke through the heavy haze of medication, pulling me back to consciousness.

I blinked against the dim light. My head still felt heavy, but the throbbing pain in my abdomen had dulled to a manageable ache.

Doc stood by the reinforced clinic window, his broad back turned toward me. The satellite radio in his hand let out another high-pitched beep before a burst of static cut through the receiver.

“Coordinates locked,” Doc said into the mic, his baritone dropping to a cold, predatory hum. “Bring everything. She is intact, but they owe a blood debt.”

A chorus of savage, distorted roars exploded from the radio’s speaker, accompanied by the crashing sound of heavy wooden furniture being smashed to splinters on the other end.

My pulse jumped. My hand instinctively slid under the flat pillow, searching for the dull surgical scissors I had spotted earlier.

The line clicked dead. Doc turned smoothly on his heel, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the dim glow of the hallway bulb. His eyes instantly tracked the slight tension in my shoulder, knowing precisely where my hand was hidden.

He didn’t draw a weapon. Instead, a faint, dark smirk touched the corner of his lips.

He walked over to his medical kit, reached beneath the false bottom, and lifted out two black M1911 pistols equipped with long cylindrical suppressors. He racked the slide on the first one with a crisp, practiced motion.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice dry and rough. “If you’re not with Viper, who are you? The ATF? A rival crew?”

Doc stepped up to the edge of my cot, holding the second M1911 by the slide, offering the checkered grip directly to my open hand.

“If I were your enemy, little bird,” he murmured, leaning down until his warm, cedar-and-leather scent filled my lungs, “you wouldn’t have lived long enough to touch those dull scissors.”

I hesitated for a split second before gripping the heavy steel frame. My wrist wobbled from weakness, but I leveled the barrel straight at the center of his chest.

Doc didn’t step back. He didn’t even blink. He reached out with gloved fingers, wrapped his hand around the hot slide of the weapon, and pulled the muzzle firmly against his sternum, directly over his heart.

“Hold it tight,” he instructed softly, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up. “From this second forward, anyone who opens that door without my permission gets a bullet. Understood?”

The sheer, unflinching certainty in his voice knocked the breath out of me. Slowly, I let the gun lower by an inch, though my finger stayed rested against the trigger guard.

Doc straightened his spine and turned toward the door. “Stay with your children.”

He stepped out into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Through the crack, I heard his voice turn from dark intimacy to pure, terrifying authority.

“Clinic is closed,” Doc announced down the hall. “Evacuate the perimeter. Now.”

The old nurse’s shrill voice rose in protest, followed by the vulgar shouts of the two sweetbutts from earlier.

“Who the hell do you think you’re ordering around?” the blonde shrieked. “This is Raven property!”

A sudden, wet thud echoed through the corridor, followed by the sound of boots scraping desperately across the floorboards.

Through the opening, I caught a glimpse of Doc lifting the blonde woman entirely off the ground by her throat with a single arm, his expression utterly detached as he hurled her out the shattered double doors into the alley like a bag of wet laundry.

A heavy steel security shutter groaned as Doc dragged it down, locking the deadbolts into the concrete threshold.

The clinic fell into complete, heavy isolation.

I let out a shaky breath, resting my free hand over the blanket covering my twins. They were sleeping side by side, their tiny chests rising and falling in rhythmic peace, oblivious to the violence swirling just beyond the plaster walls.

My cracked phone, sitting on the metal nightstand where Doc had placed it, lit up with a harsh blue glow.

A club-wide broadcast text message from Raven MC was displayed on the lock screen:

OFFICIAL NOTICE: ROXANNE VANCE IS STRIPPED OF ALL PROPERTY STATUS AND CLUB PROTECTION. TERMINATED AS OF MIDNIGHT. ANY MEMBER HARBORING HER WILL FACE MAYHEM VOTE.

I read the words twice. A bitter, cold smile curled on my lips.

I powered the device completely off, dropped it into the rusted metal trash can beside the bed, and watched it disappear beneath dirty gauze. Jaxson Vance had officially cast me out into the dark.

Doc re-entered the room. He saw the empty nightstand, glanced at the trash bin, and gave a slow nod of approval.

He pulled a wooden chair up to the bedside, sat down, and began methodically wiping down his spare magazines with a clean white cloth.

Minutes stretched into an hour. The silence inside the clinic grew thick and suffocating.

Then, the iron frame beneath me began to hum.

It started as a microscopic tremor in the floorboards. On the bedside table, a half-full plastic cup of water began to form concentric ripples, splashing tiny drops over the edge.

I sat up, gripping the M1911 tighter. “What is that?”

Doc stopped cleaning his magazine. He stood up, pushed his gold glasses up the bridge of his nose, and looked toward the boarded-up windows. A fierce, predatory grin spread across his face.

The hum deepened into a low, chest-thumping vibration that shook the plaster loose from the ceiling.

Then the roar hit.

It wasn’t two bikes. It wasn’t ten.

It was an apocalyptic, earth-shattering wall of sound—hundreds of heavy, straight-piped Harley V-twins rolling in tight military formation, tearing down the main strip like a thunderhead tearing across the desert.

High-powered LED spotlights cut through the cracks in the window boards, flooding the dingy clinic room with blazing, blinding white light.

Panic surged through my chest. “Is that Viper? Did he bring the whole chapter to kill me?”

Doc walked to the window, grabbed the edge of the wooden blind, and ripped it clean off the wall with a single wrench of his arm.

He turned back to look at me, framed by the blinding halos of a hundred motorcycle headlights.

“Jaxson Vance is a gutter rat,” Doc said, his voice cutting clearly through the roaring iron storm outside. “Those aren’t Ravens, Roxy. Your real family has come to take you home.”

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September 22, 2026
Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel by Janna Lemay

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I was about to marry Dante, a ruthless New York Mafia boss.
However, just three blocks away from the cathedral, his ex-wife sent a text message saying their son was coughing up blood.
This was the third time, and Dante abandoned me at the altar once again, transferring a hundred million dollars to me as compensation instead.
I accepted the money, but his ex-wife did not stop there. She moved into my home with her son, faked an illness, and tried to force me out.
The last straw that broke me happened at the airport, when the little heir, instigated by his mother, viciously pushed me from behind.
I fell hard onto the cold marble floor and lost the child I did not even know I was carrying.
As I lay in a pool of my own blood, Dante’s mother coldly gave an order over the phone:
“The child is dead. You need to protect the living heir and Isabella’s status.”
Dante looked at me, his face full of guilt, but eventually, he turned and walked away with them.
To compensate for the child I lost, he threw a massive business empire at me, expecting me to continue waiting in the shadows while he enjoyed his family’s bliss.
I finally understood that in the face of his mafia bloodline, my loyalty meant absolutely nothing.
With a steady hand, I signed the asset transfer documents and did not hesitate to liquidate all the properties he had given me.
Then, I boarded a private cartel jet flying to Switzerland.
This time, I am going to build an empire of my own!

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Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 1

Valentina’s POV
The bulletproof car idled quietly in the shadows of an old apartment building, three blocks away from the cathedral where I was supposed to have my wedding.
At that moment, my fiancé’s burner phone let out a low, urgent vibration.
It was a text message from his ex-wife: “Dante, Leo is coughing up blood again. Come quickly, or your son will die before you say your vows.”
I stared at the faintly glowing screen. The hum of the engine transmitted through the floorboards into my bones, feeling like a heavy tremor.
Sitting beside me was Dante Salvatore, the head of a New York Mafia family, a man who commanded a ruthless empire.
His daily routine consisted of nothing more than fighting for street turf and brutal expansion.
Yet, inside this cramped cabin, the air was thick with the scent of his cologne. Beneath the heavy aroma of sandalwood, there was a faint trace of whiskey and gunpowder, adding an atmosphere of mystery and danger.
His gaze was heavy, as if it could press down the surrounding air, possessing a power that could make even the toughest men bend their knees.
Dante stared at the text message, all the color draining from his face until his bronze skin looked like wax-covered bone.
His large, scarred hands tightly gripped the leather armrest, forming a sharp contrast against the dark material.
I looked at him, then looked down at my custom-tailored wedding dress. I had been looking forward to this wedding so much.
Even though this was already the third time.
Three times we had been ready to take our vows before the priest, and three times his ex-wife Isabella had called due to a sudden critical emergency with their son, Leo.
I had a very strict rule: three strikes, and after the third time, it is over.
I understood that our world was transactional, and I knew the Mafia demanded loyalty, blood, and sacrifice.
But I never expected that I would be the one sacrificed time and time again for the sake of his past.
Dante looked at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Valentina…”
I didn’t let him finish. Putting on the perfect, considerate posture of a Mafia woman, I forced a stiff smile.
“Go.”
Dante let out a shaky breath and reached out to grip my hand tightly.
“I will make it up to you,” he promised. I simply nodded and signaled the driver to pull over.
The heavy lock clicked open. I stepped out of the car and stood on the cold, dark curb. A biting, freezing wind blew off the river, hitting my bare shoulders and making me shiver involuntarily.
I stood there, watching the convoy of black SUVs swiftly pull a U-turn. The tires shrieked against the asphalt.
Then, they disappeared in the opposite direction. They had completely abandoned me, leaving me standing alone on this grime-covered sidewalk, wearing a wedding dress.
I raised my hand and hailed a passing yellow cab. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes full of silent questions.
My phone vibrated in my clutch. I took it out and saw a notification from my offshore bank account, a wire transfer had just cleared.
One hundred million dollars. That was laundered “blood money” from the Salvatore family accounts.
The screen’s phosphorescent glow stung my retinas; that long string of zeros looked piercingly cold and white in the darkness of the cab.
I accepted the money without hesitation; as my protector, Dante no longer held any value.
I opened an encrypted underground social network on my phone and found that the Mafia gossip forum had already exploded. Someone had leaked a blurry photo of me hailing a cab in my wedding dress.
The comments flooded in. They called me a pathetic stray dog, mocking how the Mafia boss had abandoned this “gold digger” for the third time, leaving her hanging at her own wedding.
They ridiculed my complete failure to secure the ultimate symbol of Mafia power.
I scrolled through these mocking words expressionlessly, decided not to read any further, and simply turned off my phone.
When I finally returned to my private penthouse, I took off the heavy wedding dress, letting the expensive silk fall carelessly onto the floor, and changed into a simple pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.
Walking into the kitchen, I boiled a pot of water and made a simple bowl of pasta, adding nothing but a little olive oil.
I placed the bowl on the cold marble countertop, took a picture, and posted it to my private feed without any caption.
Within minutes, the women from other Mafia families left a string of sarcastic comments. They mocked my cheap meal and laughed at my miserable life.
My phone vibrated again. It was another bank notification. Dante had transferred another three million dollars, with only a short sentence in the memo: “Take care of yourself.”
The corner of my mouth curled into a cold, ruthless smile.
Five years ago, on the night of Dante’s first divorce from Isabella, when he showed up at my tiny apartment exhausted and covered in bruises, this simple pasta was exactly what I had cooked for him.
But he had long forgotten its meaning; he only knew how to use money to cover up his guilt.
Suddenly, my private encrypted phone rang. I answered it and heard Camila’s voice. She was my longtime mentor and a legend in the underground world, having successfully married the head of a Swiss banking cartel.
“Valentina, are your psychological defenses still holding up?” Her voice was clear and cold, without a trace of pity.
“I am calculating my next move, but I regret getting involved in his power games.”
A soft sigh came from the other end of the line.
“Switzerland has a higher level of power and security,” Camila said. “I can get you out and give you sanctuary in Zurich. There is no need for you to stay here and be his sacrificial lamb.”
I looked down at the simple bowl of pasta, quickly calculating my new wealth and my odds of winning, just like I always did.
“Make the arrangements.”

Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 2

Valentina’s POV
Dante didn’t return to the penthouse that night, nor the next day.
The apartment was unusually quiet. Taking advantage of this rare peace, I opened my laptop and began organizing the assets under my name.
Over the years, Dante had gifted me numerous properties, luxury cars, and shell companies. I contacted hidden brokers, requesting to legally liquidate all assets. I needed untraceable, liquid cash.
On the fourth day, the sound of a key turning in the lock came from the front door. I calmly closed my laptop and slid it under a magazine.
Dante walked in, looking haggard. Behind him was Isabella, tightly holding the hand of a pale seven-year-old boy, Leo, the heir to the Salvatore family.
“Leo’s condition is unstable,” Dante said in an unquestionable tone. “Isabella has a fever, and the estate is too far from the clinic. They are staying here temporarily.”
He didn’t ask for my permission; he simply issued an order.
I looked at Isabella. She was wearing a soft cashmere sweater, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she were chronically cold, and her eyes remained cast downward.
I nodded silently, accepting the Don’s order without a single word of rebuttal.
Seeing my obedience, Dante visibly breathed a sigh of relief. Carrying the faint scent of hospital disinfectant, he kissed me gently on the forehead and walked toward the kitchen to call his men.
That night, as I sat on the edge of the large bed in the master bedroom, the door creaked slightly, and Isabella slipped in quietly.
She offered a forced, polite smile, looking extremely strained.
“Sorry to intrude, Valentina,” she said softly.
I didn’t answer.
She walked over to my nightstand and pointed to a silver-framed solo photo of Dante.
“Leo is having trouble sleeping,” she said. “He needs to look at his father’s picture to feel safe.”
She reached out and took the frame. I simply showed cold apathy toward her action.
Isabella clutched the photo tightly to her chest and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, an unusual glimmer of tears flashed beneath her eyelashes.
“I am so jealous of you,” she whispered. “I am jealous that you get to sleep in his bed.”
Before I could respond, the hurried sound of little footsteps came from the hallway, and Leo rushed into the bedroom, his face flushed red.
“You’re bullying my mom!” he yelled at me.
He lunged at me and forcefully pushed my shoulder.
Caught off guard, I was pushed a step back. My ankle accidentally tripped over the edge of the floorboards, and a piercing pain shot up my calf straight to my brain.
I fell heavily onto the smooth floor. The impact made my entire body go numb, and the palms of my hands stung as I braced my fall.
Taking advantage of this, Isabella immediately let go of the photo frame, letting it smash onto the floor with a sharp shattering sound. Then she grabbed Leo and shielded him behind her.
“Valentina, I am so sorry!” Isabella cried out in a panicked voice, deliberately raising her volume as if trying to make sure someone at the end of the hall could hear. “Please don’t hurt him! He is just a child!”
Leo instantly dropped his innocent disguise and gave me a cold, contemptuous smile.
“Just wait until we go back to the main estate, my dad will definitely back me up,” he said through gritted teeth. “Then I will never have to look at your ugly face again.”
Just then, steady footsteps came from the hallway. Dante emerged from the shadows.
His pitch-black eyes immediately narrowed as he scanned the chaotic scene before him. His gaze shifted from me, sitting on the floor, to the scattered glass shards.
Isabella immediately knelt beside me, hovering her hands over my arms in a fabricated display of helpless panic.
“Dante, I am so sorry!” she sobbed with a trembling voice. “The photo triggered Leo’s trauma, and Valentina was just trying to take it back.”
In between her sobs, she quickly cast a glance at Leo, passing a hidden signal through her eyes.
Catching the hint, Leo immediately let out a loud scream, clutched his chest tightly with both hands, rolled his eyes back, and collapsed heavily onto the floor, starting to convulse.
“Dad!” he shrieked.
All the color vanished from Dante’s face. He shoved me aside, causing my already bruised shoulder to slam hard against the nightstand.
He scooped up the convulsing Leo and rushed out of the room.
“Isabella, go get the medical kit!” Dante roared.
Isabella wiped her dry cheeks and quickly chased after him.
With a heavy slam, the door shut, and silence descended upon the room once again.
Dante had completely ignored me, not even stopping to ask if I was hurt.
I sat alone in the quiet room. Slowly, I stood up, limped into the master bathroom, and calmly applied ointment to my sprained ankle.
Just then, my phone vibrated on the marble counter. It was a text from Dante.
“Leave the penthouse for now. Your presence is causing the child stress. I have transferred the deed to the luxury safehouse in the West End into your name. Go there.”
I stared at the glowing words on the screen, and the anger that should have been in my heart turned into pure calm.
With steady fingers, I typed my reply and hit send.
“Understood.”

Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 3

Valentina’s POV
The private dining room of the Mafia club was dimly lit. The air was thick with the rich aroma of truffles, mixed with the faint scent of old money that carried a touch of corrupt sweetness.
Today was my birthday.
Dante had booked the entire VIP section, promising me that tonight would involve absolutely no “family business.”
He sat across from me, wearing a dark suit, looking breathtakingly handsome.
He reached across the pristine white tablecloth, gently took my hand, and fastened a heavy, cold bracelet around my wrist.
I looked down. It was a string of priceless “blood diamonds,” tied to violence and exploitation.
“Valentina, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. I know this period has been very hard for you.”
I forced a smile and looked up at him. “It’s fine.”
Right at that moment, the heavy mahogany door was pushed open silently.
Isabella stood in the doorway, pulling a visibly reluctant Leo. Her hair was a mess, and she looked perfectly panicked.
“Dante!” she gasped for air, as if she had just run a long distance. “Leo is sick, and his special medicine is missing from the estate!”
The string quartet in the corner immediately stopped playing.
The accompanying “family members” and their wives in the hall turned their heads, and whispers spread outward like ripples.
They gossiped, their voices clearly audible, saying that the head of the family had actually abandoned his sick heir to have dinner with his mistress.
Leo broke free from his mother’s hand and ran straight to Dante.
“Dad, my chest hurts so much!” Leo cried, throwing himself into Dante’s arms.
Suddenly, he pointed a trembling finger at me.
“It’s her! She’s stealing you away!” he screamed, his face full of resentment.
In the next second, Leo grabbed a glass of expensive red wine from the table and threw it fiercely at me.
The dark red liquid splashed all over my chest, slowly dripping down my skin.
The muscles in Dante’s jaw twitched slightly.
He stood up abruptly. The chair made a loud bang against the hardwood floor before tipping over.
“Apologize to Valentina immediately!” Dante commanded, his voice carrying a chilling authority.
Leo stubbornly crossed his arms and glared at me fiercely, refusing to apologize.
Isabella immediately stepped forward, her posture slightly bent as if bearing immense pressure.
She lowered her head and began to sob.
“Don’t yell at him, Dante,” she said between sobs. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t raise him right. I’m a terrible mother.”
I looked around, feeling the critical gazes of the family wives darting through the open door.
I waved my hand, my tone calm and composed.
“Go take care of your family, Dante,” I said peacefully.
Dante looked hesitant. He looked at my stained dress, then at his crying ex-wife and sick child.
Ultimately, he yielded to duty. He picked up the boy and hurriedly left the restaurant, with Isabella following closely behind.
I sat alone at the dining table.
Picking up a napkin, I calmly wiped the wine stains from my skin, refusing to let a single tear fall.
I looked over at the musicians, who stood frozen in the corner.
“Keep playing,” I ordered.
After dinner, I used my own black card to pay the exorbitant bill.
A waiter approached me nervously.
“Miss Rossi, would you still like your birthday cake?” he asked cautiously.
“Bring it,” I replied.
They brought out a small, delicate cake, and I lit the single candle.
I made a silent wish in my heart.
I wished for complete freedom, to be rid of all chains.
After blowing out the candle, I took a picture of the cake and uploaded it to the family’s secure network.
I didn’t add any caption.
As I walked out of the club, my phone vibrated.
Dante had sent a long text message, desperately apologizing for what just happened.
Immediately following that was a bank transfer notification. He had wired another three million dollars into my account.
That night, I sat on the couch in the new safehouse.
The room was completely silent. What broke the quiet was not a sound, but a subtle shift in air pressure.
Then, the hinges let out a faint friction sound.
My hand instinctively reached into the crevice of the sofa cushion, my fingertips touching the cold, hard grip of a gun.
The dim yellow light from the hallway spilled through the crack in the door as the lock turned and the door slowly pushed open.
Dante walked in, holding a brown paper bag containing my favorite takeout.
He placed the food on the coffee table, sat down next to me, and tried to pull me into his arms.
“Leo’s heart rate spiked suddenly, and I had to take him to the clinic. You have to understand me, Valentina.”
I calmly placed my hand on his chest and pushed him away.
“No explanation needed,” I said.
Dante frowned, a flash of obvious panic in his eyes.
He sensed a fundamental shift in my attitude.
“You are too quiet,” he said. “Why aren’t you arguing with me?”
“Because I don’t care anymore,” I replied coldly.
Dante stared at me, clenching his jaw, his expression turning dangerous.
Before he could probe further, I quickly appeased his ego, reaching out to gently touch his cheek.
“You are a good father, Dante. I admire that about you.”
Dante let out a long breath, leaning into my palm.
“I swear on my life, once the boy recovers, we will have a grand wedding, and you will become my wife.”
Right then, his burner phone rang, the harsh ringtone shattering the brief, fragile moment.
He glanced at the screen. It was Leo.
He answered the phone and pressed it to his ear.
“Dad, I want to hear a bedtime story!” the child’s voice came through the phone, thick with tears.
In the background, Isabella’s voice could be heard softly humming a lullaby, with that kind of softness that carried a manipulative undertone.
Dante showed a hesitant expression again, turning to look at me with pleading eyes.
I stood up and waved toward the door. “Go.”
Dante stood up, dropped a kiss on my cheek, grabbed his coat, and hurried out of the room.
He left in such a rush that the phone remained connected.
I stood in the center of the empty living room, listening to his footsteps gradually fade in the hallway, eventually completely cut off by the muffled thud of the heavy fire door.
A moment later, a low-frequency vibration came up from the floorboards. It was the sound of an engine starting on the street below.
On the other end of the line, the woman’s lullaby still hadn’t stopped.
I picked up the phone, pressed the end-call button, the screen went black, and the entire apartment was left with only the low hum of the refrigerator.

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August 16, 2026
My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late novel by Edik Brandwein

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For three years, I secretly used my hidden network of connections to build my husband’s pathetic mafia syndicate into the absolute pinnacle of this city.
Tonight was supposed to be the birthday dinner where I planned to finally reveal my true identity to him.
Instead, Cassio left me all alone in that high-end restaurant and froze every single one of my accounts.
Hours later, he returned with his mistress Lola and a group of heavily armed men.
“You have nothing. No power, no money. You are completely worthless,” Lola sneered triumphantly, viciously smashing a bottle of vintage red wine at my feet before landing a hard punch to my jaw.
He announced to the roaring crowd of mobsters that I was being cast aside.
Then, he gave me a cruel ultimatum.
If I couldn’t produce three hundred thousand dollars in thirty minutes, his men would strip me naked and throw me out onto the street, leaving me to be publicly humiliated for the entire city to see.
Those sleazy capos closed in on me, staring with the greedy eyes of predators sizing up their prey.
Looking at the man I had married out of genuine love, I finally understood that our wedding vows were nothing but a carefully calculated experiment to him.
He truly believed I was just a helpless, penniless woman whom he could trample on at will just to please his mistress.
He had no idea that I was Serena Falcone, the legendary heiress of the most cold-blooded mafia family on the East Coast.
When the countdown ended and his men reached out to tear my dress, I calmly picked up a phone and summoned my real family.
It was time to burn his entire empire to the ground!

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My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late Chapter 1

Serena’s POV
I sat alone at a banquet table meant for twenty. The polished mahogany surface reflected my solitary silhouette. The restaurant manager, who had been bowing and scraping before me just an hour ago, now wore a contemptuous sneer. He arrogantly informed me that my accounts had been frozen. He gave me exactly ten minutes to come up with a “compensation fee” of three hundred thousand dollars, or else he would have his men “escort” me to the back alley.
A waiter slammed the leather bill folder onto the table, the sharp smack echoing harshly in the vast, empty restaurant. I stared at the astronomical figure on the receipt, feeling a wave of disorientation.
This was supposed to be my birthday dinner.
Three years ago, I married the boss of the Greco crime family, Cassio Greco. Tonight, he brought me to this famous mob-affiliated French restaurant, ordered a lavish spread of dishes and vintage wine, and promised me that his inner circle would arrive shortly. Then, he pressed a cold kiss to my cheek, made an excuse about taking a phone call, and walked out the front doors.
I waited for three hours. The candles burned out, and the restaurant emptied. Not a single person showed up.
I reached into my designer bag for my black card, only to find the cold surface of my compact mirror.
An astringent sourness rose in my throat, and a numbing sensation spread from my fingertips through my entire body.
Cassio had taken the card from my bag before we even left the penthouse, claiming he would handle all the expenses.
I picked up my phone and dialed his number. It went straight to voicemail. Seconds later, the screen flickered and went completely dark—the battery was dead.
The restaurant manager marched over to my table, his previous subservient demeanor entirely gone. With his arms crossed, he looked down at me condescendingly, his eyes failing to hide his hostility as he demanded to know if I had an alternative payment method.
I told him my husband would be back any minute.
The manager let out a dry, abrasive laugh. He reminded me that the mafia never allows debts to be delayed, regardless of whose wife it is.
Then, a flicker of cruelty flashed in his eyes as he deliberately brought up what happened to Lola last month.
Lola was Cassio’s secretary, but within the syndicate, it was an open secret that she was his mistress.
Last month, I discovered that she had been abusing a credit card the family had given me, buying piles of luxury bags and jewelry, all while spreading rumors that I was nothing but a useless trophy wife.
To strike back at her blatant disrespect, I froze the illicit accounts she used for her spending sprees, which left her unable to pay off a massive debt she had racked up at an underground casino.
She was briefly detained and taught a lesson by the family’s enforcers, and it was Cassio who eventually bailed her out.
When I confronted Cassio about it, he brushed my actions off as the “jealousy of an aging woman,” completely dismissing the insult she had dealt to our marriage vows.
Now, looking at the predatory smile on the manager’s face, a dark certainty settled in my heart.
This was all Cassio’s meticulously planned revenge, all for the sake of his mistress.
As if summoned by my very thoughts, the air across the restaurant suddenly shifted. The heavy oak doors creaked loudly on their hinges, and the distant clatter of cutlery abruptly ceased.
Cassio strolled into the restaurant, his arm wrapped tightly around Lola’s waist, pulling her flush against his side.
A trailing entourage of armed goons and drunk, corrupt businessmen followed them in, their faces flushed with alcohol and the eager anticipation of a good show.
Cassio stopped a few paces away from me, his gaze sweeping over me with utter disdain.
He deliberately projected his voice, letting it echo theatrically into every corner of the room: “Since you love punishing people who can’t pay their bills so much, it’s only right you experience that exact humiliation for yourself.”
The onlookers began to whisper. “Gold-digging bitch,” “Slept her way to the top,” and “Now she’s finally getting tossed out.”
My husband had personally designed this brutal public execution, tearing my dignity to shreds.
Cassio pulled out a chair, seating Lola at the table next to mine as if attending to a queen, loudly promising that he would avenge her. Lola slowly pressed her lips to Cassio’s in a deeply possessive kiss.
Then, she turned to me, her eyes brimming with smug malice: “What right does a useless, ordinary woman like you have to freeze my accounts?”
Before I could answer, Lola grabbed a bottle of reserve red wine from the ice bucket and hurled it viciously at my feet.
The glass shattered. The dark red liquid splashed over my calves, staining my white silk dress like fresh blood.
“You are nothing!” Lola shrieked. “You have no money, no power! Cassio pays for me, but you have absolutely nothing!”
Cassio sneered, taking his time to light a cigar. He told me that if I could come up with the cash, I could pay the bill and get the hell out. The crowd erupted into roaring laughter. One of his associates pointed at me and shouted that without Cassio’s protection, I was nothing but a lamb waiting to be slaughtered in this city.

