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  • My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God novel by Escritor apalacio

    My

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    I spent the entire afternoon baking a chocolate lava cake to surprise my boyfriend of two years for his birthday.

    But when I quietly unlocked his apartment door, I found him tangled in the sheets with my inseparable best friend.

    They didn’t even scramble apart. Mason just glared at me with pure annoyance, treating me like an unwelcome intruder who had ruined their intimate moment.

    Kennedy shamelessly hid behind his back, wearing his shirt and whimpering that it “just happened.”

    I smashed the birthday cake directly into his cheating face, threw my apartment key at his feet, and ran out into the freezing night.

    Right then, my mom called, cheerfully urging me to hurry up with our wedding plans. Her words were like salt poured into my shattered heart. I had wasted two years of my life on two dogs.

    Crying behind the wheel, I nearly ran over a tall, arrogant stranger walking on the highway in the pouring rain. He was freezing and penniless, so I impulsively brought him back to my apartment for the night.

    The next morning, a frantic pounding echoed through my front door.

    “Harper! Open up! Mom’s here to see you!”

    My mom had made a surprise visit, and she thought I was still happily engaged to Mason.

    Desperate, I grabbed the handsome stranger’s arm.

    “Please, pretend you’re my boyfriend!”

    The penniless man looked at my panicked face and smirked.

    “Fine. But you owe me.”

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    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 1

    HARPER’S POV:
    My hand trembled violently as I pushed the half-open bedroom door wide.
    The scene that met my eyes didn’t just break my heart; it shattered my entire reality into jagged, bleeding pieces.
    They were bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Mason was hovering over her, his broad, muscular back flexing as he moved. His hands—the hands I knew so well, the hands that had held mine just days ago—were gripping Kennedy’s hips with a desperate, hungry possession. Kennedy’s head was thrown back against the pillows, her fingers tangled in his dark hair, her lips swollen and parted as she pulled him down for a deep, lingering kiss. The raw, undeniable heat between them was suffocating.
    My boyfriend. And my best friend. The two people I trusted most in this world, destroying me together.
    A strangled, pathetic gasp escaped my throat.
    Kennedy shrieked, a sharp, panicked sound, violently shoving Mason off her and fumbling to drag the duvet over her bare chest.
    Mason’s head snapped toward me. The heavy-lidded passion on his face instantly curdled into shock. “Harper? What are you doing here?”
    A roaring sound filled my ears, drowning out the world. I stared at the man I had loved for two years, the man I thought I would marry. Then I looked at Kennedy—the girl who was like a sister to me, knew all my secrets.
    A wave of pure, acidic nausea churned in my gut. I couldn’t breathe.
    The walls felt like they were closing in on me. I turned on my heel without a word and stumbled blindly down the hallway.
    I made it to the kitchen, my movements stiff and robotic. My tear-filled eyes landed on the pristine white bakery box sitting on the kitchen island.
    Six hours.
    Just an hour ago, I had been so incredibly happy. I had spent six grueling hours in my kitchen, tossing out a burnt first batch and meticulously tempering dark chocolate for the second, all to create the perfect chocolate lava cake for Mason’s twenty-sixth birthday.
    He had canceled our last three dates, blaming exhausting hockey practices and endless team meetings. Captain’s duties, he had texted, brushing off my disappointment. But I had foolishly told myself today would be different. I just knew he’d carved out this one night for us.
    I had slid my spare key into his apartment door, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm of anticipation. I had slipped inside, quiet as a mouse, whispering a soft “Surprise” to the empty, dim living room.
    But instead of Mason’s boyish smile, I was greeted by an unfamiliar perfume—a rich, intoxicating blend of vanilla and sandalwood. Kennedy’s signature fragrance.
    Then I saw her familiar denim jacket tossed carelessly over the sofa.
    I had tried to rationalize it, telling myself she just dropped off a gift early.
    But then came the soft, breathless moans. The low, gravelly murmurs. The discarded clothes on the floor.
    I had walked into this apartment overflowing with love, only to be suffocated by the stench of their betrayal.
    “Harper, wait!”
    Mason’s voice, laced with panic, snapped me back to the agonizing present.
    He came running out into the kitchen, a towel wrapped hastily around his waist, his chest still heaving. “Harper, listen to me. It’s not what you think.”
    “Not what I think?” A bitter, jagged laugh tore from my throat, scraping my vocal cords. “What is it, then? Were you two practicing your hockey checking techniques in bed?”
    Kennedy appeared in the hallway behind him, clutching one of Mason’s oversized button-down shirts around her trembling frame. Tears streamed down her face, a pathetic picture of fake innocence. “Harper, please… it was an accident! We didn’t mean for this to happen. It just… it was a mistake!”
    “An accident?” I repeated, the sheer audacity of the word leaving a metallic taste of blood in my mouth. My sorrow instantly hardened into blinding, white-hot rage. “You accidentally stripped naked and fell into my boyfriend’s bed?”
    I looked down at the cake box again. Six hours of love, patience, and blind trust. Wasted on a lie.
    Without a second of hesitation, I opened the box, lifted the heavy, perfectly baked pastry, and smashed it directly into Mason’s face.
    Rich, dark chocolate and warm lava filling exploded across his stunned features, splattering onto his bare chest and the hardwood floor. Kennedy let out a horrified gasp, jumping back.
    “Happy birthday, Mason,” I said, my voice as cold and dead as the future I had just lost.
    “We’re done.”
    I didn’t look back. I wrenched the front door open and ran into the night.

    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 2

    HARPER’S POV:
    The biting night air slapped my face, and only then did I realize hot tears were streaming down my cheeks.
    A yellow cab sped past. I waved my hand frantically, but it didn’t even slow down.
    “Harper!”
    Mason’s voice cut through the traffic noise. I turned to see him jogging toward me, wearing nothing but hastily zipped jeans, his bare chest exposed to the freezing wind.
    He reached me, his hand clamping down on my wrist with a tight, bruising grip. “Just let me explain!”
    “Don’t touch me!” I ripped my arm out of his grasp, my nails scraping hard against his skin. “You disgust me.”
    Kennedy hurried up behind him. She was wrapped tightly in that new denim jacket. She looked small, shivering, and utterly pathetic. “Harper, please don’t be like this. Mason, he…”
    “Shut your mouth,” I snarled, every ounce of my polite upbringing vanishing into the cold night. “You don’t get to say my name. Not anymore.”
    A few passersby slowed down, their eyes lingering on the spectacle we were making. I didn’t care. Let them look.
    Mason took a step closer, a flicker of genuine impatience crossing his handsome face. “Is it really necessary to make such a scene out here? We’re adults, Harper.”
    His words sliced into me, a fresh, agonizing wound. “Adults?” I let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “So adults get to screw their girlfriend’s best friend and feel completely justified about it?”
    Kennedy’s face crumpled, and she started to cry. “It was my fault,” she wailed, clutching the collar of the jacket. “I seduced him. Please, don’t blame him, Harper. Blame me.”
    I stared at her, the girl who had held my hair back when I was sick, the girl who knew my deepest fears. The betrayal crashed over me, heavy and suffocating. Her pathetic, self-sacrificing act was laughable. She wasn’t protecting him; she was marking her territory, showing me they were already a team.
    “Save the performance, Kennedy,” I spat, the irony tasting like ash in my mouth. “You two deserve each other.”
    I spun on my heel and walked briskly toward the subway station, desperate to escape the toxic air around them.
    Halfway down the block, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. The screen glowed in the dim streetlights with a single word: Mom.
    My throat instantly tightened. I sank onto a nearby bus stop bench, taking a deep, shuddering breath before answering. I had to keep my voice steady.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    “Honey, are you with Mason?” her cheerful, oblivious voice chirped through the speaker.
    I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
    “I was just calling to ask how the wedding plans are coming along!” she continued. “Your Aunt Susan’s daughter is getting engaged next month, you know. You and Mason need to get a move on!”
    Each word was like coarse salt poured directly into my open, bleeding heart. Just this morning, I had been looking at flights, planning to finally bring Mason home for Thanksgiving to officially meet my parents. I had spent weeks imagining the proud look on my mom’s face when I introduced the man I was going to marry.
    Now, that beautiful future was nothing but a grotesque joke.
    I glanced down the street. Mason and Kennedy were still standing there, watching me from a distance like I was some tragic street-side entertainment.
    A sudden, fierce spark of anger ignited in my chest, burning away the tears. I wouldn’t let them see me break. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching me run away like a defeated victim.
    “Mom, I have to go,” I interrupted, my voice suddenly hard. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    I hung up before she could reply.
    Instead of heading down into the subway, I turned around and marched right back to where they stood.
    Mason looked relieved for a split second, probably thinking I had come back to talk. But I didn’t look at his face. I dug my hand into my purse, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the spare key to his apartment—the one he had given me six months ago, calling it a “milestone.”
    I pulled it out and threw it hard at his feet. It bounced off his shoe and clattered onto the concrete.
    “That’s the last piece of you I’m carrying,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Stay out of my life.”
    Mason stared down at the key, his jaw clenching, his face hardening into an unreadable mask.
    Kennedy opened her mouth, fresh tears welling in her eyes, but I silenced her with a single, icy glare that made her snap her mouth shut.
    I didn’t wait for a response. I turned my back on them for the final time, walked down the stairs into the subway station, and didn’t look back.
    Inside the rattling train car, I leaned my head against the cool, vibrating glass, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. I felt utterly, devastatingly alone.
    With trembling hands, I took out my phone.
    One by one, I deleted every photo of me and Mason. The vacations, the birthdays, the lazy Sunday mornings.
    Then, I went to my albums and deleted every photo of me and Kennedy. Two years of friendship, erased in a matter of minutes.
    When the screen finally showed No Photos, a hollow emptiness settled deep in my chest.
    Two years of my life. Wasted on two dogs.