My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late Chapter 2

Serena’s POV
Cassio raised a hand, and the grating laughter in the room instantly died down.
His voice rang out loud and clear in the sudden silence, carrying an unquestionable authority as he issued a public decree.
“Anyone who dares to help her tonight makes an enemy of the entire Greco family.”
A few legitimate business partners who had been secretly shooting me looks of pity immediately shrank back into their chairs, their eyes darting away, terrified of drawing the mafia’s wrath.
Low murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, and I could clearly hear some bold whispers noting that the boss obviously favored his young, beautiful mistress over his own wife.
That was the moment my heart shattered.
I stood up, the wine-soaked dress clinging to me like a freezing shroud. I grabbed the lapels of Cassio’s tailored suit, consumed by fury: “You orchestrated this entire humiliation just to elevate your mistress?”
Cassio stared at my hands gripping him with pure disgust. Instead of answering, he raised his hand and slapped me across the face with brutal force.
The sheer impact threw me back into my chair. The metallic taste of blood instantly bloomed in my mouth as he finally spat out a single, cold word: “Yes.”
I sat there in a daze, the stinging in my cheek the only thing grounding me to reality.
In a trance, my mind drifted back to our wedding three years ago. He had sworn before God and the family that he would protect me with his life. Now it was clear that the dignity of a mafia wife was nothing but a laughable lie.
I married Cassio out of pure love, not for wealth. The deepest irony was that it was precisely because I secretly used my hidden network to clear his path that his once-insignificant family was pushed to the apex of the city.
Yet, Cassio felt no gratitude. He casually pulled a linen napkin and slowly wiped the hand he had just used to strike me, as if he had touched something filthy. Watching his movements, I finally realized that these three years of marriage were an absolute scam.
He scoffed, tossing the soiled napkin onto my lap. He leaned down, his breath, heavy with the scent of whiskey, fanning across my face.
“If you can’t pay,” he said, his voice lethal, “I’ll have the manager strip your clothes off. My men will throw you out into the street and let the whole city see what happens to you.”
The vicious threat drew a chorus of laughter. The men in the crowd raked their sickening gazes over my body. They muttered among themselves that Serena Greco was finished—I had officially been stripped of the title of the Don’s wife.
Over by the mahogany bar, a few greasy, middle-aged capos lazily swirled their drinks, openly evaluating my chest and legs, their eyes flashing with the excited anticipation of watching me be publicly humiliated.
I could even hear them crudely making bets on who would get the privilege of dragging me out the door.
I looked up at Cassio. The man I thought I knew was gone, replaced by an absolute demon.
The card slot in my purse was empty—he had taken it back at the penthouse.
The flashing low-battery warning was no accident either.
The conspiracy of this public execution finally pieced itself together in my mind. He had even calculated the delay in my ability to call for help, savoring every second of my torment.
The manager took a step closer, slipping a gleaming brass knuckle over his fingers. He smiled obsequiously at Cassio: “Boss, should I start tearing her clothes off now?”

My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late Chapter 3

Serena’s POV
Lola stood up, her stiletto heels clicking sharply and urgently against the smooth marble floor. She stalked toward me step by step, her gaze like a knife.
“Where is the protection fee, Serena?” Her tone was sickeningly sweet but as deadly as a viper. “I demand you pay up immediately.”
She had no intention of letting this go, smugly bringing up old scores. Even the time she was locked in the syndicate’s holding cell for maxing out my card and spent the whole night crying had somehow become a badge of honor for her to flaunt.
She pulled a cigarette from her designer bag, lit it, and leaned in, blowing a thick cloud of smoke directly into my face. Through the acrid haze, she smiled arrogantly, acting as if she possessed a death-immunity card bestowed by Cassio himself.
I didn’t hesitate.
I shot to my feet, raised my hand, and slapped her across the face with everything I had. The crisp smack echoed through the suddenly dead-silent room.
Lola shrieked and stumbled backward, dropping her cigarette. Sparks flew, burning a scorch mark into the pristine white tablecloth.
Cassio roared, a deep bellow exploding from deep within his chest. Infuriated that I dared to strike his mistress in public, he flew into a rage and immediately signaled his enforcers to intervene.
Two massive goons lunged at me. Their rough, calloused hands clamped down on my collarbones like iron vises, their thumbs digging deeply into the hollows of my shoulders. The pain forced a sharp gasp from my lips.
They forcefully shoved me back into the chair, pinning me heavily against the mahogany backrest.
I glared at Cassio, my chest heaving.
“Why do you get to trample on the very bottom line of loyalty,” I said, my voice trembling but filled with suppressed rage, “while I don’t even have the right to fight back?”
My heart was as cold as frost, a murderous intent surging beneath the surface.
It was the ultimate irony. The Greco family had only managed to become the top syndicate in the city within three short years because I had secretly mobilized my family’s massive power to clear their obstacles.
Originally, at tonight’s birthday dinner, I had planned to reveal my true identity.
I was going to tell him the truth: that I am the heiress of the Falcone family, the descendant of the most powerful, cold-blooded mafia empire on the East Coast.
I even intended to bring him into my family’s inner circle and introduce him to my father—the supreme mafia don.
I never expected him to design such a despicable betrayal.
But in those three hours of lonely waiting, a monumental shift had occurred within me.
Before my phone died, I sent one last encrypted message, ordering my syndicate’s legal advisory team to immediately draft the severance papers.
“Cassio, do you really plan to let me walk out of here in such disgrace?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm and flat.
Cassio sneered, casually adjusting his gold cufflinks.
“Serena, this humiliation is exactly what I designed,” he admitted smugly, a flash of cruel satisfaction in his eyes. “It’s meant to put a pathetic commoner right back where she belongs.”
Taking advantage of the goons pinning me down, Lola stepped forward, her face twisted in rage.
She clenched her fist and punched me hard in the jaw.
My head snapped back, my vision blurring for a second as the coppery taste of blood flooded my mouth.
Before I could recover, Lola violently grabbed my hair. A sharp pain shot through my scalp as she forced my head up, making me look directly at her.
She gave me a choice.
“You can either be thrown into the syndicate’s underground cells and let the men have their fun with you,” her hot, foul breath hit my face, “or you can crawl out that door on your knees like a dog.”
I balled my hands into tight fists, focusing so hard that even the searing pain in my scalp felt distant.
I looked straight at Cassio, completely ignoring Lola as if she were nothing but a buzzing fly.
I made a cold vow, my voice low and icy.
“When the Greco family is reduced to ashes, Cassio,” I said, barely above a whisper, “the blood of every single one of your men will be on your hands.”
Lola let out a grating, fake laugh, giving my hair one last vicious tug before letting go.
The surrounding socialites and mob bosses joined in her mockery, their laughter echoing off the marble walls, sneering at me as if I were a delusional heroine in some cheap romance novel.
“Is she having a psychotic break?” one of the capos by the bar sneered.
Infuriated by my unyielding attitude, Cassio grabbed a half-eaten plate of steak from the table and hurled it at me with a curse.
The heavy ceramic plate slammed into my shoulder and shattered. Scalding grease and black pepper sauce slid across my exposed skin, adding another filthy stain to my already ruined dress.
“Stop bluffing, you crazy bitch! Pay your debt!” he roared.
Taking the cue, the restaurant manager approached with a dozen heavily armed thugs. He expertly racked the slide of his pistol, the crisp click cutting through the crowd’s laughter as he coldly asked how I intended to settle the bill.
The goons loosened their grip on me slightly, allowing me to stand. I scanned the hostile crowd, my eyes slowly sweeping across the sea of betrayal.
I locked eyes with a legitimate businessman who used to work with the Greco family.
Ignoring the guns pointed at me, I walked straight toward him.
The man shrank back into the leather booth, terrified that I would ask him for money and draw Cassio’s wrath.
“Relax,” I said in a low voice dripping with utter contempt. “I just want to borrow your phone to call my family so they can bring the money.”
The room erupted into roaring laughter once again.
“An ordinary family is going to pay off a mafia debt?” someone from the crowd mocked loudly.
Lola pointed her perfectly manicured finger at the trembling businessman.
“Give her the phone,” she ordered.
She turned to me with a cold smirk and announced, “You have thirty minutes, Serena.”
Pointing toward the bar, she threatened that if the money didn’t arrive by then, that fat, sleazy capo would publicly humiliate me and strip me bare.
The capo slowly licked his lips, taking a step forward with the excited gleam of a beast staring down dying prey.

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August 16, 2026
When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke novel by Kora

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I spent three years, drained all my savings, and gave up my career as an architect, all just to help my husband Caden pay off his debts.
Yet, at his residency appointment ceremony, I watched with my own eyes as he publicly thanked his “beautiful fiancée”-a wealthy heiress named Brianna.
While I wore old clothes bought from thrift stores and survived on instant noodles just to barely cover his rent, he used my hard-earned money to buy her a brand-new BMW and gifted her a set of antique Cartier jewelry.
Even the Montblanc pen I carefully selected and had engraved became a gift he gave to her.
He kept our marriage a secret from the world, treating me like a nameless ATM, while using her family’s hospital connections to climb step by step to the peak of his career.
The most ironic part was when one day, Brianna unknowingly took out that very pen of mine to show me.
“These kinds of men are just leeches. They will drain everything from you and then throw you away, shattered.”
Everything from my past three years had actually become an absurd joke.
I blocked his number, tossed that cheap pawnshop wedding ring into the trash, and left this city to build a kingdom of my own.
Later, Brianna also discovered his true colors, and together, we made sure he received the punishment he deserved.
To think he actually ended up crying and screaming, kneeling down to beg for our forgiveness!

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When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke Chapter 1

Alyssa’s POV:
Caden Barry’s chief resident pinning ceremony became the moment my world collapsed. For the past three years, I paid off his medical school debts and supported his life. Now, I watched helplessly as he stood on stage, affectionately thanking his “beautiful fiancée,” Brianna Vega.
The auditorium lights dimmed, and my husband Caden stepped onto the stage, looking radiant in a custom suit. I sat in the corner of the fifth row, filled with pride. The hospital director passionately praised his outstanding talent and bright future.
I clapped hard, my hands turning red. For today, I endured countless late nights doing architectural design side gigs, skipped meals, and sent every penny to him. All of this was for us.
Caden walked up to the podium, his voice steady and magnetic. After thanking his mentors and colleagues, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the audience. My heart raced; our secrets and sacrifices were finally about to be witnessed.
“Finally,” his voice was gentle, “I want to thank the most important person in my life. She is my pillar, my future.”
I held my breath, anticipating the subtle nod that belonged to me.
“My beautiful fiancée,” Caden continued, “Brianna Vega.”
A stunning woman in the front row, wearing a haute couture gown, stood up. Brianna Vega. Caden flashed her a brilliant smile—a smile that in the past, only belonged to me when we were alone. Amidst the thunderous applause, Brianna happily blew him a kiss. A bone-chilling cold instantly submerged me.
As soon as the ceremony ended, I immediately pushed through the crowd to head out. Fiancée? What on earth was going on?
“Excuse me, I saw you clapping so enthusiastically for Caden just now. Are you his colleague too?”
I turned around. It was Brianna. Her eyes were bright and friendly, and the massive solitaire ring on her left hand stung my eyes under the lights. I forced a smile.
“Something like that,” I answered with difficulty.
Brianna smiled brightly and extended her hand. “I’m Brianna, Caden’s fiancée. It’s so nice to meet friends who appreciate him.”
I held her warm hand, though my own was freezing stiff. “Alyssa. Yes, Caden is indeed very talented.”
“He’s truly amazing!” Brianna’s eyes were full of pride. “These past three years of residency have been so hard. I tried my best to support him, making sure he ate well and helping him manage his schedule. Plus, my father is the director here, so he helped us quite a bit with interpersonal connections at the hospital.”
My brain buzzed. Three years, connections, director father. I knew Caden had been actively socializing, and this was clearly a calculated climb.
“You are so sweet,” my voice was flat. Yet in my mind, the image of my three years staying up late drawing plans surfaced—the three years of exhausting all my savings to pay his rent and bills.
“Oh, you can’t even imagine.” Brianna chuckled lightly. “My dad even helped us find a new apartment in Beacon Hill. Caden also bought me a new model BMW to make my commute easier.” She pulled out a set of keys flashing the BMW logo.
That was the car Caden had dreamed of months ago. He said that once he finished, we would save up to buy it together. But now, my savings were already depleted.
“A new BMW, what a nice gift.” My mouth was full of bitterness.
“Right? He always says, ‘My career is our future.’ I even helped him handle some spatial planning for a few architectural projects, just some basic ideas. He really values details.”
Spatial planning. The chill struck again. Caden once said that was his personal research project, that he paid someone to help, and rejected my professional involvement, claiming he didn’t want my opinions to influence his “vision.”
“So, you’re not a doctor?” I asked, suppressing my emotions.
“Oh, not at all! I majored in art history.” Brianna waved her hand casually. “I mostly manage my family’s investments. But Caden really values my aesthetic opinions. By the way—” She tilted her head to look at me. “You look a bit… unkempt, I hope you don’t mind me saying. Are you a student?”
Her words felt like a slap to my face. I was wearing clothes from a thrift store, ate instant noodles most nights, and invested everything I had into Caden.
“I am a designer.”
Brianna’s eyes lit up. “That’s awesome! Caden did mention a designer was helping him with conceptual designs. He said she was very ‘practical.’ Is that you? He never mentioned your name, though.”
His evaluation of me, his legal wife, was “very practical,” without even a name. I was just a tool.
Just then, a video celebrating Caden’s promotion played on the screen in the hall. “Without the relentless support of my brilliant fiancée Brianna, I couldn’t have achieved any of this,” his voice sounded sincere from the screen.
I wasn’t on the screen. I was invisible.
Brianna clapped lightly, her face glowing with happiness. “He is so sweet, isn’t he? We’re both so excited. Once his residency ends, we’ll sign the legal papers. We had a commitment ceremony in Cabo last year, it was a dream come true. All white flowers, a live band, hundreds of guests. My dad arranged everything. It was so beautiful.”
Cabo, a commitment ceremony, hundreds of guests. Just waiting for legal papers. A bitter laugh caught in my throat.
Three years ago, rushing to get our marriage license at the courthouse, I wore a cheap dress, with only us and two strangers as witnesses. Caden insisted on keeping it a secret, saying that if people knew he got married during his busy surgical residency, it would “affect his career prospects.” He promised to make it up to me with a “real” wedding, a grand and beautiful one, once his career stabilized. That promise now sounded like a cruel joke.
Brianna continued, “Sometimes I really worry about Caden. He’s so focused on his career that he easily attracts people who want to use him. Alyssa, you look like a very kind girl. Don’t let a man like that play you. If he doesn’t put a ring on it, if he doesn’t invest in you, then he isn’t worth your effort. Some men just take, take, and take.”
She pointed at her diamond ring, reminding me of my own thin silver band, bought from a pawnshop because Caden said we needed to “cut expenses.”
“You’re right,” I answered, surprisingly calm. “Some men are just like blood-sucking leeches.”
Brianna nodded in deep agreement. “Exactly! I have a friend who used to date a surgeon, and the guy practically drained her dry and gave her nothing. Always talking about his ‘grand plans,’ but never delivering anything tangible. Always asking for money, favors, and connections. Disgusting.”
I felt a profound sense of absurdity. With my money and time, I built a luxurious life for him and another woman.
And this woman was now oblivious, accusing him of his parasitic nature right in front of me.
The knot in my stomach suddenly dissipated, replaced by an ultimate clarity. I was going to end this.
“I have to go.”
“Oh, you look a little pale.” Brianna dug through her designer bag and pulled out a pen. “Take this. Caden gave it to me, but I already have one. Keep it as a lucky charm.”
It was a Montblanc pen. Engraved on it were the intertwined initials “C.B.” and a caduceus symbol—the painstaking result of my frugality, custom-made to celebrate his graduation from medical school.
He gave my gift to her. A cold smirk crept onto my lips.
Brianna thought I was pleased. “Pretty, right? Caden said he personally picked the engraving style. He’s really thoughtful.”
“Yes,” I took the pen, my fingers gripping it tightly like a weapon. “Truly… priceless. Thank you for the advice, Brianna. I wish you both long-lasting happiness.”
The lie dripped with venom, while she remained completely unaware in her naive bliss.
I turned and walked toward the exit, my steps firm. The sacrifices and love of the past three years were nothing but a sick game, and now, I would end it with my own hands.