    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 3

    BECKETT’S POV:
    Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study, the violent storm outside matching the suffocating tension inside.
    I stared at my father, Beckett Montgomery III. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk like a king on his throne, dictating the lives of his subjects.
    “I’ll say it one last time,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, though my jaw was tight enough to crack my teeth. “I am not marrying Victoria Carlisle.”
    He slammed a thick, leather-bound file onto the desk. “This isn’t a request, Beckett. It’s an order! The Carlisle merger secures our controlling stake in the new arena. This is about the family’s future!”
    A surge of pure, unadulterated frustration boiled in my veins. I was so sick of being treated like a pawn in his corporate chess games. “The family’s future, or your business empire?” I shot back. “My marriage is not a bargaining chip for your board meetings.”
    “Everything you have, I gave you!” he roared, his face flushing purple as he pointed a trembling finger at me. “Your status, your contract, that damned ‘C’ on your jersey! Without my influence, you are nothing! You cross me on this, and I’ll make sure you never step foot on the ice again. You can kiss your hockey career goodbye!”
    That hit a nerve. The anger I’d been holding back finally snapped.
    “I earned that ‘C’ with my own blood, sweat, and broken bones!” I yelled, stepping closer to the desk. “You didn’t skate those grueling drills. You didn’t take those hits against the boards. Hockey is mine. You don’t own it, and you sure as hell don’t own me.”
    I met his furious gaze without flinching. “So go ahead. Take it all away.”
    For a second, genuine shock flickered in his cold eyes, quickly replaced by a deeper, vindictive rage. “You think I won’t?”
    He snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed a number. “It’s me. Freeze every credit card, bank account, and trust fund under the name Beckett Montgomery IV. Yes, all of them. Effective immediately.”
    He hung up and stared at me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “As of now, you are disowned. Let’s see how long you survive in the real world without the Montgomery name.”
    I expected to feel panic. Instead, a heavy weight lifted off my chest. I felt no fear. Only a fierce, burning relief. “Suits me just fine.”
    I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, the heavy oak doors shutting behind me with a final thud.
    In the grand foyer, our longtime butler, Thomas, tried to stop me. He held out a set of keys, his eyes full of worry. “Mr. Beckett, please. It’s pouring outside. At least take the car…”
    I reached out instinctively, but then I stopped. A bitter, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Oh, right. He bought the car, too.” I shook my head and tossed the keys back to Thomas. “Whatever. He can have it all back.”
    I shrugged off the suffocating, custom-tailored suit jacket I was wearing, letting it drop carelessly to the pristine marble floor. Dressed in just a thin white dress shirt and trousers, I pushed open the front doors and walked out into the raging storm.
    The freezing rain soaked me instantly, plastering my shirt to my skin, but as I walked down the long, winding driveway of the estate, leaving the golden cage behind, I felt freer than I had in years.
    I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just needed to put as much distance between me and that house as possible.
    I kept walking along the shoulder of the dark highway, the rain blurring my vision. Cars sped past, their tires splashing icy, muddy water onto my already freezing body.
    My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Gino, my teammate. I ignored it. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to walk.
    But after two miles, the adrenaline began to wear off. I was soaked to the bone, shivering violently, and my stomach growled with a hollow ache. A sharp sliver of regret pricked at my frozen skin. 
    Damn it. Maybe I should have kept the jacket. Or at least called an Uber before he cut off my phone plan. Pride was a warm concept, but it did absolutely nothing against a torrential downpour.
    Just as I was cursing my own impulsiveness, blinding headlights washed over me from behind.
    A piercing screech of tires on wet asphalt ripped through the night. The car fishtailed, sliding wildly before slamming to a halt mere inches from my legs. I could feel the aggressive heat radiating from its engine.
    Before I could even process how close I had just come to getting run over, the driver’s door flew open, and a woman stormed out into the pouring rain.
    “Are you insane?” she screamed, her voice cutting through the thunder. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
    I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the harsh glare of the headlights. Through the heavy downpour, I saw a small, furious figure marching toward me.

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  • Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle novel by Sutton Moul

    Married To My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle novel by Sutton Moul

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    I was supposed to marry my fiancé, Kenan, the golden boy of the Sinclair family, tomorrow.

    Instead, I woke up drugged in a hotel bed, wearing a man’s shirt, with my fiancé’s disabled, supposedly ruined uncle, Beckett Sinclair, sitting in a wheelchair across from me.

    Before I could even process the horror, my future mother-in-law busted the door open with a pack of reporters.

    She pointed her finger at me, screaming to the cameras that I was a slut who cheated on her son with his crippled uncle.

    My fiancé texted me immediately.

    “You make me sick. We’re done.”

    Even my abusive adoptive family joined the firing squad, demanding I go crawl back and apologize to the man who just threw me away like trash.

    I was completely set up.

    My mother-in-law orchestrated this whole nightmare just to ruin me and replace me with a wealthy, pregnant heiress.

    I was stripped of my dignity, my future, and my reputation in the blink of an eye.

    But just as I was about to be swallowed by the scandal, the disabled uncle everyone mocked did the unthinkable.

    He took the blame for everything in front of the furious family patriarch.

    Then, he looked at me with calm, calculating eyes and handed me a lifeline.

    “Marry me. It’s your only way out.”

    I looked at the greedy faces of my family and the smug smile of my ex-fiancé’s mother.

    I took his hand, tore up my past, and became the new Mrs. Sinclair.

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    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 1

    Elianna POV:
    The room was spinning before I even finished the champagne.
    It wasn’t a gentle sway. It was a violent, lurching tilt that made the crystal chandeliers of the estate blur into streaks of aggressive light. I gripped the edge of the high table, my knuckles turning white, trying to anchor myself to the floor.
    “You look pale, dear.”
    Kena Whitehead’s voice was smooth, like velvet wrapped around a jagged rock. My future mother-in-law stood too close, her hand resting on my shoulder with a weight that felt less like comfort and more like a restraint.
    “I… I can’t find Kenan,” I managed to say. My tongue felt thick, heavy in my mouth. “He said he’d be right back.”
    “Kenan is busy with the team sponsors, Elianna. You know how important this contract is.” Kena smiled, but her eyes remained cold, calculating. She signaled a passing waiter with a sharp flick of her wrist. “Take Ms. Hayes to the guest suite. She needs to lie down. The champagne was evidently too strong for her.”
    “No, I just need fresh air—” I tried to pull away, but my legs betrayed me. They felt like they were filled with lead.
    The waiter, a man with a face as blank as a slate, took my arm. His grip was firm. “This way, ma’am.”
    He didn’t lead me toward the main staircase where the other guests were mingling. He steered me away from the warmth, down a corridor that grew quieter and colder with every step. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps. The air changed, smelling less like expensive perfume and more like old cedar and rain.
    We were in the West Wing. The part of the estate Kenan always told me to avoid.
    “Wait,” I slurred, dragging my feet. “This isn’t…”
    The waiter didn’t answer. He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. He opened it, the hinges groaning in protest, and practically shoved me inside.
    I stumbled, my knees hitting the thick Persian rug with a thud.
    “Kenan?” I called out into the darkness.
    The click of the lock turning behind me was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
    Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp, cutting through the haze of the drug. I scrambled to my feet, swaying, and turned back to the door. I rattled the handle. Locked.
    “Help!” I screamed, but my voice was weak, absorbed by the heavy tapestries on the walls.
    A flash of lightning tore through the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room in a stark, blue-white burst.
    That’s when I saw him.
    He was sitting in the corner, a silhouette carved from the shadows. He wasn’t Kenan. This man was broader, darker. He was seated in a wheelchair, his hands resting motionless on the armrests.
    Beckett Sinclair.
    The fallen god of the ice. The legendary NHL captain. The man the family whispered about with a mixture of pity and disdain.Also Kenan’s uncle.
    He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just watched me with eyes that glinted in the dark.
    The drug surged again, a wave of heat that started in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat. It wasn’t just heat; it was a disorienting vertigo that made the world tilt on its axis. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I just needed safety. I needed Kenan. My confused brain superimposed Kenan’s face onto the man in the shadows.
    I stumbled toward him.
    “Kenan,” I whimpered, tears blurring my vision. “Please. It hurts.”
    I fell at his feet, my hands grasping his knees. The fabric of his trousers was cool against my burning palms. I could feel the rigid metal of his leg braces beneath the cloth, hard, cold, and unyielding against my touch.
    Beckett didn’t flinch. He didn’t kick me away, but he didn’t help me either. He sat there like a statue, a ruined king on a broken throne.
    “You’re in the wrong room, Elianna,” his voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the darkness. It wasn’t the voice of a weak man. It was the growl of something dangerous that had been chained up for too long.
    “Help me,” I begged, the heat becoming unbearable. I tugged at the neckline of my dress, desperate for air. “So dizzy… please…”
    I heard a sharp intake of breath from him.
    “Silas,” Beckett said into the empty air, his voice dropping an octave.
    A small earpiece I hadn’t noticed blinked with a faint blue light. “Lock down the wing. No one enters until I say so. Kena made her move.”
    I didn’t understand what he was saying. My head fell onto his lap. The scent of him—sandalwood, tobacco, and something uniquely masculine—filled my senses, drowning out the cedar smell of the room.
    I couldn’t make out the face of the man above me; I could only vaguely discern his features.
    His facial structure was sharply defined—handsome in a refined yet rugged, masculine way.
    A high, straight bridge of the nose…
    Large hands, with thick, prominent knuckles…
    “Relax a little…”
    “Baby, you’re so tense…”
    The man sighed in a low voice, his large hand firmly gripping mine and pressing it against the cold tiles.
    “…I can’t be gentle at all.”
    His sudden assertiveness made my body tremble; I nearly collapsed to the floor.
    I couldn’t handle it anymore; tears welled up in my eyes as I whimpered,
    “Wh… when will it end?”
    Beckett’s gaze darkened; his large hand, with its prominent veins, shifted to my waist and suddenly tightened its grip.
    “Mmph…” My mind went blank for a moment.
    The man kissed my earlobe, his low, husky voice resonating against my eardrum.
    “Be a good girl—five more times. You count them out, and then we’re done.”
    I let out a breath of relief and parted my lips, a voice full of grievance and frailty escaping them.
    “One… two… five… I’m done counting. Can… can we stop now?”
    “Heh.” Beckett chuckled softly, his deep, dark eyes fixed intently on me.
    “Sweetheart, that’s not the kind of counting I meant…”
    I froze, stunned; before I could process his words, a large hand clamped firmly onto my chin.
    His scent washed over me as he sealed my lips with his own, enveloping me completely in an intense, suffocating aura of raw masculinity.
    Steam billowed through the bathroom, thoroughly blurring my vision.
    Yet, my senses felt sharper than ever…
    Hours later, his hand hovered over my head for a second, hesitant. Then, with a sigh that sounded like resignation, his fingers brushed against my hair. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through my numb body.
    “Sleep,” he commanded softly.
    The last thing I remembered was the terrifying realization that the legs felt as cold and lifeless as stone, encased in their metal prison.