When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke Chapter 2

Alyssa’s POV:
I was heading toward the lobby exit when my phone screen suddenly lit up. It was a text from Caden.
Caden: “Don’t forget, I need you to attend the hospital’s charity gala tonight. Dress decently, and don’t talk to anyone important. Just smile and look pretty.”
My blood instantly ran cold. “Don’t talk to anyone important.” He only cared that I stood next to him like a quiet accessory, never stealing the spotlight.
Just then, a familiar voice came from an alcove nearby: “Honey, I’m almost there. Just dealing with something.” Caden had his back to me, talking on the phone.
Brianna walked around the corner, her smile radiant: “Caden! I just met a lovely lady, Alyssa.”
Caden turned around, and his eyes briefly met mine. A trace of impatience flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a gentle smile. He pulled Brianna close and kissed her forehead.
“My beautiful Brianna,” he whispered, then lifted his phone. “It’s fine, Mom. I’m with Brianna, and we’re about to enjoy a romantic dinner. No, of course I’m not going to the gala. I have to accompany my fiancée.”
He wasn’t going to the gala. The very gala he had just texted me to “dress decently” for.
I remembered our third wedding anniversary last year. I cooked his favorite meal, wore a blue dress I usually saved for special occasions, and bought a bottle of cheap sparkling wine to pretend it was champagne. Caden came home late at night and didn’t even glance at the dining table.
“Don’t you know I have an important presentation tomorrow? I don’t have time to play these boring games with you.” He waved his hand and knocked over the wine glass. Cheap liquor and glass shards scattered across the floor, and he walked into the study without looking back.
Such a contrast shattered my heart into pieces.
Brianna took out an exquisite jewelry box from her tote bag: “Look at the gift Caden gave me today! As a thank you for helping him plan the proposal. It’s an antique Cartier bracelet, very expensive.”
The fine gold chain sparkled under the light. I stared blankly at that bracelet. I had seen it on a top-tier antique jewelry website; it cost a fortune. And I knew exactly where that money came from.
How disgusting!
Two months ago, a hundred and fifty thousand dollars was transferred out of my savings account. Caden said it was to buy “emergency research equipment” and that he would pay me back once his funding was approved.
He had sworn to me, “This is for our future, Alyssa.”
That was my blood, sweat, and tears! Now it was all worn on the wrist of another woman.
Brianna noticed my silence and tilted her head. “Are you still thinking about that man who doesn’t cherish you? My grandma used to say, where a man spends his money is where his heart is. If he’s not willing to spend money on you, just tell him to get lost.”
My phone buzzed again. Another text message.
Caden: “Make sure you transfer the rent tomorrow. Also, my dry-cleaning bill went over budget, remember to send a bit extra.”
I stared at the screen, astounded by his shamelessness. While planning a romantic dinner and showing off a gift bought with my money, he was still limitlessly demanding more from me.
Brianna caught a glimpse of my screen. “Is it him? Still asking you for money? He’s just a pathetic parasite, absolutely disgusting. Cut ties with him clean and just block him!”
This was advice for a stranger, yet it accurately pronounced the verdict on my reality. Cut ties clean, block him.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice not trembling in the slightest. “Thank you, Brianna. Thank you for making me see everything clearly.”
I turned and left, no longer looking at the “engaged couple” immersed in their sweetness. My legs, which were weak just minutes ago, were now filled with strength.
I strode out of the dazzling lobby, thoroughly leaving Caden’s lies behind me, and walked toward my own future.

When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke Chapter 3

Alyssa’s POV:
I was almost at the exit, my heart beating a steady, resolute rhythm in my chest.
A hand suddenly touched my arm. I whipped around. It was Brianna, who had chased after me again, panting slightly, holding a small package in her hands.
“Alyssa, wait!” Her voice was bright and rushed. “I almost forgot, this is something Caden made for me last week. He’s always so busy, but he still wanted to make a special gift. A little leather pouch for my paintbrushes.”
She smiled as she opened the package, her laughter full of affection. “Even though the stitching is clumsy, he made it with so much heart.”
Inside was a rough leather pouch sewn with thick thread. The dark brown leather was incredibly soft, yet it made my heart feel indescribably cold.
“He said he made this from some old scrap leather he had lying around,” Brianna said, handing the pouch to me. “Although it’s not perfect, the thought is what counts.”
I took the leather pouch, tracing the crooked stitches. This wasn’t some “old scrap leather lying around.” This was the leather from my late grandfather’s cherished old armchair!
After my grandfather passed away, I cut a piece of leather from it as a keepsake. Caden knew perfectly well how precious this was to me. He was the one who helped me cut it back then, promising he would make a memory box for me out of it.
Yet months later, he nonchalantly claimed he “lost it” when we moved, even scolding me for being “too sentimental” over a piece of old furniture. And now, my grandfather’s relic, my grief, had all become his “sweet gift” to please Brianna.
“This is truly… precious.” My voice was tight as I handed the pouch back to her.
Brianna tucked it away, unbothered. “Precious? Maybe it was just something he bought for a few bucks at a flea market. What matters is the intention.”
Next, she pulled out her phone and showed me a photo. “Look at this! Last month, Caden took me to a special charity gala. The board members from my dad’s hospital were all there. Everyone said we were the perfect couple. He’s especially good at mingling with everyone, really charming. All the ladies absolutely loved him.”
In the photo, Caden was holding Brianna’s arm, laughing radiantly among a crowd of VIPs. This was his glamorous life—the world he desperately hid and kept me out of.
His countless warnings echoed in my head: “Alyssa, we can’t be seen together in public. A married resident will make people think I’m not focused enough. Once my career is stable, we’ll go public.”
Her phone suddenly rang, and a sweet smile bloomed on her face: “It’s Caden!” She answered the call, her voice light. “Honey? I’m almost there. I know you miss me, see you in five minutes!” After hanging up, her cheeks were slightly flushed. “He just gets so anxious whenever I’m not around. Always worrying over nothing.”
Yet I had never received a call like that from him. When my grandmother was hospitalized, he told me to “handle it quietly” and not disturb his studying; when I was bedridden with a high fever, he only texted me to get well soon because no one was there to do his laundry. He never cared if I lived or died, only whether I could continue to serve him.
“Really, Alyssa,” Brianna said earnestly, “don’t waste any more time on that man who is just using you. You deserve true happiness.”
Her words were like the final push I needed to make up my mind. Looking at the text from Caden demanding money still on my screen, I calmly pulled up his contact and decisively hit “Block.”
His needs, his lies, vanished in an instant. Next, I switched my phone to airplane mode.
“You’re right.” A smile of sheer relief surfaced on my lips. “From now on, I won’t waste any more time.”
“That’s the spirit! Don’t let anyone step all over you ever again.” Brianna checked her watch and waved goodbye. “Caden is waiting for me, I have to go!”
I watched her jog briskly toward the entrance, running straight into the trap Caden had meticulously designed for her.
Gripping that Montblanc pen tightly, I turned and walked toward the subway station. The cold wind brushed my face, but it made my mind clearer than it had ever been before.

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August 16, 2026
The Penthouse Wife’s Ultimate Revenge by Star Cruiser

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One week before my wedding, I walked into the master bedroom of my fully-paid penthouse apartment and caught my fiancé cheating with my best friend.
They were laughing about his fake “insomnia”—the lie he’d used to trick me into sleeping in the guest room so they could have the master bedroom to themselves.
Gage was a top surgeon, and I’d sacrificed almost everything to care for his supposedly fragile health. I’d even brewed essential oils from my late mother’s precious collection to steady his hands.
But behind my back, they were planning to pretend to marry me, then slowly push me out and take over my home.
When I confronted them, they didn’t show a single ounce of guilt.
Gage deliberately destroyed the essential oil my late mother had left me, then violently shoved me against the wall and locked me in the room to suffer the pain and bleeding alone.
I had poured everything into building a safe harbor for this man, and in his eyes, I was nothing but a convenient stepping stone.
I didn’t even bother shedding a single tear.
I took out my phone, canceled our honeymoon trip, and listed the penthouse on the market—cash sale, 24 hours.
Time to take out the trash.

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The Penthouse Wife’s Ultimate Revenge Chapter 1

Eliza Anderson’s POV:
One week before my wedding, I noticed the master bedroom door was slightly ajar.
Then I heard their voices—my fiancé Gage and my best friend Caroline. They were laughing about their secret relationship, how they’d been together behind my back!
Gage Morrison was a top cardiovascular surgeon. In public, he was quiet, brilliant, compassionate.
The media praised his steady hands and calm demeanor on the operating table. He spoke softly, always looking at you with that focused, concerned gaze. He cultivated an aura of sensitivity and thoughtfulness, and everyone around us fell for it.
Gage claimed he suffered from severe insomnia. He said even the slightest sound or light would disturb his sleep. To deal with it, he needed to lock himself in the master bedroom every night.
He needed absolute darkness and silence, no distractions whatsoever. And I believed him. I made sure the house stayed quiet. After nine o’clock at night, I always tiptoed around, terrified of disturbing him.
I made so many sacrifices for Gage. His health became my top priority. I moved into the guest room, sharing it with Caroline. A few months earlier, she’d needed a place to stay after a bad breakup, and I’d taken her in without hesitation.
I bought a special white noise machine for his room, installed blackout curtains, and prepared soothing herbal tea for him every night. I thought I was supporting the man I loved, helping him through a difficult condition.
Seven days before the wedding, I was in the living room adjusting the wedding guest list when I heard a faint sound coming from the master bedroom.
Gage always kept the master bedroom door locked tight, but now it was cracked open. I quietly approached the door and heard soft laughter, followed by Gage’s deep chuckle.
My mind went blank. I pushed the door open a little more and peered through the crack.
Caroline was sitting on the bed, wearing one of Gage’s oversized shirts, her hands casually draped over his shoulders. They looked far too intimate.
Caroline spoke first, her voice teasing. “So, my dear heart doctor, how long do you plan to keep up this ‘insomnia’ act after the wedding? Eliza will get suspicious sooner or later.”
Gage laughed. “Not too long. Just until she’s used to you living here. Once we’re married, my ‘insomnia’ will miraculously clear up. Then we can slowly talk her into moving out on her own. She’s so used to accommodating me, she’ll never suspect a thing.”
Caroline leaned in closer. “And then? Just the two of us? In our penthouse?” She emphasized “our” with a possessive, triumphant tone.
I held my breath. The penthouse was mine. I’d bought it with my own money.
Gage leaned in and kissed her hair. “That’s right. Once she’s gone, we can really enjoy our lives. No more sneaking around, no more sharing the guest room with your fake best friend.”
The world tilted. My vision blurred. My body went rigid. Their sweet words and cruel laughter filled my ears.
His “insomnia” was a lie. His “insomnia” was an elaborate ruse. It had all been just to cover up their affair.
I walked back to my room, and the first thing I did was take out my phone. I canceled the honeymoon trip—the Bora Bora vacation we’d always dreamed of.
Then I opened the real estate app on my phone. The penthouse—I’d bought it outright, all cash. I listed it as “For Sale by Owner,” looking for a buyer who could close fast.
I wanted them out. I wanted everything cleaned out. A notification popped up on the screen: “Listing successful. Expect high interest.” A cold satisfaction rose in my chest.
I picked up the carefully blended essential oil from my nightstand. It was a soothing oil I’d specially formulated for Gage, using a precious plant essence my late mother had left me. I’d poured my heart into that tiny bottle with love, thinking it would ease his stress and steady his surgeon’s hands.
It was a symbol of my care, my love, my devotion. I walked to the trash can and dropped it in. The small bottle hitting the plastic made a soft sound, but it felt like a gunshot.
Just then, my phone vibrated. A message from the real estate agent: “Cash offer accepted. Closing in 48 hours.”
I heard Gage and Caroline coming out of the master bedroom, their laughter still echoing. Caroline, as innocent as ever, walked into the kitchen and ran straight into me.
She gave me a bright, fake smile. “Good morning, Eliza! Sleep well?”
Gage followed behind, looking refreshed. The moment he saw me, he flashed his signature gentle, charming smile. “Good morning, Eliza. Sorry I’m up so early—another emergency. How did you sleep last night?”
He walked toward me, reaching out to put his hand on my shoulder, and I felt a surge of revulsion. His touch used to comfort me, but now it sickened me like poison.
I caught a faint, unfamiliar scent on him—sweet and cloying, Caroline’s cheap perfume, barely masked by Gage’s cologne.
“Fine, Gage,” I answered calmly, betraying no emotion. Caroline was busy making coffee in the kitchen, humming a little tune.
Then she turned around, looking at me with feigned innocence and concern. “Eliza, you look a little tired. Everything okay? Gage got a call last night, and we were just talking about his surgery.”
Gage nodded, meeting my eyes. His gaze held that usual sincerity, like he’d practiced it a thousand times. “Yeah, honey, just a quick briefing. Caroline really understands my work. You know, I have to be ready for surgery.”
He added a little apologetic shrug. His charm was still intact, a weapon he wielded at will. A flicker of unease crossed his eyes, but it was quickly masked by his usual calm. He was so good at pretending, it was terrifying.
“It’s fine,” I said again, forcing myself to smile, not a single emotion showing on my face.
Gage leaned in closer, his voice low and soft. “You know, this job… it’s really exhausting. But knowing you’re waiting for me—that’s what keeps me going.” He finished with a gentle squeeze of my hand and a smile.
“I understand. Your work is important,” I replied perfunctorily.
Gage smiled, satisfied. He picked a fresh rose from the vase on the counter and tucked it behind my ear. “Thank you for being so patient, my love. You’re the best.”
There was a sparkle in his eyes. He was still so handsome, so perfect—but it felt like a cruel mockery, laughing at the trust I’d once had.
Caroline stepped forward and took my arm. “Eliza, you know, sometimes you need to relax. Gage needs you to stay strong and happy. Maybe you should take a little trip, clear your head before the big day.” She patted my arm, smiling like a harmless little bunny.
Gage looked at me with adoration in his eyes. “Yes, darling. You work so hard, you deserve a good rest. Your presence helps me so much—you’re my rock.”
And then I saw it. A tiny, almost invisible fleck of glitter on the left lapel of Gage’s suit. It was Caroline’s.
The last thread of my self-deception snapped completely. The so-called perfect life had all been a lie.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, trying to look casual.
It was an email from a private investigator I’d quietly hired a few days ago, out of desperation as Gage’s behavior grew stranger.
The subject line read: “Caroline Stafford Pregnancy Confirmation Report.” My hands trembled slightly as I opened it.
Attached was an ultrasound image and a doctor’s diagnostic report confirming Caroline was twelve weeks pregnant. At the bottom of the report, the doctor’s signature read: “Dr. Gage Morrison.” My world crumbled.

The Penthouse Wife’s Ultimate Revenge Chapter 2

Eliza Anderson’s POV:
My phone vibrated again, and I clenched it tighter. Gage glanced at my trembling hand, his eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face.
He met my gaze, and his smile faltered for a split second, almost freezing.
“Eliza, is everything all right?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of concern—or was it wariness? He picked up his phone from the kitchen counter and swiped through notifications with practiced ease.
“Just work emails,” I lied, my voice flat and emotionless, my face immediately shifting into an apologetic, charming smile.
“Ah, these late-night emails. I’m so sorry, darling, for disturbing our morning.” He walked over, slipped an arm around my waist, pulled me close, and his lips brushed lightly against my forehead.
“Actually,” he whispered in my ear, “I almost forgot! I have a surprise for you.” He pulled out his phone again and showed me the screen. It was a booking confirmation.
“Bora Bora, first class, for two. Just us.” His eyes sparkled with feigned delight. “I know you’ve always wanted to go there. A little pre-wedding trip, just the two of us—my way of making up for being so busy with work.”
He shook his head and laughed self-deprecatingly. “My job is absolutely crazy, but I carved out this time. Just you and me, away from everything.”
He held the phone out to me, waiting for my reaction. I stared at the booking information, the text blurring. Bora Bora. The honeymoon I’d just canceled.
The honeymoon he’d planned with Caroline. My stomach churned. The taste of irony was bitter in my mouth. “That’s wonderful, Gage.”
I forced the words out, my voice dripping with false enthusiasm. “I’m so looking forward to it.” This was the game I had to play, and I’d play it well. I wouldn’t let them see me break.
The next morning, the penthouse was filled with the aroma of coffee and freshly baked croissants.
Surprisingly, Gage was in the kitchen, wearing a crisp white apron over his perfectly pressed shirt. He hummed a cheerful tune as he flipped pancakes.
Caroline sat at the breakfast bar, drinking orange juice, glowing. “Good morning, Eliza!” she greeted cheerfully, looking up from her phone screen. “Gage made us a feast!”
Gage turned around with a gentle smile. “Good morning, darling. Caroline specifically requested her favorite French toast. And you, my love—your usual berry smoothie.”
He set the smoothie in front of me, then turned to Caroline and gently pushed a plate of French toast toward her. “Eat up, baby. You need your strength.”
He came over to me and kissed my forehead. “Eliza, I’ll be working late at the hospital tonight. Big surgery, complex case. Don’t wait up for me.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Of course, Gage,” I said softly. I reached up and smoothed his hair—a gesture I’d practiced a thousand times. “Be careful. Try to rest when you can.”
I watched him leave, his handsome figure disappearing down the hallway. Caroline followed him to the door, waving goodbye. Then she turned around, a smug expression on her face, and walked back into the kitchen.
Once they were both gone, I headed straight for Gage’s master bedroom. I pulled a small metal key from the bottom of my jewelry box. The lock clicked softly and swung open with a dull thud.
I pushed the door open. The room was spotless, a perfect reflection of his obsession with tidiness. It smelled of Gage’s cologne, mixed with a hint of Caroline’s cheap perfume.
I walked straight to the bed—the luxurious king-sized bed where they’d carried out their betrayal. I lifted the heavy mattress. Beneath it, a small velvet pouch was hidden. I found it. Caroline’s diary. Filled with her elegant handwriting, documenting every sordid detail.
I started reading. Her words leaped off the page, each one a stab to my heart.
“Gage’s ‘insomnia’ is such a brilliant excuse. Eliza is so naive! She actually believes it. She even buys him special tea! Haha! While she’s sleeping peacefully in the guest room, I’m in her master bedroom, in her bed, with her fiancé.” My hand tightened around the diary, fury rising.
“Poor thing, always trying to be the perfect girlfriend, the supportive partner. Doesn’t she know Gage needs excitement, not some tame little perfumer? I’m what he really wants.”
“He says I’m lively, fun. He says Eliza is… comfortable. Boring. He can’t wait for the wedding so he can finally be rid of her. Then this penthouse, his career, our baby… it’ll all be mine. All mine!”
The more I read, the colder I felt. I recalled countless conversations with Caroline—her subtle barbs, her fake compliments.
“Eliza, you’re so lucky to have a man like Gage. He’s so handsome and successful. But you know, men sometimes need a little passion. You’re just so calm, so grounded.”
At the time, I’d brushed it off, thinking it was her own insecurity talking. Now I saw the truth behind her words. She wasn’t envious of me—she was studying me, waiting for her chance to take everything. She wanted to take everything from me.
I was about to tear the diary to shreds when something else caught my eye. Hidden beneath the diary was a snow-white envelope with my name scrawled across it in hurried handwriting.
I opened it. Despite my resolve, my fingers still trembled. Inside was a medical report.
And an ultrasound photo. “Patient: Caroline Stafford.” Date: two weeks ago. “Estimated gestational age: 12 weeks.”
My vision blurred. On the signature line, clearly visible: “Attending Physician: Gage Morrison.”

The Penthouse Wife’s Ultimate Revenge Chapter 3

Eliza Anderson’s POV:
I stumbled out of the master bedroom, clutching the diary and the ultrasound photo tightly in my hands.
I needed to be alone. I retreated to my own room, closed the door, and the lock clicked shut, as if sealing off the entire world.
My legs gave out, and I slid to the floor, my back against the cold wall. I bit down hard on my lower lip—the taste of blood was the only thing that made me feel real.
I slowly stood up and walked to the mirror. I tried to smile, to give myself some comfort, but my lips wouldn’t obey. The corners of my mouth trembled, then fell. I closed my eyes.
In that moment, I knew—the Eliza I used to be was gone forever.
A few hours later, I heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking. Gage and Caroline were back. Their voices drifted down the hallway, light and cheerful.
Gage walked in first, carrying a large insulated bag. “Darling Eliza, I’m home. I hope you ate something. I brought your favorite Thai curry, to make up for my recent absences.” He gave me that deliberately practiced apologetic smile.
He opened the bag, and the rich aroma of coconut milk and spices filled the room.
“I know there’s always something pulling me away lately,” he continued, arranging the containers on the dining table, “but I really want you to know how much I care.”
“I’m not hungry, Gage. I don’t feel well.”
“Oh, Eliza, you really should eat something,” Caroline chimed in, her voice laced with concern. She gestured toward the food on the table. “Gage went all the way out there just for you.”
I ignored her. I pressed “send” on my phone, and a notification popped up on the screen: “Penthouse sale confirmed. Cash buyer, closing within 24 hours.”
Gage’s smile froze. Caroline’s eyes widened. They both stared at my phone, then at me. Their usual composure was cracked with shock and confusion.
“What… what is this, Eliza?” Gage’s voice was tight, with obvious anger.
“I sold the penthouse,” I said calmly and clearly. “Cash buyer, closing tomorrow morning.” I stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the floor.
I walked past their stunned faces and back to my room. As I passed the living room sofa, I saw it—my engagement ring, sparkling in the light.
I remembered the day Gage proposed. He knelt before me, his eyes full of what I’d thought was love. “This ring,” he’d said, holding up the dazzling diamond, “is a symbol of my endless loyalty, my promise to spend my life with you, Eliza.” Those vows I’d once cherished now sounded like hollow lies.
The next morning, I woke up early. My phone vibrated. A notification from Caroline’s social media. A photo. Her hand intertwined with Gage’s, my engagement ring glittering on her finger. The caption read: “Finally got the ring that’s mine! And a little one on the way! Can’t wait for our future, my love @GageMorrison.”
I felt that familiar rage rise up again, but then my phone rang. It was Gage.
“Eliza, what is the meaning of this?” His voice was tight with anger.
“What meaning, Gage?” I asked calmly.
“Caroline’s post! And the ring! Why is she wearing your ring?” he demanded.
“She’s carrying your child, Gage,” I stated the obvious. “Maybe she feels entitled to it. Or maybe you gave it to her.”
He stammered for a moment, then forced himself to sound composed. “Eliza, don’t be ridiculous. She… she’s just emotional. I let her try it on to calm her down. You know how sensitive women get when they’re pregnant.” His tone was condescending, dismissive. “It’s nothing. I’ll buy you a bigger one, a better one.”
“That’s fine, Gage,” I said in a voice so cold it could freeze. “You two keep it. I don’t need it.” I hung up before he could say anything else.
I looked at the email on my laptop. The penthouse closing documents. “Transaction complete.” A cold, triumphant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. His promises of bigger rings, better lives—they all meant nothing. I’d cut everything off. He could keep those material possessions; I didn’t need them.
I crumpled the engagement ring receipt into a ball and tossed it in the recycling bin. Then I called a taxi.
Time to take back what’s mine.

👉 CONTINUE READING

August 13, 2026
The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit by Maui

👉 READ NOW

My stepmother’s bodyguards were seconds away from dragging me back to a life that was essentially a prison cell wrapped in silk. I couldn’t even scream for help because the words always died in my throat—a clinical condition called selective mutism that felt like drowning on dry land.

I had just discovered the sickening truth: my father was planning to sell me to a sleazy investor named Sterling to cover his company’s bankruptcy. They were going to drug me, ship me off to a private island, and strip away the only thing I had left—my late mother’s multimillion-dollar art trust.

When I arrived at the manor, my stepmother Lydia handed me a glass of wine laced with bitter sedatives, her smile sharp as a razor.

“Drink up, darling. It’ll make the transition to Mr. Sterling much easier.”

My stepsister Harper stood in the corner, wearing a dress bought with my mother’s stolen money, mocking my inability to speak. My father didn’t even look me in the eye as he calculated my price tag, treating his own daughter like a piece of damaged, mute inventory.