    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 2

    Elianna POV:
    The sound of a key grinding in the lock was violent enough to wake the dead.
    I gasped, shooting up from the pillows. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, like a slapshot ringing against the boards inside my skull. I was in a bed. A strange bed. The sheets were gray silk, cool and slippery against my skin.
    I looked down. My dress was rumpled, the strap hanging off one shoulder.
    “Stay down,” a voice commanded from the window.
    I snapped my head around. Beckett was there, his wheelchair facing the door. He had his back to me, his posture rigid. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket anymore.
    Before I could ask why, he whipped around, holding the tailored black jacket. He threw it at me with the precise accuracy of a former pro.
    “Cover yourself.”
    I barely had time to clutch the jacket to my chest before the door burst open.
    It wasn’t just Kena. It was a full-blown media circus.
    Flashes of light erupted like gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. The blinding white strobes from the sports paparazzi left spots in my vision. I screamed, pulling the jacket over my head, curling into a ball of shame.
    “Oh my God!” Kena’s voice was a theatrical shriek. “Elianna! How could you?”
    She stood in the doorway, hand over her mouth, flanked by three men with cameras and a handful of “concerned” VIP guests who looked more like vultures circling a carcass.
    “Get out!” Beckett roared.
    The sound was so powerful it physically shook the room. The photographers hesitated, lowering their lenses for a split second. Beckett wheeled himself forward, placing his body between the mob and the bed.
    “This is my private sanctuary,” he snarled, his face twisted in a mask of fury. “Get your cameras out of my face before I break them.”
    “Beckett,” Kena stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “We were just looking for Elianna. Kenan was worried sick. And we find her… here? In your bed?”
    “I… I don’t remember,” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “I felt sick. Someone brought me here.”
    “Likely story,” one of the tabloid reporters muttered, snapping another picture over Beckett’s broad shoulder.
    “She was drunk,” Kena declared, turning to the crowd. “Look at her. Disgraceful. Kenanis downstairs playing the heartbroken star captain, and she’s up here throwing herself at his crippled uncle.”
    The word ‘crippled’ hung in the air, heavy and cruel—a sharp, deliberate jab at the man who used to own the ice.
    Beckett’s hands gripped the wheels of his chair so hard I thought the metal might bend. He looked at Kena, then back at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. For a second, I saw something flicker there—calculation? Pity?
    He turned back to Kena. “She didn’t throw herself at me.”
    The room went silent.
    Beckett looked down at his lap, his shoulders slumping in a performance of resignation that was terrifyingly convincing. “We have been seeing each other, Kena. For months.”
    My jaw dropped. “What? No, that’s not—”
    “Quiet, Elianna,” Beckett snapped, though his eyes warned me to shut up. “She came to me because she couldn’t stand the sight of your son anymore. She chose me. We thought we could keep it secret until after the franchise merger, but… clearly, we were careless.”
    Kena blinked. This wasn’t part of her playbook. She wanted me to be the villain, the gold-digging puck bunny preying on a helpless invalid. But Beckett painting himself as the secret lover? It made Kenanlook like a fool who couldn’t keep his fiancée in check, and it made the scandal a consensual, albeit messy, affair.
    “You… you beast,” Kena spat, recovering quickly. “You’re disgusting. Stealing your nephew’s fiancée?”
    “I am what this family made me,” Beckett said quietly. “Now get out.”
    Team security finally arrived, pushing the reporters back into the hallway. The door slammed shut, leaving us in a ringing silence.
    I stared at Beckett’s back. He was breathing heavily.
    “Why?” I whispered. “Why did you say that?”
    He turned his chair slowly. The vulnerability was gone. His face was a mask of stone again.
    “Because if you were the seductress who drugged herself, Kenan would sue you for breach of contract and destroy your family,” he said coldly. “If we are lovers, it’s just a scandal. A mess they have to clean up to protect the franchise’s stock price. I just bought you a lifeline.”
    “A lifeline?” I laughed hysterically, tears streaming down my face. “My life is over. Kenanwill never believe me.”
    “Kenan is the one who let this happen,” Beckett said. “Get dressed. Harrison is waiting in the study. The execution begins now.”

    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 3

    Elianna POV:
    The walk to the study felt like a funeral procession.
    I pushed Beckett’s wheelchair, my hands trembling on the rubber grips. Silas, his looming shadow of a bodyguard, had been barred from entering the main house by Kena. It was just us.
    Inside the study, the air was thick with the smell of old leather and judgment. Harrison Sinclair III sat behind a desk the size of a small car, polishing a heavy, silver-headed cane with a white cloth.
    Kenan was there.
    My heart leaped. I let go of the wheelchair and took a step toward him. “Kenan! Please, you have to listen to me. I was drugged. I would never—”
    Kenan took a step back. He looked at me as if I were something he had scraped off his skate.
    “Don’t come near me,” he sneered. “You smell like him.”
    The words were a physical blow. I stopped, my breath catching in my throat. “Kenan…”
    “My mother told me everything,” Kenan said, his voice flat. “You’ve been sneaking around with him? Behind my back? You’re even cheaper than I thought.”
    He gestured to Beckett.
    I looked at Kenan—really looked at him—and for the first time, I didn’t see the charming hockey phenom I thought I loved. I saw a coward standing behind Kena’s designer skirt.
    “Enough,” Harrison barked. He stood up, testing the weight of the cane in his hand. “You have brought shame on this franchise, Beckett.”
    Beckett sat with his head bowed. “I know.”
    “You are a waste of space,” Harrison said, walking around the desk. “A broken man with broken morals.”
    He raised the cane.
    I gasped. “No!”
    Thwack.
    The sound of the heavy wood hitting Beckett’s shoulder was sickening—a dull, wet thud. Beckett grunted, his body jerking forward, but his hands stayed white-knuckled on the armrests. He didn’t try to block it.
    Harrison raised the cane for a second strike, his face purple with rage.
    “Harrison, stop!” Kena intervened sharply, stepping between them. “Not in front of her. Think of the PR nightmare and the liability.”
    Harrison lowered the cane slowly, breathing hard. He glared down at Beckett, satisfied with the single, brutal blow that had left him trembling.
    “You are garbage,” Harrison spat.
    Beckett slowly lifted his head. His lip was bleeding where he had bitten it. His eyes were burning with a terrifying intensity.
    “I want to marry her,” Beckett said.
    The silence in the room was absolute. Even Harrison looked stunned.
    “What?” Kenan laughed incredulously. “You want my leftovers?”
    Beckett ignored him. He looked straight at Harrison. “The sports press has the photos. If you cast her out, the headline is Sinclair Golden Boy’s Fiancée Cheats with Disabled Uncle. It makes Kenan look weak going into the playoffs. It makes the front office look chaotic.”
    Beckett paused, wiping blood from his mouth.
    “But if I marry her… the narrative becomes a tragic romance. The star-crossed lovers who couldn’t help themselves. It creates a scandal, yes, but a romantic one. It protects the franchise’s public image and the team’s valuation.”
    Harrison narrowed his eyes. He was a team owner first, a patriarch second. He did the math in his head.
    “He’s right,” Harrison grunted. He looked at Kenan. “This solves the problem of Elianna.”
    “Fine,” Harrison waved his hand dismissively. “Take the trash. Marry her. But you’re cut off from the main accounts. And I am activating the exile clause. You get nothing but your medical stipend. And you don’t step foot in this arena or house again.”
    “Deal,” Beckett said.
    He turned his wheelchair toward me. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead from the pain, but his hand was steady as he reached out.
    “Elianna,” he said softly. “Get me out of here.”
    I looked at Kenan, who was already checking his phone, completely bored. Then I looked at the man nursing a bruised shoulder in the chair, the former hockey legend who had just taken a beating to save me from total ruin.
    I took Beckett’s hand. It was warm.
    “Okay,” I whispered.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late novel by Edik Brandwein

    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.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke novel by Kora

    When Love Becomes A Monstrous Joke 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.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • The Hideous Wife Is A Billion-Dollar Princess by Star Dust

    The Hideous Wife Is A Billion-Dollar Princess by Star Dust

    👉 READ NOW

    Leyla sacrificed her face to save Kristopher, only to endure three years of humiliation in a loveless marriage.

    Her last hope died when she learned the “vitamins” he gave her were contraceptives-and watched him lavish money on his returning first love.

    She demanded a divorce and walked away with nothing. Then her true identity stunned everyone: she was the cherished daughter of a royal-level dynasty, backed by three powerful brothers.

    On the very first day of her divorce, a limo picked her up. her second brother had worked his magic-her scarred face was restored to its former radiance. And at the first banquet she attended, she made such a stunning entrance that jaws dropped across the room.

    As for her ex-husband-the one who’d never given her a second glance-he was completely blindsided. For the first time in his life, Kristopher felt the sharp bite of regret. Now, he was desperate to win her back.

    👉 READ NOW

    The Hideous Wife Is A Billion-Dollar Princess Chapter 1 Betrayal

    At the hospital, Leyla Thorpe tightly clutched her test results as she handed them to the doctor. “Am I pregnant?” she asked, her voice tinged with hope.

    The doctor scanned the report, his brows knitting together. “Of course you’re not. You’ve been taking birth control regularly. There is no way you could get pregnant.”

    A wave of cold swept through Leyla.

    Birth control?

    Every month after they slept together, her husband, Kristopher Gordon, would give her what he claimed was a multivitamin pill.

    He would always say, “You’re too fragile. You need to take better care of your health.”

    For three years, she had been touched by his thoughtfulness.

    Only now did she realize the truth—he had been giving her contraceptive pills.

    An invisible hand seemed to squeeze the air from Leyla’s lungs, making it hard for her to breathe. Trembling, she pulled out her phone and called Kristopher.

    The call went unanswered.

    Just then, a breaking news notification popped up on her screen.

    The bold headline read, “The Gordon Group CEO Kristopher Gordon Spends 100 Million on ‘Angel’s Heart,’ Winning It at an Auction for His Girlfriend!”

    Leyla stared blankly at the words, her pupils contracting.

    Beneath the headline was a photo taken at the auction.

    Dressed in a tailored black suit, Kristopher sat in the front row. His sharp features and composed expression gave him an air of effortless elegance.

    He was looking at the woman seated beside him, his attention fixed entirely on her.

    She wore a pale yellow evening gown, her long hair flowing over her shoulders, while a faint smile softened her delicate profile.

    It was Phoebe Brooks—Kristopher’s friend since childhood.

    She had gone overseas to study three years ago and, according to rumors, had only recently returned.

    Leyla blinked against the burning sensation in her eyes, yet there were no tears in them.

    A hollow laugh escaped her lips.

    She found the situation ridiculous.

    Phoebe was the woman Kristopher truly cherished, while she was nothing more than the wife he had hidden away from the world.

    Three years ago, when Kristopher had been in danger, she hadn’t hesitated to shield him.

    She had taken a knife meant for him, getting her face ruined in the process.

    Even as the blade sliced through her skin, she never cried out in pain.

    Afterward, he had promised to marry her and take care of her for the rest of her life.

    True to his word, they had become husband and wife.

    Yet throughout their marriage, he remained consumed by the heartbreak of Phoebe leaving the country.

    For three long years, she devoted herself to being the perfect wife, believing that one day, he would finally notice her devotion, understand her suffering, and perhaps even come to love her.

    She had foolishly believed that having a child might finally bring them closer.

    Instead, he had quietly made sure she would never have that opportunity.

    Now, watching him openly shower another woman with affection, she finally accepted the truth. His heart had always belonged to someone else.

    There had never been a place for her in it.

    The realization tore through Layla bit by bit, each moment more agonizing than the last.

    She made up her mind. She was going to divorce him.

    ***

    Leyla returned to Prime Estate, her home with Kristopher.

    The moment she walked through the front door, the housekeeper, Helen Miller, approached her with a frosty expression. “Mrs. Gordon, you’re becoming quite impossible. You’ve stayed out for so long.”

    Though she was only the housekeeper, she had taken care of Kristopher since he was young and had always considered herself above the rest of the household staff.

    Leyla knew exactly why Helen dared to speak to her so disrespectfully; Kristopher allowed it.

    In the past, desperate to win Kristopher’s affection, she had gone out of her way to please everyone around him.

    But not anymore.

    Leyla’s palm struck Helen’s face with a sharp slap, her voice as cold as ice. “You’re nothing more than a servant. What gives you the right to speak to me that way?”

    Helen covered her burning cheek, staring at Leyla in stunned disbelief. “H-how dare you hit me? I practically raised Mr. Gordon, you know! You should show me some respect!”

    “I am his wife,” Leyla shot back, every word crisp and unwavering. “Whatever your history with him may be, you’re still a paid employee of this household.”

    Helen shook with fury but didn’t dare utter another word.

    Without sparing her another glance, Leyla turned and headed upstairs.

    Behind her, Helen muttered venomously, “What’s there to be so proud of? Now that Miss Brooks is back, it won’t be long before she becomes Mr. Gordon’s wife.”

    Leyla paused for the briefest moment when she heard that.

    Even the housekeeper knew who truly held Kristopher’s heart.

    It seemed everyone knew except her.

    For the past three years, she had been the only fool deceiving herself.

    But none of that mattered anymore.

    She was the one choosing to leave Kristopher now.

    Back in her bedroom, Leyla opened the wardrobe and pulled out a small suitcase she had prepared long ago.

    After three years of marriage, everything she owned fit inside this single suitcase.

    Her gaze swept across the room.

    She had personally decorated every inch of it, yet not a single thing truly belonged to her.

    Pressing her lips into a thin line, she scrolled to a phone number she hadn’t called in years. She tapped the call button and lifted the phone to her ear.

    “I want to go home now.”

    The Hideous Wife Is A Billion-Dollar Princess Chapter 2 Let’s Get A Divorce

    A faint sound from the entryway shattered the stillness of the night.

    Leyla had just stepped out of the bathroom, droplets of water clinging to her damp hair. Looking toward the door, she said softly, “You’re back.”

    Kristopher stood in the doorway with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever.

    Instinctively, Leyla gripped the sleeve of her nightgown. “I need to talk to you about something—”

    Before she could finish, Kristopher strode over and seized her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

    The scar that ran from her left eyebrow to her cheek caught the light, its jagged edges standing in stark contrast to the delicate beauty she had once possessed.

    “You want to talk?” Kristopher’s voice was quiet, but every word carried a chilling edge. “Leyla, since when did you learn to play these little games with me?”

    “I wasn’t…” Leyla tried to explain.

    She never got the chance to finish. Kristopher caught her wrist and pulled her toward him. She lost her balance and slammed into his chest.

    With his free hand, Kristopher grabbed the collar of her nightgown and tore it open. Buttons flew in every direction, bouncing across the polished floor.

    Startled, Leyla shoved against him with all her strength. “What are you doing? Stop!”

    “Enough with the performance.” Kristopher’s lips curled in disdain as he looked at her as if she were beneath him.

    “Why else would you insist on me coming home tonight? Isn’t this exactly what you’ve been after? One night with me every month—that’s what you’ve asked for, isn’t it?”

    Leyla froze.

    So, that was what the matter meant to him. Just another monthly obligation.

    Three years of swallowing her pride and sacrificing everything, yet she had never earned even the smallest trace of his affection.

    If this was all their marriage amounted to, there was no reason to keep holding on.

    “Kristopher,” Leyla said quietly, her eyes meeting his, “let’s get a divorce.”

    Kristopher’s movements stilled for a second. A faint crease formed between his brows. “What did you just say?”

    Without wavering, Leyla repeated, “Let’s get a divorce.”

    Kristopher tugged impatiently at his tie, annoyance flashing across his face. “A divorce?” His voice was emotionless, almost mocking. “Leyla, what ridiculous stunt are you pulling this time?”

    “I’m being serious.” Leyla’s tone remained calm and unwavering. “The woman you truly love is back. I’m giving you your freedom. You can be together with her.”

    Kristopher’s expression darkened instantly, his eyes turning dangerously cold. “Stop pretending. You don’t even have the courage to walk out of this house. If we divorce, where exactly can you go?”

    His words struck with brutal precision.

    To everyone else, she was nothing more than the scarred woman he kept hidden from the public—someone locked inside a gilded cage.

    She had no career, no social life, no financial independence.

    She didn’t deserve to be with him at all.

    Leyla lowered her gaze before answering evenly, “That’s my concern, not yours.”

    Kristopher narrowed his eyes.

    For three years, she had always been gentle and obedient.

    This composed, distant version of her was completely unfamiliar to him.

    “Leyla,” Kristopher warned, his tone growing colder, “this little game of playing hard to get has gone on long enough.”

    Leyla didn’t reply.

    Just then, the sharp ring of a phone cut through the suffocating silence.

    Kristopher glanced at his phone screen. The frost in his eyes melted away in an instant. He answered the call immediately. “Phoebe? What happened?”

    The concern in his voice was unmistakable. As he listened, his expression softened even further. “Don’t be scared,” he said gently. “I’ll be there right away.”

    The call then ended. Without sparing Leyla so much as another glance, Kristopher turned and walked out of the room.

    He was convinced Leyla would never leave him.

    After all, for the past three years, she never had.

    The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, leaving Leyla alone in the space.

    She sat motionless on the edge of the bed, staring into the emptiness for what felt like an eternity.

    Then, her phone suddenly vibrated.

    A message from an unknown number lit up her screen.

    “He came to see me again.”

    Attached was a candid photo of Kristopher.

    A gentle smile curved his lips, and his eyes brimmed with warmth—a tenderness Leyla had never once seen directed at her.

    Before Leyla could process it, another message popped up.

    “I told him there might be reporters outside, and he rushed over without a second thought. He was so worried about me. Oh, and he bought me ‘Angel’s Heart’ at today’s auction. I even suggested he pick out something for you, but he said there was no need. I suppose he is right. Only beautiful women should wear jewelry. With a face like yours, it would only go to waste. Leyla, he only married you because he had no choice. I’ve always been the one he truly loves.”

    Leyla stared at the message, and a cold laugh escaped her lips.

    Every sentence was another knife twisting in her wounds. It finally dawned on her that the man who had treated her with indifference for three long years could be so gentle and attentive to another woman.

    Without the slightest hesitation, Leyla typed a reply.

    “You want Kristopher? A used man like him suits you perfectly. The two of you deserve each other—two shameless people cut from the same cloth. Do everyone a favor and stay together forever, so neither of you gets the chance to ruin anyone else’s life.”

    She sent it, then immediately blocked the number.

    “Kristopher…” she murmured with a bitter smile. “From now on, we are even.”

    The next day.

    Leyla placed the signed divorce agreement on the bedside table.

    She wasn’t taking anything from Kristopher. All she wanted was a clean end to their marriage.

    With nothing but a small suitcase in hand, she walked out of Prime Estate.

    Three years had passed, yet she had never managed to earn Kristopher’s love.

    It was time to stop trying.

    The moment she stepped through the estate’s front gate, a limited-edition extended Rolls-Royce glided to a stop before her.

    The rear door swung open, and a tall figure stepped out.

    The instant Leyla saw her eldest brother, Damien Holden, tears rushed uncontrollably into her eyes. “Damien…” Her voice trembled. “I’ve signed the divorce papers.”

    For three years, she had buried every grievance, every humiliation, forcing herself to endure a loveless marriage. But the moment she saw her brother, all her emotions came crashing down.

    “Leyla, congratulations on getting your freedom.” Damien wrapped her in a warm embrace, his voice filled with concern. “It’s time to be yourself again.”

    He gently stroked her hair before smiling. “Welcome home.”

    In truth, Leyla was the youngest daughter of the prestigious Holden family, one of Wrafham’s most wealthy and influential households. Since childhood, she had carried her mother’s surname.

    Now that she had left the divorce papers for Kristopher, she was finally returning home.

    Before leaving, she had already hacked into the Gordon family’s surveillance system and erased every trace of her existence from their records.

    From this day forward, the so-called “Mrs. Gordon” no longer existed. Only Leyla Thorpe, the cherished daughter of the Holden couple, remained.

    The Hideous Wife Is A Billion-Dollar Princess Chapter 3 Returning Home At Last

    Kristopher stayed away the entire night.

    By the time he finally returned to Prime Estate, it was already noon the following day.

    The moment he entered the bedroom, his gaze settled on the divorce agreement left atop the nightstand.

    One clause stated, “The wife voluntarily relinquishes all claims to the couple’s joint assets and will leave the marriage without receiving anything.”

    Kristopher’s fingers curled around the pages until his knuckles whitened.

    Pulling out his phone, he called Leyla.

    Her phone had been switched off.

    He tried once more.

    The result was the same.

    “Helen!” Kristopher barked, his voice sharp with fury.

    Helen came hurrying over from the kitchen. “Mr. Gordon, you’re home.”

    “Where’s Leyla?” Kristopher asked.

    Helen faltered beneath his stare. “She… she left first thing this morning with a suitcase. A luxury car worth tens of millions picked her up… The man inside the car was incredibly handsome. He looked very rich, too.”

    A layer of frost seemed to settle over Kristopher’s expression when he heard that.

    He strode back into the bedroom and called his assistant, Derek Carter. “Track Leyla down. I want to know her whereabouts before the end of the day.”

    After ending the call, he stopped before the window as a pulse hammered at his temple.

    So, Leyla had truly dared to leave him.

    He had assumed her demand the previous night was nothing more than a fit of temper.

    For the past three years, she had relied on him for every part of her life.

    How long could she possibly survive in the city without him?

    It would only be a matter of days before she came back in defeat.

    Drawing in a sharp breath, Kristopher crushed the divorce agreement in his fist and tossed the wad of paper into the trash can.

    There was no chance he would sign it.

    It wasn’t that he was unwilling to lose her; it was just that no one had ever dared walk out on him like that.

    Leyla had demanded a divorce the previous night, then left in a luxury car that morning. Clearly, she had planned everything in advance.

    She had never loved him. Otherwise, how could she have left so resolutely with another man?

    Kristopher let out a humorless chuckle. His jaw clenched as he muttered, “Leyla, you’ve really got some nerve!”

    ***

    A Rolls-Royce eased onto the grounds of Holden Manor.

    Looking out the car window, Leyla took in scenery that felt both familiar and strange. For reasons she couldn’t explain, her pulse began to race.

    After three long years, she had finally returned.

    Her parents, Gregg Holden and Jayde Thorpe, were already waiting for her at the entrance.

    The car door swung open.

    “Leyla!” Jayde ran forward and gathered her daughter into her arms. Tears spilled down her face as she said, “You’re finally home. We’ve waited so long for you to come back.”

    Leyla rubbed her mother’s back in gentle strokes. “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry I put you through so much worry.”