They thought because I didn’t speak, I didn’t hear them laughing about the “accident” that killed my mother or how they planned to burn her final restoration work. They assumed my silence was a sign of surrender, a white flag waved by a broken girl who would never fight back.

How could the people who were supposed to be my family treat me like a commodity to be traded? Did they really think my silence meant I was weak, or that I didn’t know every dirty secret they were hiding in their ledgers?

I didn’t drink the wine. Instead, I burst into the VIP suite of Carlisle Pierce, the most cold-blooded billionaire in New York, and slammed a crumpled napkin on his table with a desperate, last-second gambit.

“MARRY ME. NOW. $1 MILLION.”

👉 READ NOW

The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 1

The heavy scent of cheap cologne and severe halitosis filled the air.
A fifty-something, balding man with a mouth full of yellow teeth and a height that barely reached Emilee’s shoulders was trying to pin her to the bed. He looked incredibly sleazy and weak, a pathetic excuse for a man.
“You think you’re some high-and-mighty heiress?” the old man, Mr. Henderson, sneered, looking her up and down like a piece of cheap trash. His foul breath made Emilee nauseous. “Take a good look at yourself. You’re nothing but a useless, unwanted mute. A pathetic piece of garbage. You aren’t even fit to shine my shoes! But your stepmother, Lydia, sold you to me for a good price. Your father threw you away like a stray dog. So just lie back, spread your legs, and take what I give you.”
Emilee did not hesitate. She spun around and delivered a vicious, bone-crushing kick directly to his groin.
The old man let out a high-pitched squeal, collapsing to the floor and clutching himself in agony, unable to stand. Without a second glance, Emilee bolted out of the room.
Ripping the door open, Emilee bolted.
Worn combat boots hit the plush carpet of the Obsidian Club’s VIP corridor without a sound. That was the problem with expensive places—designed to absorb noise, keep secrets, and swallow people whole.
Lungs burning, Emilee refused to look back. That disgusting old man’s bodyguards and the stepmother’s men would both be coming.
Rounding the corner, a shoulder slammed hard into the wall. Pain shot down the arm, sharp and grounding. A door was the only salvation. Any door.
The throat constricted. Selective mutism. That was the clinical term. It felt more like drowning on dry land. Any scream for help would just die in the throat.
Frantic eyes darted down the dim hallway.
There. At the very end of the hall, a heavy black door with gold trim stood slightly ajar. It was a sliver of hope in a tunnel of despair.
She threw her weight against the door and stumbled into the room.
The air inside was cooler. It smelled of expensive leather, aged whiskey, and something sharp and masculine.
She turned immediately, her fingers fumbling with the lock. Click. The sound was louder than a gunshot.She pressed her back against the wood, her chest heaving. Heavy footsteps thudded outside. “Check the stairwell,” a deep voice grumbled. “She couldn’t have gone far.” The footsteps faded.
Emilee let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone.
She snapped her eyes open.
In the shadows, a man was watching her. He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, an arm draped casually over the backrest. He was terrifyingly still.
Her blood ran cold. Even with her heavy makeup, she recognized him from financial reports. The third-generation heir to the Pierce media empire.
An image of her father’s face flashed through her mind. It wasn’t fear she remembered seeing when her father spoke of this man, but a sickening, fanatical desperation to climb the social ladder. She vividly recalled how her father had acted like a fawning, tail-wagging dog, trying desperately to curry favor with the man sitting before her. To get even the slightest connection with Carlisle Pierce, her father would have gladly offered up everything he owned on a silver platter, begging for just a few crumbs from this man’s table.
And that was perfect. She was cornered, penniless, hunted. It couldn’t get worse than the bald bastard behind her. If she had to gamble, she would gamble on him.
Emilee pushed herself off the door. Her legs were shaking, but she forced them to move. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled napkin and a black eyeliner pencil.
Carlisle watched her approach, his finger tapping rhythmically against the crystal glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. He assumed she was another “gift” from his grandfather.
She stopped in front of him. Then, with a sudden, fierce motion that surprised even him, she planted both hands on his shoulders and shoved him back onto the velvet sofa. She caged him there, leaning over him, her wild, kohl-rimmed eyes burning into his.
Carlisle raised an eyebrow, his body tensing under her hands, a dangerous stillness coiling in him.
She uncapped the pencil with her teeth, scribbled quickly, the tip tearing the paper. Then she slammed the napkin onto his chest.
Carlisle looked down.
The handwriting was jagged, rushed. MARRY ME. NOW. $1 MILLION.
A flicker of genuine novelty crossed his features. “A napkin proposal,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, like gravel wrapped in velvet, with a hint of dark amusement. “That’s a first. Creative.”
He looked up at her, his expression cooling again. “But I’m not interested in playing charity. Get out.” He reached for the phone to call security.
Emilee lunged and grabbed his wrist. Her hand was small, her fingers ice cold.
Carlisle froze. He looked at her hand on his wrist, then up at her face. Her eyes were terrified. Not the fake terror of a bad actress, but the primal fear of a trapped animal.
Outside the door, the heavy footsteps returned. “Did you check the VIP suites?”
Emilee’s grip tightened. Her nails dug into his skin. She shook her head frantically. Please. The word wasn’t spoken, but it screamed from her expression.
Carlisle looked at her, his deep eyes unreadable. He set the phone down. He twisted his wrist, breaking her grip, and then caught her hand in his. He pulled her closer. She stumbled, her hip bumping against the table, her breath catching as his face came inches from hers.
“Can you afford me, little wildcat?” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, a hint of dark amusement playing on his lips.
Emilee didn’t hesitate. She nodded vigorously, her eyes as stubborn as a cornered little beast that still wanted to bite. She tapped the IOU with her free hand.
Seeing her like this, a flicker of surprise crossed Carlisle’s eyes, quickly followed by a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor.
For years, he had maintained a strict, self-imposed celibacy, completely immune to the allure of any woman. Countless stunning socialites had tried to bridge the distance, yet none had ever managed to stir even a ripple in his stagnant pool of desire. But now, as her unique scent—a delicate trace of vanilla intertwined with the sharp tang of adrenaline—filled his senses, and the ghost of her cold fingers lingered on his skin, a strange, unfamiliar warmth began to thrum in his veins. It wasn’t a crude, overwhelming lust, but a quiet, undeniable awakening of senses he thought were long dead.
He looked at this chaotic, heavily made-up wildcat, genuinely caught off guard by the sudden, involuntary tightening of his own muscles. The sheer absurdity that she was the one to make his pulse tick faster after years of absolute numbness was intriguing. If her mere proximity could spark a dormant instinct back to life, perhaps keeping her around wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
A faint, enigmatic smile touched the corners of his lips.
“Alright,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a low, gravelly weight that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.
He stood up and towered over her. He picked up his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It engulfed her small frame. It smelled like cedar and power.
“Let’s go,” he said.
He led her not to the main door, but to a panel in the wall. A hidden exit.
At the bottom, a black Maybach was waiting in the alley.
“City Hall,” he said to the driver. Then he pulled out his phone. “Archer. I need a marriage license prepped. Now. Yes, I’m serious. Get a judge on the line and arrange a judicial waiver for the waiting period. I want it done tonight. Meet me there.”
Emilee sat huddled in his jacket. She watched him. He was efficient. He was commanding.
She looked at his watch. A Patek Philippe.
Carlisle caught her staring. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said coldly. “You can’t pawn that.”
Emilee looked away, her cheeks heating up under the thick white foundation.
When they arrived at the City Clerk’s office, a man in a sharp suit was waiting with a folder. He looked stressed.
“Sir,” the man said, eyeing Emilee’s fishnets with horror. “Are you sure about this?”
“Give me the pen, Archer,” Carlisle said.
Emilee signed her name. Her hand shook, but the letters were legible. Emilee Oneill.
Carlisle signed next to her. His signature was aggressive, sharp.
She felt a wave of relief so strong it made her dizzy. She was married. According to her mother’s trust fund stipulations, she was now an adult in the eyes of the estate. She was free.

The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 2

The wind outside City Hall was biting. It whipped Emilee’s hair across her face, strands of black sticking to her dark lipstick. She stood on the sidewalk, the marriage certificate clutched tightly in her hand. It was just a piece of paper. But it was the heaviest thing she had ever held.
Carlisle stood next to her. He buttoned his coat, looking unbothered by the cold or the insanity of the last hour. “Archer,” he said, turning to his assistant, who was already holding out a second, more ominous-looking document and a pen. “The addendum.”
Carlisle took the document and held it out to Emilee. “One last signature. Consider it a condition of our arrangement. A non disclosure agreement. A silent covenant. You don’t speak about me, my business, or this night to anyone. Ever.”
Emilee looked from the paper to his cold, unyielding eyes. This was the real price. Not the million-dollar IOU, but her silence, legally weaponized and turned against her. It was a cage of a different kind, but one she was choosing. She took the pen and signed, her signature a final act of surrender.
“Now,” Carlisle said, turning to her with a commanding presence. “We need to have a conversation about a non disclosure agreement.”
Before he could finish, Emilee’s phone buzzed frantically in her pocket. Startled, she pulled it out. It was a text from Harper, her stepsister. An image loaded on the screen. It was a photo of a silver Zippo lighter, the flame lit, hovering inches above a canvas. It was one of her mother’s paintings. The last one she had restored before she died.
Emilee’s hand spasmed. Rage and panic flooded her veins. They were threatening the only thing that mattered to her. She didn’t have time for this conversation.
She turned to face Carlisle. She knew exactly how powerful and wealthy this billionaire was, and a wave of genuine guilt washed over her for using him like a shield. She reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills. It was all the cash she had on her. She grabbed Carlisle’s hand, slapping the bills into his warm palm as a token of her sincere apology. The million-dollar IOU she gave him earlier was her genuine promise of compensation, even though she knew he absolutely did not lack money.
Carlisle looked down at the money. George Washington stared back at him, wrinkled and sad. Forty dollars. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What is this?”
Emilee held up her phone. She had quickly typed a note in the Notes app. “Cab fare. I am sorry for using you. The million dollars is my real compensation. I will contact you. Keep your phone on.”
Carlisle read the screen. His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. “You are tipping me?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.
Emilee nodded, giving him a small, awkward thumbs-up. Then, before he could react, she spun around and flagged down a passing yellow taxi. It screeched to a halt, and she dove into the backseat.
“Hey!” Archer shouted, stepping forward.
Carlisle raised a hand, stopping him. He stood on the curb, holding the forty dollars and the marriage certificate copy she had left behind in her haste. He watched the taxi merge into traffic. A laugh escaped him. It was short, sharp, and devoid of humor. “She tipped me,” he muttered. He looked at the bills again.
Carlisle stood on the curb, his expression a complex mix of disbelief and dark amusement. He was a billionaire with a net worth in the hundreds of billions, a man whose hourly asset fluctuations amounted to more than most people earned in a lifetime. And yet, he had just been dismissed with forty dollars by a young girl who looked barely twenty, her face painted with absurdly heavy makeup. He chuckled, genuinely angered by the sheer audacity of it.
The black Maybach pulled up. Archer opened the back door, looking like he was about to have a stroke. “Sir,” Archer said, his voice trembling. “That was unexpected.”
Carlisle slid into the car. The warmth of the interior did nothing to thaw the ice in his chest. “Investigate my special new wife,” Carlisle said. He tossed the forty dollars onto the leather seat next to him. “I want to know everything. Who she is. Who sent her. What she wants.”
Archer tapped on his tablet. “Already on it, sir. I pulled the security footage from the Obsidian Club.” He handed the tablet to Carlisle.
The video was grainy, black and white. It showed Emilee in the bathroom of the club, moments before she burst into his room. She was leaning over the sink, splashing water on her face. For a brief second, she looked up at the mirror. The camera caught her profile.
Carlisle paused the video. He zoomed in. The heavy makeup was smeared, revealing the skin beneath. Her bone structure was delicate. Her nose was straight, her jawline soft but defined. But it was her eyes. Even in the grainy footage, they were striking. Large. Expressive. And familiar.
Carlisle frowned. A memory scratched at the back of his mind, something from a long time ago. Something buried under years of corporate takeovers and family betrayals. He couldn’t place it.
“She doesn’t look like a spy,” Archer ventured. “She looks scared.”
“That makes her a good spy,” Carlisle snapped. He handed the tablet back. “Find out where that taxi is going.”
In the back of the yellow cab, Emilee deliberately left her heavy, grotesque makeup untouched. She delusionally hoped that this bizarre, dark look would scare off the impending danger waiting for her at home. The “useless” daughter. The “mute” girl. The fragile doll.
She gripped her phone tightly. Words didn’t work on her family. Only leverage worked. And now, she had leverage. She touched her chest, feeling the folded marriage certificate tucked inside her inner pocket.
The taxi slowed down. They were pulling up to the Oneill Manor. It was a sprawling estate in the Hamptons that seemingly belonged to her and her late mother, but in reality, it had been completely taken over by her father and stepmother. Everything her father owned, every business deal he made, was built on her mother’s fortune. Yet, the moment her mother died, her father immediately married Lydia. He tacitly allowed his new family to humiliate Emilee at every turn. Because of his silent approval, even the servants had begun to insult and mistreat her at will.
The driveway was lined with cars. Expensive cars. A party. Of course. They were hosting a gala while threatening to burn her mother’s legacy.
Emilee paid the driver. She didn’t tip. She couldn’t afford to. She stepped out onto the gravel driveway. The cold air hit her face. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up.
The security guard at the gate recognized her. He sneered. “Late again, Princess?” he muttered.
Emilee didn’t look at him. She walked past him, her boots crunching on the stones. She could hear the music coming from the main house. Laughter. The clinking of glasses. It sounded like a different world.
She walked around to the side entrance. She wasn’t going to walk in the front door. Not yet. She needed to see the battlefield first.
She paused at the glass patio doors, looking in. Her father, Gavin Oneill, was standing in the center of the room. He was laughing, holding a glass of champagne. He looked happy. He looked like a man who had just made a very profitable deal.
Emilee placed her hand on the cold glass. Her reflection stared back at her. Pale. Determined. She wasn’t the scared girl who ran out of here three hours ago. She was a married woman.
She pushed the door open. The wind rushed in with her, extinguishing a nearby candle. Emilee stepped into the warmth of the lion’s den.