    Even Gregg, a formidable titan of industry, felt his vision blur. His voice came out rough with emotion. “Having you home safe is all that matters.”

    Jayde finally loosened her embrace and brushed the tears from her cheeks, only to go rigid when her gaze landed on the scar marring Leyla’s face.

    “Leyla, your face…” A flash of concern crossed her features.

    She had spent all those years believing her daughter was happy.

    Leyla had rarely gone outside, and every phone call with her parents carried the same assurances. She spoke only of the good and concealed every hardship.

    Yet this was what had truly become of her?

    Leyla had gotten her face ruined to save Kristopher, hidden her privileged identity, and taken care of him for three years. But in return, he had held another woman at an auction and spent recklessly just to please her, completely ignoring Leyla’s feelings.

    Damien moved closer. “Mom, don’t worry. Collin is one of the best reconstructive surgeons in the world. He’ll be able to erase Leyla’s scar.”

    A spark of hope brightened Leyla’s gaze as she nodded. “Yeah.”

    Collin Holden, her second brother, was an exceptional surgeon.

    Her third brother, Felix Holden, had built a celebrated career as a jewelry designer.

    “Mom, Dad, I’m all right. It’s all in the past.” Leyla’s voice softened as she tried to reassure them. “From now on, I’ll stay right here with you, always.”

    Only now did she realize that being with Kristopher had been a huge mistake. Loving him had brought her a disaster.

    Gregg sighed heavily. Thinking of his daughter’s past choices left him torn between anger and heartache.

    “Take a few days to rest,” he told Leyla. “The Pearl Charity Gala is coming up next week. You’ll attend with Damien.”

    Gregg knew his family had made one critical mistake in the past.

    They had kept such a low profile that ignorant fools believed they could mistreat his daughter without facing any consequences.

    Gregg’s words stirred complicated feelings within Leyla.

    The Pearl Charity Gala ranked among the most exclusive gatherings in Wrafham.

    Despite being Kristopher’s wife for three years, she had never attended the event. She had not been considered worthy of an invitation.

    Gregg continued, “Since you’ve chosen to reclaim your true identity, it’s time to let everyone know that you are my daughter.”

    Leyla was silent for a moment before giving a firm nod.

    Three years ago, she had defied her parents and concealed her identity to marry Kristopher. Her decision had enraged them so deeply that they had nearly cut ties with her.

    Now, she owed it to them to make amends.

    “Okay,” she replied.

    “Now that’s my daughter,” Gregg said with approval.

    He then extended a sleek black card edged in gold toward her. “The card has no spending limit. The Holden family has more than enough money, so you can buy anything that catches your eye.”

    Leyla studied the black card, and a faint smile touched her lips.

    Only minutes earlier, she had been completely penniless. Did this mean she had suddenly become wealthy?

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King by Krystal

    The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King by Krystal
    👉 READ NOW

    Contract Marriage+Kickass Heroine+Hidden Identity+Regret
    For two long years, Aria Smith devoted everything to Ethan Holt, convinced she was his beloved Luna and his fated mate.
    Until a trip to replace her lost marriage certificate shattered every lie.
    Ethan had never loved her. Her closest best friend Clara was his real destined mate. The adopted son Aria had raised with all her love for two years was actually their biological child.
    Before she could process the brutal truth, a sudden call overturned her whole life. She was not a lonely, powerless human orphan as she had always believed. She was the sole legitimate heir to Vincent Smith’s staggering cross-realm fortune, inheriting his massive business empire that dominated both human and werewolf worlds.
    Her heart completely broken, Aria made her choice without hesitation.
    “I am single. Legally, I have never been anyone’s wife.”
    She cut off all ties with the Silver Creek Pack and stepped into her rightful identity as a billionaire heiress overnight.
    Ethan and Clara mocked her relentlessly. They believed the helpless human orphan could never survive outside the pack, and she would soon come crawling back begging for forgiveness.
    They never foresaw the day they met again.
    When Aria returned, she was no longer the humble, gentle human Luna who lived for Ethan. She stood powerful, wealthy, and untouchable, holding unmatched commercial power that shook the entire werewolf realm.
    And right by her side stood a dominant, peerless Alpha King-someone far more powerful than Ethan could ever dare to rival, ready to burn the whole world down for her revenge.

    👉 READ NOW

    The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King Chapter 1 How could our certificate possibly be fake !

    Aria’s POV
    “Ma’am, I’ve checked the system three times. There’s no marriage record under your name. Are you certain about the date?”

    I stood frozen outside the County Clerk’s office, the clerk’s words still ringing in my ears.

    Two years. Two years of believing I was Ethan Holt’s wife, his Luna.

    As the only human Luna, we had also applied for a marriage certificate in my human community, and it now sat in the nightstand drawer in my bedroom. Real enough that I never questioned our relationship, even though we never had a mating ceremony with his pack.

    Until three days ago, when Marcus tore it to shreds during one of his tantrums. That was what brought me here today-to get a replacement copy.

    But now, standing here with trembling hands…

    How could our certificate possibly be fake?!

    My phone buzzed. An unknown number. Normally I would have ignored it, but something made me answer.

    “Ms. Smith? Aria Smith?”

    “Speaking.” My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

    “My name is Richard Castellano. I’m the attorney handling the estate of Vincent Smith. I apologize for the abrupt contact, but it’s imperative that we meet as soon as possible. You are the sole heir to your father’s estate.”

    I blinked. “I’m sorry, what? I don’t have a father. My parents abandoned me when I was born.”

    “Ms. Smith, Vincent Smith passed away two weeks ago. The DNA test and his will are both conclusive. You are his only legitimate biological child.”

    Vincent Smith. That name was nothing short of legendary in both human society and the werewolf world. Orphaned as a child, taken in by a wolf pack, he’d displayed extraordinary business genius from an early age. As an adult, with the backing of his adoptive Alpha brother, he forged a massive commercial empire connecting the human and supernatural realms.

    And now someone was telling me that I, as his sole daughter, stood to inherit the bulk of his fortune?

    “The estate is substantial,” Castellano continued, “including commercial holdings across multiple Pack territories. We need to begin the inheritance process immediately.”

    “I need to confirm something first,” I heard myself say. “I’ll call you back.”

    The most important thing now was to verify my marriage status with my husband. If this was real, Ethan and I wouldn’t have to worry about the pack’s questioning looks anymore. I could complete the final mating ceremony with him smoothly, become the pack’s Luna, and lead them to even greater prosperity.

    The drive to Silver Creek Pack’s main building took twenty minutes.

    The hallway on the third floor was unusually quiet. As I approached Ethan’s office, voices drifted through the half-open door.

    A woman’s voice.

    “Ethan-yes-right there-“

    His voice, ragged and raw: “You feel so good, Clara.”

    Clara. My best friend.

    Then something even worse than betrayal hit like a freight train.

    “When are you going to get rid of her, Ethan? Our son is already three years old. I’m tired of pretending.” Clara’s voice was sharp with impatience.

    Marcus. The little boy Ethan claimed we’d adopted because my human body supposedly couldn’t handle pregnancy, and the pack needed a pup to serve as the Alpha’s heir.

    I couldn’t breathe. The pup I had lovingly raised was Ethan and Clara’s biological child.

    Inside the office, Ethan sighed. “Just a little longer.” His voice was cold. “We still need her. The Pack’s finances are stable because of her work. Once we’ve locked everything down, I’ll cut her loose.”

    “What am I supposed to do until then? Keep playing victim while she parades around as Luna?”

    “You know she’s nothing to me. Just a tool. Once we’ve squeezed every last drop of value out of her…”

    I didn’t wait to hear more.

    I shoved the door open.

    Clara was perched on Ethan’s desk, her blouse undone, skirt pushed up to her waist. Ethan was buried inside her, his hips driving into her as she gasped against his mouth.

    It made me want to throw up.

    “Sorry to interrupt.” My voice sliced through the air like a blade.

    They froze. Clara scrambled to cover herself, nearly falling off the desk. Ethan jerked upright, his mouth wet, his eyes wide with shock.

    I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a cold smile on my lips. “Don’t stop on my account. I’d hate to ruin the mood.”

    “Aria. You shouldn’t be here,” Ethan said with mild annoyance.

    “Shouldn’t I?” My voice shook with rage. “You told me I was your True Mate. You pursued me for months. You convinced me the Moon Goddess chose us. But now you’re sleeping with my best friend?”

    “There’s nothing to explain. Clara is my destined mate.” Ethan said it flatly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The deal with V&A International Group needs final signatures. We need you for one last meeting as Luna. After that, we’ll give you reasonable compensation for your… services.”

    “Compensated?” The word tasted like poison. “You lied to me for two years. You used me to build your Pack’s business portfolio. And now you want to pay me off like a servant who’s served her purpose?”

    Clara walked toward me, adjusting her clothes with deliberate slowness. “You should be grateful, honestly. A human orphan with no family, no packs? Where else would you have ended up? If you’re smart, you’ll take whatever he offers and leave quietly. Otherwise-“

    I moved.

    I was across the room before Clara could finish, my hand fisting in her golden hair. Clara yelped, stumbling backward into the desk.

    “Aria!” Ethan grabbed my arm, twisting hard enough to make me gasp. Then he shoved me backward. Hard.

    I hit the floor, the impact jarring through my spine. Pain exploded in my tailbone. I looked up at him, stunned.

    Ethan stared down at me, his light blue eyes ice cold. “Touch her again and I’ll break your wrist.”

    The words hit harder than the fall.

    Something inside my chest cracked. Not my ribs. Something deeper.

    I pushed myself to my feet, my hands shaking. Everything hurt. Not just my body.

    “You’re going to regret this,” I said quietly. “Both of you.”

    I turned and walked out before either could respond.

    Back in my car, I dialed the lawyer’s number. “Mr. Castellano. About Vincent Smith’s estate. I’m ready to talk.”

    “Good. I need to confirm-inheritance requires the heir to sign as an independent individual. If married, the spouse must witness the process. Otherwise-“

    “I’m single,” I cut him off. “Legally, I always have been.”

    Silence for two seconds.

    “Understood,” Castellano said, his tone shifting, becoming more formal. “That simplifies things considerably. Are you available to meet soon?”

    “The sooner the better. I have plenty of time these days.”

    “My office then. This afternoon?”

    “I’ll see you at three.”

    I sat in the parking lot for another five minutes, staring at nothing.

    Two years of lies, manipulation, and humiliation. Two years of believing I was fighting for something real.

    But it was over now.

    Ethan was about to discover exactly what the fury of an heiress looked like.

    The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King Chapter 2 How pathetic

    Aria’s POV
    After signing the inheritance papers at Mr. Castellano’s office, I drove home in a daze.

    The house blazed with warm light. Through the front window I saw them-Ethan, Clara, and Marcus around the dining table like a perfect family portrait. Ethan laughed at something Clara said, his hand resting on the back of her chair. Marcus sat between them, grinning up at his father. Clara ruffled the boy’s golden hair; Ethan caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

    Domestic bliss.