The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 3

Emilee didn’t enter the main hall immediately. She knew this house better than the people who owned it. She knew which floorboards creaked. She knew which doors didn’t latch properly.
She slipped through the servants’ corridor, her boots silent on the linoleum. She took the back stairs, taking them two at a time. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the music thumping from below. She reached the second-floor landing.
She crouched in the shadows of the balcony, peering through the banister. The Great Hall was filled with people. Men in tuxedos. Women in gowns that cost more than a car. It was a sea of fake smiles and hidden agendas.
Her eyes scanned the room. There. Her stepmother, Lydia, was draped in emerald green silk. She was clinging to the arm of a man Emilee recognized with a shudder. Mr. Sterling.
Mr. Sterling was a notorious investor. He was short, balding, and sweating profusely, rubbing his greasy hands together in an impatient, vulgar manner. Emilee had looked into his private life earlier. It was rumored that Sterling had three previous wives, and none of them survived their wedding night. When their bodies were brought out, they were mutilated beyond recognition. The man had a sick obsession with barely legal girls and was known for his ruthless, perverted methods.
And yet, her own biological father, along with her stepmother, was actively handing her over to this monster just to save a failing company. Pushed to this despicable corner, Emilee had no choice but to save herself.
“She will be down any minute,” Gavin was saying, bowing slightly with a pathetic, fawning smile, treating Sterling like a god. “She is just preparing herself. You know how shy she is.”
Lydia chimed in, her posture equally submissive as she poured Sterling more wine. “Oh yes, Mr. Sterling. We have kept her pure and untouched, just for a distinguished man like you.”
Sterling licked his lips greedily, his eyes darting around nervously. “Shy is good. I cannot wait to tear that shyness apart.”
Emilee’s stomach churned. Bile rose in her throat. They were selling her. Not metaphorically. Literally. They were trading her for a capital injection to save the failing company.
Miles away, in the penthouse office of Pierce Global. Carlisle sat behind his massive mahogany desk. The city lights of Manhattan sprawled out behind him, a glittering grid of power. Archer placed a tablet in front of him.
“We found her,” Archer said. “Emilee Oneill. Eldest daughter of Gavin Oneill, the struggling CEO of Oneill Corp. Her mother was the renowned artist, Seraphina Vance.”
Carlisle looked at the screen. A student ID photo stared back at him. The girl in the photo was breathtakingly beautiful. She had delicate, flawless features that radiated a pure, untouched elegance, looking completely different from the goth disaster he had just married. He stared at her pretty face, highly surprised by the contrast.
“She hasn’t spoken in ten years,” Archer continued. “Selective mutism following the car crash that killed her mother.”
Carlisle tapped the screen. “Mute?”
“Yes, sir. The family keeps her out of the public eye. Rumor has it she is mentally unstable.”
Carlisle leaned back. “Unstable people don’t negotiate million-dollar contracts on napkins.”
“The Oneill company is on the brink of Chapter 11 bankruptcy,” Archer added. “They need cash. This marriage… she could be looking for a payout.”
“Or,” Carlisle said, his eyes darkening, “she is looking for protection.” He remembered the terror in her eyes. The way she checked the exits.
“Should I annul it?” Archer asked. “I can have the judge wake up right now.”
“No,” Carlisle said. He stood up and walked to the window. “If she is a spy, letting her go is dangerous. If she is a gold digger, I want to know who put her up to it.” He turned back to Archer. “Keep the marriage active. And tap into the Oneill Manor security system. I want to see what my wife is up to.”
Back at the manor. Emilee pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened an app she had coded herself when she was sixteen. It connected to the house’s Bluetooth sound system. Realizing that a ridiculous disguise would not deter a monster like Sterling, Emilee finally walked into the bathroom and scrubbed her face clean.
Downstairs, Lydia was tapping a spoon against her glass. Ding. Ding. Ding. The room went quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Lydia announced, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Please welcome the guest of honor. Our beloved daughter, Emilee.”
All eyes turned to the grand staircase. Emilee stood up. She stepped out of the shadows. She wasn’t wearing a gown. She was wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. Her face was scrubbed clean. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. She looked stark. Real. She began to descend the stairs. Her steps were slow, deliberate.
Sterling’s jaw dropped. He dropped his champagne flute. It shattered on the marble floor, but no one looked at it. They were looking at her. Without the heavy makeup, without the hood, she was breathtaking. Her beauty was haunting. It was the kind of beauty that made people uncomfortable because it felt too raw. Harper, standing in the corner, turned a shade of red that clashed with her dress. She gripped her wine glass until her knuckles turned white. Gavin’s eyes lit up. He saw dollar signs.
Lydia recovered first. She rushed to the bottom of the stairs, her arms outstretched. “Darling!” she cried. “You look unique. Come, say hello to Mr. Sterling.” She reached for Emilee’s hand. Emilee sidestepped. Lydia grabbed empty air. She stumbled, her smile faltering.
Emilee walked past her. She walked straight up to Sterling. The man smelled of sweat and expensive musk. He leered at her, reaching out a hand to touch her face. “Beautiful,” he wheezed. “Worth every penny.”
Emilee didn’t flinch. She stared at him. Her eyes were cold, dead. She tapped her phone screen. Suddenly, a high-pitched, ear-splitting screech erupted from every speaker in the room. SCREEEEEEEEECH. Guests covered their ears. Glasses rattled on the tables. Sterling recoiled, clutching his head. “What the hell?” The noise was deafening. It was a sonic weapon. And Emilee stood in the center of it, calm, silent, watching them all writhe.

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August 11, 2026
Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. by Zhao Da

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Anja woke up in an interstellar empire where females were precious assets-and promptly got dumped by her arrogant fiancé.

He waited for her to cry. She laughed in his face.

With a single thumbprint, she dissolved the marriage, kicked him out with security drones, and walked straight to the government assessment center. The test revealed something impossible: an S-Class psionic rating, the highest in a century.

Now five elite, beast-eared warriors are being dispatched to her estate. They’re dangerous. Possessive. And genetically engineered to worship her.

But Anja doesn’t just want protection. She wants power. Every corrupted warrior she purifies makes her stronger. Every Hive Core she absorbs pushes her abilities further. And every Consort she claims adds a new weapon to her arsenal.

Her ex wanted her to be nothing. Too bad for him-she’s about to become everything.

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Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. Chapter 1

Anja’s eyes snapped open.
A spike of pain, sharp and blinding, shot through her skull. It felt like her brain being split in two. She gasped, a ragged sound in the dead quiet of the room, her hand flying to her forehead as if she could physically hold the pieces of her mind together.
The bed was wrong.
It was too soft, the sheets like cool silk against her skin. A low hum vibrated through the mattress, a subtle, calming frequency. Her bedroom in her tiny off-campus apartment had a lumpy mattress and scratchy polyester sheets.
Memories, not her own, crashed into her consciousness. The Commonwealth. A sprawling interstellar empire. Genetic corruption. Psionic abilities. The ratio of females to males was one to one hundred thousand. Females were rare, precious assets, revered wherever they went. A society where matrimonial contracts were brokered by a central authority dedicated to finding males worthy of their scarce females.
And a name. Kenny Mcdaniel. Her fiancé.
Before she could fully process any of it, a voice rang out from the doorway. “Even if I die, even if I get exiled to a barren mining planet, I will never form a bond with you!”
The door to the bedroom slammed open, the sound cracking through the silence like a gunshot.
A man strode in. He was tall, with sandy blond hair and a suit that was trying too hard to look expensive. It was tailored just a little too tight across the shoulders, the fabric a synthetic blend that caught the light with a cheap sheen. He carried himself with an unearned arrogance, his chin tilted up as he looked down his nose at her.
Kenny Mcdaniel.
The name clicked into place with a fresh wave of nausea.
He sneered, a curl of his lip that was meant to be disdainful but only made him look petulant. “Finally awake, are we? Don’t bother putting on a show. I’m not here to play games.”
Anja just stared at him, her mind a whirlwind of two lives colliding. One was a college student from Earth, drowning in student loans and surviving on instant noodles. The other was Anja Compton, heiress to a minor noble house, betrothed to this… this peacock. And from the memories of the original Anja, she could see the woman had been utterly blind. She had cried over him, pleaded for his attention, and rearranged her entire life to please him. For what? For a male of thoroughly average looks—decent, but nothing special—whose only remarkable feature was his physique, which was standard issue for any male who had completed the mandatory academy training. He had been handed a priceless gem on a silver platter and somehow convinced himself he deserved better. What a joke.
“I’m here to make things perfectly clear,” Kenny continued, pacing in front of her bed like a lawyer in a courtroom drama. “This political arrangement our families cooked up? It’s over. I’ve found someone I actually love. Someone who understands me. I will not sacrifice my happiness for some dusty old family alliance.”
He punctuated his speech by slapping a thin, transparent data slate onto the polished wood of the nightstand. The clack was sharp and final. An electronic contract glowed on its surface: Agreement for Matrimonial Annulment.
“So you can take your pathetic, clingy affections and find someone else to bother,” he spat, his voice rising with theatrical fervor. “I’m telling you now, Anja. Even if I die, even if I get exiled to a barren mining planet, I will never form a bond with you!”
Anja slowly pushed herself up, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. The headache was receding, replaced by a strange, icy calm. The Anja from Earth thought he was a joke. A weak, insecure man puffing up his chest to feel powerful in front of a woman he perceived as weaker. It was pathetic. And frankly, hilarious.
She let a slow, deliberate gaze travel from his cheap shoes up to his self-satisfied face. Then she met his eyes.
“Are you done?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, devoid of the hysteria he was clearly expecting.
Kenny froze mid-stride. The triumphant look on his face faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. “What?”
“Your performance,” Anja clarified, leaning back against the plush headboard. She crossed her arms. “The big, dramatic speech. Was that the grand finale, or is there an encore?”
He stared at her, his mouth opening and closing silently. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to cry. To beg. To make a scene that would validate his decision and allow him to storm out as the wronged, romantic hero.
“You think this is a joke?” he stammered, his voice losing its confident edge. He puffed his chest out again, a desperate attempt to regain control. “I’m serious, Anja! I’m leaving you!”
“I heard you the first time,” she said, her tone bored. “You want to end the engagement. Great. Let’s do it.”
She didn’t even glance at the data slate he had thrown down. She simply looked towards the empty air near the door.
“Unit 01,” she commanded.
A soft, synthesized voice replied instantly from an unseen speaker. “Yes, Mistress Anja.”
“Access the Federal Marriage Center,” she ordered. “Project the annulment agreement and initiate the signing protocol.”
“At once.”
A holographic panel of brilliant blue light materialized in the air beside the bed, displaying the contract in crisp, clear text. At the bottom, a glowing box waited for a biometric signature.
Kenny’s face went slack with shock. “What are you doing? That’s not—you can’t just—”
Anja ignored him. She reached out, her fingers steady, and pressed her thumb against the glowing box. The system chimed, a clear, pleasant tone that echoed in the tense silence.
BIOMETRIC SIGNATURE VERIFIED. ANJA COMPTON HAS UNILATERALLY DISSOLVED THE MATRIMONIAL CONTRACT. STATUS: FINALIZED.
The words burned in the air for a moment before the holographic panel dissolved.
Almost immediately, a series of chimes sounded from the room’s speaker system. A new, distinctly official synthesized voice read out three consecutive messages:
“Message from the Federal Marriage Center: Esteemed Lady Anja, your matrimonial contract has been successfully dissolved. You are now returned to single status.”
“Message from the Federal Marriage Center: Esteemed Lady Anja, there are hundreds of millions of males in the Commonwealth. If one lacks vision, there will always be another. Please do not let a male with poor taste affect your mood.”
“Message from the Federal Marriage Center: Esteemed Lady Anja, should you desire, the Federal Marriage Center is ready at any moment to match you with new husbands. No upper limit.”
Kenny stared at the empty space where the contract had been, then back at her. His expression was a comical mix of disbelief and panic. He had come here for a fight, for drama, for a validation of his own importance. He had not, under any circumstances, expected this easy, dismissive acceptance.
“You… you just signed it?” he said, his voice a weak squeak. “Just like that? This is a trick. Some kind of game to make me feel guilty.”
Anja gave him a small, pitying smile. “There’s no game, Kenny. You wanted out. You’re out. Congratulations. The door is over there. Get out of my house.”
The shift was instantaneous. The moment she finished speaking, the AI’s synthesized voice spoke again, its tone now stripped of all warmth.
“Warning,” Unit 01 announced. “Kenny Mcdaniel, your security clearance for this property has been revoked. You are now classified as an unauthorized intruder. You have ten seconds to vacate the premises before defensive measures are deployed.”
A cold, red light began to sweep across the room, originating from a sensor near the ceiling.
Kenny paled. “Your… your security? You can’t-“
He was cut off by a heavy, mechanical whirring sound. Two panels in the ceiling slid open, and a pair of sleek, gunmetal-gray security drones descended. Their optical sensors glowed with the same menacing red light, and the barrels of their plasma weapons swiveled to lock directly onto his chest.
Fear, primal and undignified, washed over Kenny’s face. All his practiced arrogance vanished. He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“Okay! Okay! I’m going!” he yelped, stumbling backward.
The drones advanced on him silently, their movements perfectly synchronized, herding him towards the door. He tripped over the edge of an expensive rug, catching himself on the doorframe. He looked back at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and wounded pride, as if he wanted to say one last thing to salvage his dignity.
Anja didn’t give him the chance.
“Unit 01,” she said, her voice dripping with finality. “Close the door.”
The heavy, soundproofed metal door slid shut with a deafening thud, cutting off his last pathetic look.
Silence returned to the room.
Anja fell back against the pillows, the silk cool against her neck. A long, slow breath escaped her lips. She felt a profound sense of release, of lightness. The headache was gone. The confusion was gone. She thought about the Federal Marriage Center’s final message—match her with new husbands. And the words “no upper limit” echoed in her memory from the original Anja’s knowledge of the law. A villa this large, five stories and hundreds of square meters per floor… it would be a shame to live in it alone, wouldn’t it? She wasn’t admitting anything. She was just curious.
For the first time in this new world, she felt free.

Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. Chapter 2

A new light bloomed in the room, soft and golden. It wasn’t sunlight.
Anja turned her head. A holographic panel, the color of warm honey, floated in the air where the blue contract had been. It bore the official crest of The Commonwealth Eugenics & Pairing Directorate.
A gentle, synthesized female voice, far more sophisticated than Unit 01’s, filled the room.
“Congratulations, Citizen Anja Compton,” it purred. “Our records indicate you have successfully terminated your betrothal contract. Your status has been updated to ‘Unbonded.’ Welcome to a new chapter of your life.”
The panel shimmered, and text began to scroll, listing the benefits that were now active for her.
Federal Income Tax: Exempt.
Property Tax, Core Worlds Sector: Exempt.
Priority Purchase Rights, All A-Class Residential Zones: Activated.
Tier-One Medical and Nutritional Subsidies: Activated.
Personal Security Detail Allotment: Pending Review.
Anja felt a breath catch in her throat. This wasn’t just a breakup; it was like winning the lottery. She had been vaguely aware of the laws from the memories she’d inherited, but seeing them laid out like this was staggering.
“Unit 01,” she said, her voice a little hoarse. “Pull up the Commonwealth’s legal statutes on marriage and asset sharing.”
“Of course, Mistress,” the house AI replied.
The golden panel was replaced by a dense wall of legal text.
“Summarize,” Anja commanded, not in the mood to read hundreds of pages of legalese.
Unit 01’s voice began a concise audio summary. It explained that due to the scarcity of females, the law was designed for their absolute protection and prosperity. A bonded male’s assets, income, and even inheritances were automatically and irrevocably linked to his Matron’s primary account. He was, in financial terms, an extension of her.
And then came the part that made Anja’s jaw drop.
“There is no legal upper limit to the number of Consorts a female may bond with,” Unit 01 stated calmly. “The formation of a Consortium is considered a private matter, encouraged by the Directorate as a means of ensuring genetic diversity and providing comprehensive support for the Matron.”
No limit.
Polygamy. No, polyandry. And it was legal. Encouraged, even.
Anja thought back to Earth. The endless, bitter divorces. The fights over money. The prenuptial agreements that were more like business contracts than declarations of love. Here, the system was brutally simple: everything belonged to the woman.
A laugh escaped her lips. It started as a small chuckle, then grew into a full-throated, joyous peel of laughter that echoed in the luxurious bedroom. This wasn’t a dystopia. It was a custom-built paradise.
The system seemed to anticipate her thoughts. A new, shimmering button appeared on the golden panel: Initiate New Matching Cycle?
Her laughter subsided into a wide, mischievous grin. She was tired of being sad and pathetic for a man like Kenny. It was time to see what this new world really had to offer.
She tapped the button.
The panel transformed into something that looked like a high-end, exclusive dating app. Profiles began to slide across the screen, each one featuring a stunningly handsome man. There were soldiers with chiseled jaws and intense eyes, businessmen in sharp suits with predatory smiles, artists with soulful gazes and long, clever fingers. Their stats were listed beside their photos: psionic grade, genetic lineage, net worth, military honors. It was a catalog of the most elite men in the Commonwealth.
Anja scrolled, her interest piqued. She noticed a small tag on some of the profiles: Latent Bestial Morphology.
Curious, she tapped on one. The profile expanded. In addition to the man’s primary photo, there were smaller, secondary images showing him with a pair of sharp, tufted wolf ears and a thick, bushy tail. The description noted these features were highly sensitive and could manifest during moments of heightened emotion.
Fluffy ears. A tail.
Anja felt an unexpected jolt of interest, a deep, primal pull that all the polished, perfectly suited men had never once managed to inspire.
She quickly filled out the matching preference form that appeared at the bottom of the screen. Age range, psionic compatibility, asset level… and under ‘Physical Preferences,’ she decisively checked the box for Bestial Traits.
Her finger hovered over the ‘Submit’ button. For a fleeting second, a flicker of the old Anja’s insecurity surfaced. The girl who thought she wasn’t good enough, the girl who had been convinced by Kenny that she was plain and worthless.
Then the image of Kenny’s arrogant, sneering face flashed in her mind.
She pressed the button. Hard.
A confirmation message appeared: Application successfully uploaded to the Federal Central Database. Deep-level compatibility analysis is now underway.
“Mistress,” Unit 01’s voice cut in, its tone impeccably polite, “Since you are celebrating your newfound freedom, shall I prepare a celebratory breakfast?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Anja said, feeling lighter than she had in years. “Eggs Benedict. And real coffee. Black.”
“An excellent choice.”
She threw back the silk covers and stepped out of bed. Her bare feet sank into a thick wool carpet that was warm to the touch. The room was vast, with a walk-in closet the size of her old apartment and an adjoining bathroom that looked like a marble sanctuary.
She walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window that made up one entire wall of the room. It overlooked a sprawling garden, with manicured lawns, a sparkling blue pool, and a forest of strange, beautiful alien trees in the distance.
This was her life now. Safety. Luxury. Control.
A soft, insistent chime broke her reverie. She turned back to the golden panel still hovering by her bed. A red warning icon was flashing.
CRITICAL DATA MISSING. PSIONIC POTENTIAL ASSESSMENT: PENDING.
The system’s gentle voice returned, now with a note of official firmness. “Citizen Compton, our records indicate you have not completed the mandatory Psionic Potential Assessment. This is a prerequisite for matching with Alpha-Plus class Consorts. Your matching cycle has been temporarily suspended.”
Before she could even process that, the panel changed again, displaying a new document. It was an official, non-negotiable appointment.
EMERGENCY APPOINTMENT: PSIONIC POTENTIAL TESTING CENTER. CAPITAL PRIME. TODAY.
Anja stared at the screen. The original Anja had never gone. Kenny had told her it was a waste of time, that she was probably a worthless F-grade, and the embarrassment wouldn’t be worth it. He had systematically chipped away at her confidence until she believed him.
Now, that little omission was standing between her and a lineup of handsome men with fluffy tails.
Well, she thought with a grim smile. They were about to find out just how “worthless” she was.

Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. Chapter 3

Anja read the appointment details again. The words mandatory and compulsory were highlighted in a severe, official red. Failure to attend would result in an indefinite freeze on her matching rights and a suspension of some of her newly acquired federal benefits.
They weren’t asking. They were telling.
“Mistress,” Unit 01’s voice chimed in, a flicker of something that might have been urgency in its synthesized tone, “You may wish to view the GalacticNet. Your status change has been… noted.”
“Show me,” Anja said.
The large window overlooking the garden dimmed, turning into a massive screen. It displayed the landing page of the most popular news network in the Commonwealth. Her own face stared back at her from the headline banner.
ANJA COMPTON, HEIRESS OF HOUSE COMPTON, TERMINATES BETROTHAL. RETURNS TO UNBONDED STATUS.
Below the headline, a ‘Trending Topics’ sidebar was dominated by her name. AnjaIsFree. ComptonConsortium. NewHopeForAlphaPlus.
The screen began to populate with comments from a live public forum. Thousands of them, scrolling by in a dizzying cascade.
“Finally! I knew Mcdaniel wasn’t good enough for her!”
“An untested female from a noble line! This is the biggest news of the year!”
“The matching pool is about to get a lot more interesting…”
“Please, Mistress Compton, if you ever consider new consorts, review my profile. Class A psionic ability, five million credits, and I cook.”
Anja stared, dumbfounded. It was one thing to read about the value of females in the abstract. It was another to see this raw, desperate, public thirst for her attention. The old Anja had wasted years crying over one mediocre male who didn’t want her, while thousands across the Commonwealth were practically begging for her attention. What a joke.
She accessed the original Anja’s memories, searching for context. The Commonwealth was plagued by a low-level genetic corruption that affected all males. It was a slow-acting poison, a consequence of their psionic abilities, that caused irritability, aggression, and eventually, a descent into feral madness. The only cure, the only way to soothe the corruption, was the purifying psionic energy of a female. Males who lacked a female to purify them were forced to rely on suppressants—agonizing injections with devastating side effects.
The demand was infinite. The supply was critically low.
And an untested female, especially one from a good family, was the ultimate wild card. She could be a useless F-Grade, or she could be a world-changing A-Grade. The uncertainty, the sheer potential, was intoxicating. It was like a lottery where the jackpot was salvation.
“Unit 01,” she said, her voice hard. “What’s the fastest way to get to the testing center in Capital Prime?”
“The journey by private shuttle would take approximately forty-five minutes, Mistress. However, it appears alternative arrangements have been made.”
Before Anja could ask what that meant, a low, powerful thrumming sound vibrated through the floor. It grew rapidly into a deafening roar, the sound of massive engines displacing a huge volume of air. The delicate curtains on her window whipped inward as a powerful downdraft hit the side of the house.
Anja rushed to the window, peering up into the sky.
A ship was descending. It wasn’t a sleek, civilian shuttle. It was a beast of a machine, matte black and brutally angular, a military transport vessel designed for assault landings. The official, silver crest of the Eugenics Directorate was emblazoned on its side.
It settled onto the main lawn with a final, ground-shaking whump, its landing struts sinking inches into the perfectly manicured grass. A ramp hissed open at its rear. Twelve soldiers marched out in perfect synchronization. They were clad in black tactical armor, their faces hidden behind reflective visors, and they carried heavy-looking plasma rifles. They moved with terrifying efficiency, forming two perfect lines of six leading from the ramp towards the front door of the estate.
A voice, amplified and resonant, boomed from the ship’s external speakers. It was deep, respectful, and utterly commanding.
“Mistress Anja Compton. On behalf of the Commonwealth Eugenics Directorate, we are your designated escort to the Capital Prime Testing Center. Please prepare for immediate departure.”
Anja stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. This wasn’t a taxi. This was a military operation. For her. Was she being escorted to a testing center or to a war zone?
“Mistress, I have taken the liberty of selecting an appropriate outfit for the occasion,” Unit 01 said, its voice cutting through her shock. A panel on the wall of her closet slid open, revealing a simple but elegant outfit: dark, well-fitted trousers, a cream-colored silk blouse, and soft leather boots. It was understated, comfortable, but undeniably expensive. “I would advise you to change quickly.”
Numbly, Anja did as she was told. She dressed with fumbling fingers, her mind still reeling from the sight of the armored ship on her lawn. This was real. This was happening.
Guided by Unit 01’s soft light prompts, she walked through the silent, cavernous halls of the estate to the grand front entrance. She took a deep breath, her hand resting on the cool metal of the door handle. She thought about the comments she had just read—males begging for her attention, showing off their credits and their abilities. And then she thought about Kenny’s parting words: “Even if I die, even if I get exiled to a barren mining planet, I will never form a bond with you.” A small, bitter smile crossed her lips. He had spent years convincing her she was nothing. In a few minutes, the entire Commonwealth would know the truth.
Then she pulled it open.
The force of the soldiers’ collective gaze was a physical thing. They stood perfectly still, rifles held at a parade rest, but she could feel the intensity of their focus. It wasn’t threatening. It was… worshipful.
The man at the front of the line, clearly the captain, took a step forward. He was taller than the others, his armor bearing subtle markings of rank. He removed his helmet, revealing a stern, handsome face with a sharp jaw and piercing gray eyes. He held the helmet under his arm and then, to Anja’s utter astonishment, he dropped to one knee before her on the stone steps.
“Mistress Compton,” he said, his head bowed, “It is an honor. We have prepared a sterilized walkway for your convenience.”
As he spoke, a thin, metallic carpet unrolled from the base of the ship’s ramp, gliding silently across the lawn to stop at her feet. It was a simple, practical measure to keep her boots from getting damp from the morning dew. It was also the most ridiculously reverent gesture she had ever witnessed.
“Th-thank you, Captain,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
The captain’s head dipped lower. “The honor is all ours, Ma’am.”
Feeling as though she were in a dream, Anja stepped onto the walkway. She walked between the two lines of silent, armored sentinels, and she could feel that beneath their visors, their gazes devoutly tracked her every move. The air buzzed with their restrained energy.
She stepped up the ramp and into the ship’s interior. It wasn’t the spartan, utilitarian hold she expected. It was a VIP cabin, furnished with plush, cream-colored leather chairs, polished chrome accents, and soft, indirect lighting. It looked more like the inside of a private jet than a military transport.
The ramp hissed shut behind her, sealing her inside and cutting off the outside world. A small, silent service droid glided up to her, offering a chilled glass of champagne on a silver tray.
Anja sank into one of the chairs, the leather sighing under her weight. She took the glass, the crystal cool against her trembling fingers. Through the cabin’s reinforced viewport, she watched her new home, her new life, shrink below as the ship ascended with breathtaking speed.
A timer appeared on a small screen embedded in the armrest of her chair.
Estimated Time to Arrival: 12 minutes.
She stared at the descending numbers, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs. There was no going back now.

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August 2, 2026