    Everything I’d been too blind to see for two years snapped into clarity. The late nights he called “Pack business.” The way Marcus flinched whenever I tried to hold him. Clara’s constant presence, always with some excuse. They’d all known. Everyone except me.

    I forced myself to breathe. Not yet. Not here. I needed to play this smart.

    I walked in and schooled my face to careful neutrality. The laughter died the instant I stepped inside.

    “Aria.” Ethan stood quickly, putting distance between himself and Clara, as if that erased what I’d witnessed in his office. “You’re home early.”

    “Am I?” I crossed to the kitchen and filled a glass of water, more to occupy my hands than anything. My heart pounded in my ears.

    “Can we talk?” His voice was low, careful.

    I turned slowly. “About you and Clara?”

    “It’s not what you think. Clara’s going to be staying here as Marcus’s nanny. He needs consistency, and frankly, you’re not around enough-“

    “Not around enough?” I cut him off. “I’ve been running this Pack for you, Ethan. Every meeting, every decision-while you were off doing what, exactly?”

    His jaw tightened. “That’s not the point.”

    “Then what is?”

    “Marcus needs to be taken care of.”

    “I disagree. This is my home. I didn’t agree to a live-in nanny.”

    “She’s not just a nanny. She’s helped raise Marcus since he was born. He needs her here.”

    Of course. Because she was his real mother.

    “That’s not my problem,” I said. “If you want Clara housed, buy her an apartment. She’s not living under my roof.”

    “You’re just tired.” He raised a hand, his tone measured-managing me, like my opinion was a tantrum to be waited out. “We’ll discuss this after dinner.”

    “There’s nothing to discuss.”

    “Bad woman!”

    Marcus appeared out of nowhere, small face twisted with rage. “You’re really bad! You’re mean to Clara!”

    “Marcus, that’s enough-” Ethan started.

    But the boy was already charging at me, hands outstretched. He slammed into me with surprising force. I stumbled back, my hip colliding with the corner of the side table-exactly where I’d hit the floor in Ethan’s office earlier. Pain exploded through my lower back; my vision went white.

    “Marcus!” Ethan grabbed him by the shoulders. “What the hell are you doing?”

    “She’s mean!” Marcus wailed, but his eyes were dry-nothing but calculated defiance. “She’s mean to Clara and mean to you and I hate her!”

    Ethan reached for me. “Aria, I’m sorry, he didn’t mean-“

    I jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

    I pushed myself upright, ignoring the swimming in my vision. My tailbone throbbed from earlier; now my hip would bruise too.

    Clara burst in and gathered Marcus into her arms, stroking his hair while he buried his face in her neck. The devoted mother, perfectly performed.

    “He’s just a kid,” she murmured, kissing his temple. “Please forgive him.”

    “What a touching scene of motherly devotion,” I said. “I’m starting to wonder if he’s actually your biological pup.”

    Clara’s expression tightened-clearly she wasn’t sure how much I’d overheard.

    “Aria, as your friend, I’m very disappointed in you-“

    I turned and walked upstairs, each step sending fresh jolts of pain through my hip.

    I spent the next hour in the guest bathroom, running the hottest water I could stand. My hip had already darkened to purple, matching the bruise on my tailbone. Two injuries in one day. Both from the same “family.”

    By the time I emerged in pajamas, the house had gone quiet. A knock at the door.

    “Come in.”

    Ethan stepped inside, closing the door carefully. He looked tired. Worried. Like he actually gave a damn.

    “How are you feeling?”

    “Fantastic. Your son has quite the arm.”

    His jaw tightened. “He’s been disciplined. It won’t happen again.”

    “Right. Like the last dozen times really stuck.”

    He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I know today has been difficult. But Clara needs to stay here. Marcus needs her. She’s been more of a mother to him than-“

    “Than me?” I finished. “Yes, I’m aware. Hard to bond with a child who’s been taught to hate me since birth.”

    “That’s not-” He caught himself, changing tactics. “This isn’t about you and Clara. This is about what’s best for Marcus. He’s settled here. Taking Clara away would disrupt his entire world.”

    I stared at him, this man I’d believed was my husband, my mate. This man who’d convinced me I was broken. This man who’d built his entire Pack’s success on my labor while keeping his real family hidden in plain sight.

    He was still lying. Still manipulating.

    Fine. Let him think he’d won.

    “I have a condition,” I said.

    Wariness flickered across his face. “What kind?”

    “My birthday is next week. You forgot last year, and the year before. So this year, I want a proper gift.” I kept my voice light. “The penthouse at Meridian Tower. Top floor. In my name only.”

    He went very still. “That’s a fifteen million dollar property.”

    “Is it?” I tilted my head. “I think it’s fair-as a birthday gift, and as compensation for what you’ve done.”

    The muscle in his jaw jumped. For a moment I thought he might finally drop the pretense. Instead, he pulled out his phone.

    “Fine. Consider it an early birthday present.”

    “And the transfer note,” I added. “For Aria’s house fund. Happy birthday.”

    He tapped at the screen, expression darkening with every second, then turned the phone toward me. Fifteen million dollars. Transfer note included.

    “Happy birthday,” he said flatly.

    “Thank you, Ethan.” I let the endearment drip with acid. “You’re so generous.”

    He pocketed his phone. “Clara stays.”

    “Clara stays,” I agreed.

    He nodded and left.

    I waited until the door clicked shut, then pulled out my phone and opened the banking app.

    Balance: $15,150,000.00

    Two years as Luna-hosting banquets, negotiating alliances, building his reputation. My card had never seen a single paycheck, not a penny of Pack money. The only funds I’d ever had were fifteen thousand saved from part-time jobs during school.

    Now, because I’d caught him with Clara-because she was the leverage that finally forced his hand-he remembered I existed.

    How pathetic.

    The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King Chapter 3 Now it was his turn

    Aria’s POV
    I woke to the smell of pancakes and coffee.

    For a moment, still half-asleep, it felt almost normal. Then I heard Clara’s laugh drifting up from the kitchen, and reality came crashing back.

    I took my time getting dressed. Let them have their little domestic fantasy. I could afford to be patient. After all, I was a billionaire now. And their client.

    By the time I came downstairs, a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon sat waiting on the counter-the kind of gesture meant to look like an apology. I reached for it.

    Marcus lunged forward and yanked it away, the plate clattering against the marble. “No! This is for Clara! Daddy made it special for her!”

    Clara hurried over, hands fluttering. “Marcus, sweetie, that’s not how we treat people. Apologize to Aria.” Her words were honey. Her eyes, locked on mine, were pure triumph.

    Ethan appeared in the doorway. “Marcus. Apologize. Now.”

    The boy shuffled toward me, not meeting my eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.

    I didn’t accept it.

    I stood, crossed the room, grabbed him, and pressed him against the wall. I took a thin branch from the nearby vase and brought it down hard on his backside.

    He burst into tears.

    “Aria, that’s too much.” Clara stepped forward. “He already apologized-“

    “Funny,” I said, landing another strike. “By what right do you interfere with a mother disciplining her child?”

    Clara’s face went white. “He’s still young… he didn’t do anything that wrong…”

    “Small mistakes uncorrected become big ones. If I don’t discipline him now, I’ll have a harder time later.”

    That shut her up.

    Ethan stepped forward and caught my wrist. “That’s enough.”

    He was right. The anger had cooled. I tossed the branch to the floor. Marcus scrambled behind Clara, sobbing too hard to even glare at me.

    “Marcus.” I fixed my gaze on him. “As long as I’m your mother, you will show me respect. If you can’t learn that, I’ll adopt a better child to be the pack’s rightful heir.”

    The room went quiet. Even Marcus stopped crying. I was smiling when I said it.

    “Aria, don’t-” Ethan’s voice tightened.

    “Don’t what?” I turned to him, sweetly. “Since I accepted adopting one child with no blood relation to me, I can certainly adopt a second. As long as you want me to stay with this pack, don’t try to provoke me.”

    Looking at their three faces, all dark as thunder, I cheerfully picked up my purse. “Enjoy your breakfast. All of you.”

    I was halfway to my car when footsteps followed.

    “Aria, wait.” Ethan caught up, slightly breathless. “I’ll drive you to the office. We can go over the Riverside contract on the way.”

    “I’m not going to the office.”

    “What? We have the meeting with-“

    “Reschedule it.” I pulled open the car door. “I have other plans.”

    “What other plans?”

    “I’m going to look at a house.”

    I closed the door and started the engine. In the rearview mirror, he stood in the driveway, fists clenched at his sides.

    The Meridian Tower was everything the listing had promised. Floor-to-ceiling windows, soaring ceilings, and most importantly, it was mine.

    Now I just needed furniture.

    The furniture district catered to Pack elite-somewhere I’d never shopped before, too expensive for someone like me. Now, walking through the gleaming showrooms, I felt like a kid in a candy store.

    That was when I saw it. A sofa in deep charcoal leather sat center stage. The tag read “Russo Collection – Limited Edition. 1 of 3.”

    Perfect.

    I was reaching for my phone when a voice cut through the air.

    “Excuse me, but I’m taking this one.”

    A woman about my age stood there, arms crossed, looking at me like I was something unpleasant she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. Dressed head to toe in designer labels, blonde hair in perfect waves, makeup flawless.

    “I’m sorry?” I said.

    “The sofa.” She gestured impatiently. “I saw it first. So you’ll have to find something else.”

    “I don’t think that’s how shopping works.”

    Her lips thinned. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

    “Should I?”

    A flush crept up her neck. “I’m Vanessa Crane. My father is Alpha Richard Crane of the Riverside Pack. And when I say I want something, I get it.”

    “That’s nice,” I said, turning back to the sofa. “I’m still buying it.”

    Vanessa’s face flushed scarlet. She snapped her fingers. Two large men in black suits materialized from behind the displays. “This woman is harassing me. Escort her out.”

    They moved toward me. I tensed.

    “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

    A deep, cultured voice from the entrance-carrying the kind of authority that made everyone freeze. A silver-haired man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit strode in, flanked by six men in dark suits. He moved like someone who had wielded power for decades and never once had to raise his voice.

    Vanessa’s guards stepped back instantly. Her face drained of color.

    “Beta Harrison,” she stammered. “I didn’t know you were-“

    “Clearly.” He didn’t look at her. His attention was fixed entirely on me. He inclined his head in something close to a bow. “Miss Smith. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

    The showroom went silent.

    “I’m Harrison Reid, Beta of Crescent Moon Pack. Your uncle Victor sent me to find you.”

    “Wait.” Vanessa’s voice came out strangled. “Smith? As in-Vincent Smith?”

    Harrison finally turned to her. “Miss Crane. I believe you were just threatening my boss’s daughter and sole heir. Would you like to rephrase your earlier comments?”

    Vanessa went from pale to gray. “I didn’t-she didn’t say-I had no idea-“

    “Ignorance is not an excuse for disrespect. Particularly when you were having her physically removed from the premises.”

    She turned to me, all earlier arrogance dissolved. “I’m so sorry. If I had known-“

    “You would have been polite?” I said. “How nice. Unfortunately, basic decency shouldn’t require a family pedigree.”

    “Please-if there’s anything I can do to make this right-“

    “An apology is enough. You can go.”

    She practically fled, her guards scrambling after her.

    I turned to the sales associate. “I’ll take the sofa. Have it delivered to the Meridian Tower, penthouse floor.” I paused. “And the matching armchair.”

    Then I faced Harrison. “Quite an entrance.”

    “Word will spread quickly. But it was necessary. Aria Smith is not to be trifled with. It will save you considerable trouble down the line.”

    He gestured toward the exit. “The car is waiting, Miss Smith. Shall we?”

    “Where are we going?”

    “Crescent Moon Pack house.” A slight smile. “Your home.”

    I was silent for a moment. My father-Vincent Smith. A billion-dollar inheritance had landed in my lap. Going to Crescent Moon was inevitable.

    “Alright,” I said. “If it’s my home, I should at least see it for myself.”

    What was meant to come would come eventually.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival by Mattie Valelly

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex's Rival by Mattie Valelly
    👉 READ NOW

    Amelia sat alone at the City Marriage Bureau, watching the clock tick down to closing time.

    Fifteen minutes before the doors shut, a phone call shattered her last flicker of hope. Her fiancé, Kayson, wasn’t coming. He had abandoned their wedding registration because Kamila-her stepsister-had twisted her ankle.

    It was his ninth broken promise.

    When Amelia returned home, there was no comfort. Her biological mother sneered at her humiliation, shielding the stepsister while ordering Amelia to apologize to Kayson.

    “Who would she marry without Kayson?” her mother mocked. “Let’s see how long she survives out there without his money.”

    Meanwhile, Kayson arrogantly dismissed her absence. Finding out she had vanished, he just laughed it off with his assistant.

    “It’s just a tantrum to force my hand,” Kayson smirked. “She still can’t live without me.”

    After nine years of absolute devotion, she was nothing but a convenient placeholder to the man she loved, and a worthless joke to her own family. The suffocating weight of their betrayal finally snapped something inside her.

    She packed a single suitcase, threw away nine years of anniversary gifts, and permanently blocked Kayson’s number.

    Standing in the freezing wind, she pulled out her phone and dialed the private number of Kayson’s biggest, most ruthless rival.

    “Mr. Thornton, what you said seven months ago… does the offer to marry me still stand?”

    Ten minutes later, a sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb.

    👉 READ NOW

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival Chapter 1 The Abandoned Bride

    Amelia Frye glanced at the Van Cleef & Arpels watch on her wrist.
    The delicate gold hands pointed to 4:45 PM.
    Fifteen minutes until the New York City Marriage Bureau closed for the day.
    Her thumb unconsciously picked at the already frayed skin beside her index fingernail. It was a nervous habit, one she thought she had kicked years ago.
    Clerk Sullivan, a kind-faced woman with salt-and-pepper hair, poked her head out of the office for the ninth time. Her eyes were full of a pity that made Amelia’s stomach clench.
    “Maybe it’s the traffic, dear,” Ms. Sullivan offered, placing a cup of lukewarm water on the small table beside Amelia’s chair.
    Amelia forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster. “Yes, New York traffic is always terrible.”
    Her gaze drifted to the poster on the wall. A beaming couple, with the words “Happy Marriages Start Here” printed in cheerful script below them. The irony felt like a physical weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
    A vibration buzzed from her handbag.
    Her heart leaped into her throat. Kayson.
    She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy and cold. The screen lit up, but the name flashing wasn’t his.
    It was “Leo Foster.” Kayson’s assistant.
    The last flicker of hope inside her died, leaving a cold, dark void. She took a sharp breath, the air stinging her lungs, and answered the call.
    “Ms. Frye,” Leo’s voice was polite, professional, and utterly detached. “My sincerest apologies. Mr. Edwards has an urgent situation. Ms. Carlisle twisted her ankle during a rehearsal, and he had to go to her immediately.”
    Kamila Carlisle.
    The name was a familiar poison, seeping through the phone and directly into her brain. It was always Kamila. The reason for the first missed anniversary, the third missed birthday, and now, the ninth missed promise.
    Amelia said nothing.
    She simply ended the call.
    The phone’s screen went black, reflecting her own pale, numb face. She looked like a stranger.
    She opened her message thread with Kayson. Her thumbs moved with a strange, detached precision.
    “Kayson Edwards, we’re over.”
    Send.
    Then, without a moment’s hesitation, her finger found the option: “Block and Delete Contact.”
    A profound silence filled her head as she did it. The giant stone that had been crushing her chest for years finally rolled away. She could breathe again. The air, once thin and sharp, now felt full and clean.
    She stood up so abruptly that the chair scraped against the linoleum floor with a screech.
    Ms. Sullivan jumped, her expression shifting from pity to alarm.
    Amelia walked to the clerk’s desk and placed the untouched cup of water down gently.
    She looked Ms. Sullivan directly in the eye, her voice clear and steady in a way it hadn’t been in years.
    “I’ve decided. I’m not getting married.”
    Ms. Sullivan’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
    Amelia added, more to herself than to the clerk, a vow whispered into the sterile office air. “Not ever again.”
    With that, she turned and walked out of the Marriage Bureau.
    The cold November wind hit her face, but it didn’t chill her. It woke her up.
    She pulled out her phone again, scrolling through her contacts to a name she had saved seven months ago. A number she had never called.
    She remembered the man. Kayson’s biggest rival. He had cornered her at a gala, his blue eyes full of a mocking amusement, and said something utterly absurd to her.
    At the time, she’d dismissed it as a provocation, a way to get under Kayson’s skin.
    Now, it was her only option.
    Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pressed the call button.
    The phone rang only once before it was answered. A deep, magnetic voice cut through the city noise.
    “Who is this?”
    Amelia closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let the words rush out before she could lose her nerve.
    “Mr. Thornton, what you said seven months ago… does the offer still stand?”
    There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by a low, dangerously amused chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine.

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival Chapter 2 Ten-Minute Flash Marriage

    The soft chuckle vibrated through the phone, a sound so full of cynical amusement it made Amelia’s cheeks burn.
    “Which offer was that?” Garrett Thornton’s voice was a slow, deliberate drawl. “I have a terrible memory for things I’ve been turned down for.”
    Amelia bit her lower lip, the small pain grounding her. She forced her voice to remain steady. “You said if I ever needed a husband, I could call you.”
    She took another breath, pushing the rest of the words out. “You said you needed a wife to deal with your family.”
    The line went quiet again. This time, the silence stretched longer, so long that Amelia thought he was about to hang up. She could hear the faint rustle of fabric, as if he were shrugging on a jacket.
    Then his voice returned, stripped of all its earlier playfulness. It was sharp, direct, and decisive.
    “Where are you?”
    Amelia’s heart skipped a beat. She answered automatically, her voice barely a whisper. “The City Marriage Bureau.”
    “Good,” Garrett said. “Stay right there. Give me ten minutes.”
    She was stunned into silence. “Ten minutes?”
    “Thornton Tower is three blocks from there,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m coming over. We’ll register.”
    The line went dead.
    Amelia stood frozen on the sidewalk, the phone still pressed to her ear. Her mind was a complete blank. It had been an act of pure, desperate impulse, a last-ditch effort to prove to herself that she had some control over her own life. She never thought he would actually agree.
    Panic began to set in, a cold wave washing over her. Her first instinct was to run, to hail a cab and disappear back into the quiet misery of her life.
    But then she pictured Kayson’s face, his brow furrowed with performative concern for Kamila. The thought of returning to that life, of waiting for the tenth broken promise, was more terrifying than this insane gamble.
    She took a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to stand straight, like a soldier awaiting her fate.
    Meanwhile, on the top floor of the Edwards Corporation building, Kayson was pacing his office, a knot of irritation tightening in his gut.
    He had sent Amelia a text.
    “Babe, sorry. Kamila’s situation was an emergency. I’ll make it up to you later.”
    But the message was met with a stark red exclamation point. Delivery failed.
    He frowned, assuming it was a network issue. He tried again. Same result.
    Pressing his fingers to his temples, a familiar gesture of frustration, he decided to call.
    A cold, automated voice met his ear: “The user you are calling is currently unavailable.”
    A surge of annoyance, sharper and more potent than usual, coursed through him. Amelia never did this. She was always there, always waiting, always forgiving.
    He concluded she was throwing a tantrum, a bigger one than usual, but a tantrum nonetheless. He’d let her cool off. She’d come around. She always did.
    Nine minutes later, a black Maybach pulled up to the curb in front of Amelia, its tires letting out a soft, arrogant hiss.
    The back door opened, and a long leg, encased in impeccably tailored trousers, emerged.
    Garrett Thornton unfolded himself from the car. He was taller than she remembered from the gala, with dark hair and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He radiated an aura of raw, untamed power.
    He didn’t look at her at first. His gaze went to the sign above the door: City Marriage Bureau. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. Only then did his eyes land on her.
    His gaze was intensely invasive, sweeping over her from head to toe as if he were assessing a potential acquisition.
    Amelia instinctively took a half-step back, feeling exposed and judged.
    The corner of Garrett’s mouth quirked up. He extended a hand towards her, his voice a low, possessive rumble.
    “Did you bring your ID and documents, future Mrs. Thornton?”

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival Chapter 3 Wedding Vow

    Amelia stared at Garrett’s outstretched hand. It was large, with long, strong fingers. A hand that looked like it could build things or break them with equal ease. It represented a future she couldn’t possibly imagine.

    An image of Kayson, his hand gently resting on Kamila’s bandaged ankle, flashed in her mind.

    Her spine stiffened. The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

    She placed her trembling hand into his. His palm was warm and dry, his grip firm as it enveloped her cold fingers. It wasn’t a comforting hold; it was a claim.

    A triumphant smirk played on Garrett’s lips. He tightened his grip, giving her no chance to pull away, and led her back towards the entrance of the Marriage Bureau.

    Ms. Sullivan was just packing up her desk when she saw Amelia return, this time with a tall, devastatingly handsome man in tow. The clerk’s jaw dropped.

    Garrett flashed Ms. Sullivan a smile so charming it could have melted glaciers. “Ma’am, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

    Under the force of Garrett’s sheer presence, the entire process became a blur. Paperwork was filled out with swift efficiency.

    When it was time for the photo, Amelia’s face was a stiff, unnatural mask. Garrett leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear.

    “Smile, Amelia,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel straight through her. “From now on, you’re the winner.”

    Her breath hitched. She looked up at him, into those deep blue eyes, and for the first time, she saw something other than mockery. It was a flicker of… something else.

    A small, genuine curve touched her lips as the camera flashed, capturing a wedding photo.

    When the stamped marriage certificate was placed in her hand, it still felt unreal.

    Amelia Frye was now Amelia Thornton.

    The moment they stepped back outside, Garrett released her hand.

    He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a set of keys and a sleek, black card, pressing them into her palm.

    Amelia looked down. A beautifully designed apartment key and an American Express Centurion Card.

    “What is this?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

    “The key to a penthouse on the Upper East Side. Your new home,” Garrett said, his tone casual, as if he were handing her a brochure. “The card has no password and no limit. Use it.”

    He paused, his eyes glinting. “Consider it pocket money for being Mrs. Thornton.”

    The weight of the key and card felt scorching in her hand. “This wasn’t part of our agreement.”

    “It is now.” Garrett’s voice was flat, leaving no room for negotiation. “My wife doesn’t live frugally. Especially not in front of Kayson Edwards.”

    He said Kayson’s name, and everything clicked into place. This wasn’t just a marriage of convenience. It was an act of war. And she was his newest, most strategic weapon.

    He opened the Maybach’s door for her. “Get in. I’ll take you to get your things.”

    Amelia slid into the plush leather seat, the scent of mint and expensive leather filling her senses. It was the smell of a world she didn’t belong to.

    She recited the address of the imposing Carlisle family estate.

    The car pulled smoothly away from the curb. After a moment of silence, Garrett spoke, his eyes on her in the rearview mirror.

    “You are heading to the Carlisle estate?”

    Amelia froze. The address she’d given was the grand home shared by her biological parents. Yet, ever since her mother, Kristen Carlisle, had acknowledged her and brought her back, Kristen had coldly claimed there were “no spare rooms” in the massive house, relegating Amelia to a cramped maid’s room. In that sprawling mansion, she was treated as nothing more than an unwanted burden.

    Her reply was cold and sharp. “My name is Frye.”

    Garrett watched her in the mirror, catching the flicker of resentment in her eyes. A soft, knowing hum escaped his lips, a sound that was neither a laugh nor a sigh.

    He didn’t press further. Instead, he took out his phone, opened a social media app, and snapped a picture of the marriage certificate in his hand.

    He framed it carefully, showing only the official seal, the date, and the word “Married,” but hiding their names.

    He typed a single word as the caption.

    “Married.”

    And then he hit post.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game by Xiu Luo

    The Neglected Wife's Vicious Comeback Game by Xiu Luo
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    On our third anniversary, my husband canceled our dinner, claiming a sudden work emergency.

    I tracked his phone to an exclusive French restaurant, only to find him tenderly fastening a blessed bracelet—one I had flown across the world to get for him—onto his college ex-girlfriend’s wrist.

    The sheer shock triggered a violent placental abruption. Bleeding out in my car just across the street, I frantically called his number. Through the window, I watched him glance at his screen, frown in annoyance, and press decline to focus on his lover. While I was wheeled into a freezing operating room for an emergency C-section utterly alone, he took his mistress back to our marital bed.

    He didn’t even bother to check if I was alive, completely oblivious that our premature daughter was fighting for her life in the NICU. I soon discovered our entire marriage was a sham. He had used my family’s wealth to save his company, and now he was trading me to secure a massive business deal with his ex’s father. The man I loved didn’t exist; he only saw me as a disposable asset.

    “I’m going to make him wish he had never been born.”

    After secretly securing my baby in a private retreat, I ordered a medical-grade silicone pregnancy belly to hide my flat stomach. I stepped back into our penthouse, ready to burn his precious empire to the ground.

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    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 1

    “I made the reservations at Per Se, just like you wanted.” Adalynn Craig smoothed down the silk of her dress, her voice a little too bright in the cavernous silence of their penthouse apartment. She ran a hand over her seven-month belly, a reflexive, protective gesture.
    Across the room, Julian Hawthorne didn’t look up from his phone. “Cancel it.”
    The words, clipped and cold, hung in the air. Adalynn’s fingers tightened on the photo album she was holding—a leather-bound collection of their three years of marriage, her anniversary gift to him. “But… it’s our anniversary, Julian. I thought we could—”
    “Something came up at work. Emergency board meeting.” He finally looked at her, his expression impatient, as if she were a minor annoyance he had to deal with. “We can do it another time.”
    He never specified when “another time” would be. It was his standard line, the one he used to brush her off for the last six months. A familiar, cold knot formed in Adalynn’s stomach. She forced a smile, the muscles in her face feeling stiff. “Okay. Of course. Work is important.”
    She watched him grab his keys, his movements brisk and final. He didn’t kiss her goodbye. He didn’t even glance at her belly. The heavy front door clicked shut, leaving her alone with the perfectly set dinner table for two and the scent of the roast cooling in the oven.
    Disappointment, sharp and bitter, rose in her throat. She sank onto the velvet sofa, the photo album a heavy weight in her lap. She wouldn’t let him ruin this. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he was just stressed. An idea sparked—a desperate, hopeful one. She would go to him. She would bring him a thermos of the soup he loved, show him she supported him. A surprise.
    A few minutes later, dressed in the dress he once told her made her eyes look like the sea after a storm, she grabbed the gift and headed for the garage. As she started the car, a familiar, sick feeling of doubt crept in. It was a small, ugly habit she’d developed—checking his location. She told herself it was just for peace of mind.
    She opened the app on her phone. Her thumb hovered over his icon. The screen refreshed, and a small dot appeared on the map. It wasn’t at the Hawthorne Group headquarters downtown. It was pulsing steadily over a small, exclusive block in the West Village. Over Le Ciel, the most expensive, most romantic French restaurant in the city.
    Her breath hitched. Maybe it’s a surprise, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. A reverse surprise. He’s waiting for me there. The thought was flimsy, a paper-thin shield against a much darker possibility, but she clung to it.
    She drove, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. A light rain began to fall, blurring the city lights into long, weeping streaks. Her stomach churned, a mixture of bad premonition and pregnancy-induced nausea.
    She parked across the street from the restaurant. The rain was heavier now, drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof of the car. Through the enormous, floor-to-ceiling window, she saw him. He was seated at a secluded corner table, bathed in the warm, intimate glow of a candle.
    And he was not alone.
    Across from him sat Carlene Shaffer. His college girlfriend. The one he’d sworn was just a part of his past. Carlene looked elegant, her blonde hair catching the light as she laughed at something he said. Julian was smiling back, a soft, unguarded smile that Adalynn hadn’t seen directed at her in years. It was a physical blow.
    Then, he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet pouch. From it, he drew a bracelet made of dark, polished sandalwood beads.
    Adalynn’s vision tunneled. She felt the air leave her lungs in a painful rush. It was the bracelet she had flown twelve hours to a remote temple to get for him, a blessing for his loyalty and success that she had prayed over for hours. He had promised to wear it forever.
    She watched, frozen, as Julian leaned across the table. He took Carlene’s delicate wrist in his hand and gently, tenderly, fastened the bracelet around it. Then he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.
    A sound escaped Adalynn’s throat—not a scream, not a sob, but something raw and involuntary, like an animal caught in a trap. Her hand flew to her mouth, pressing hard against her lips as if she could force the sound back inside. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She pressed her other palm flat against the cold glass of the car window, her fingers splaying wide, her breath fogging the pane in short, ragged bursts.
    Her entire body began to tremble—not from the cold, but from a seismic shift happening deep within her. The woman who had climbed into this car an hour ago, still clinging to the hope that her marriage could be saved, was dying. And in her place, something else was being born. Something cold. Something unforgiving.
    She didn’t cry. She didn’t look away. She pressed her hand against the cold glass of the car window, her eyes burning into the scene in front of her, and she burned every detail into her memory. The way his thumb stroked Carlene’s wrist. The way Carlene tilted her head, basking in his attention. The way her bracelet—her blessing, her prayer, her twelve-hour flight—dangled from another woman’s arm like a trophy. She would remember this. When the time came, she would remember every single detail. And she would make sure he regretted it with every breath he took.
    The world tilted. The gift box in Adalynn’s lap slid to the floor, landing with a dull, final thud. At the same instant, a vicious, searing pain tore through her abdomen. It was a cramp so intense it stole her breath, making her double over. It wasn’t like the Braxton Hicks contractions she was used to. This was different. This was violent.
    With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and dialed Julian’s number. She watched through the window as he glanced at his screen, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he pressed the decline button.
    The pain sharpened, a hot blade twisting deep inside her. She tried again. He declined it again, this time silencing his phone and placing it face down on the table, his full attention returning to Carlene.
    She watched Carlene glance at the phone, then look up at Julian with a knowing smile. She watched Carlene’s lips form the words: “Is it her again?” She watched Julian shrug—actually shrug—as if his wife’s life-or-death emergency was a minor inconvenience. And then she watched Carlene laugh.
    A wave of dizziness washed over her. Another cramp, stronger this time, made her cry out. A sudden, warm gush of fluid soaked through her dress and onto the leather seat. Her water had broken. Panic, cold and absolute, seized her.
    She fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with sweat. She couldn’t think. 911. She had to call 911. She managed to dial the numbers, her voice a choked whisper as she gave the operator her location.
    Inside the restaurant, Julian raised his wine glass, toasting the woman across from him. He was completely oblivious to the flashing lights that were now approaching, to the wife who was fighting for her life and the life of their child just a few feet away.
    The paramedics were gentle but firm, pulling her from the car and onto a gurney. As they lifted her into the ambulance, her gaze found the restaurant window one last time. Julian was leaning in, his eyes locked on Carlene’s, his expression full of a tenderness that had once been hers.
    The doors slammed shut, and Adalynn’s heart shattered into a million pieces. The physical agony and the emotional devastation merged into a single, overwhelming wave of blackness.
    At the hospital, a doctor with tired eyes, Dr. Foster, spoke to her in urgent, clipped tones. “Severe placental abruption. The baby’s in distress. We need to do an emergency C-section. Now.”
    They wheeled her into the sterile, freezing operating room. There was no one to hold her hand. No Julian to whisper that everything would be okay. His wedding vow, “I will never let you be alone,” echoed in her mind, a cruel, mocking joke.
    As the anesthesia began to pull her under, a single thought burned through the pain and the fog: My baby. Please, let my baby live.
    She was vaguely aware of frantic voices, the words “hemorrhaging” and “losing her” floating somewhere above her.
    Hours later, after a romantic dinner and a nightcap in his office, Julian Hawthorne finally checked his messages. He saw the missed calls from Adalynn and rolled his eyes, assuming it was just another one of her needy episodes.
    In the hospital, Adalynn was fighting for her life.
    When she finally stabilized, her daughter had already been born. Lily Craig Hawthorne, weighing just three pounds, was whisked away to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit before Adalynn even had a chance to see her.

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 2

    The first thing Adalynn felt when she woke was a line of fire across her lower abdomen. The pain was a brutal confirmation that the night before had not been a nightmare. It was real. The empty chair beside her hospital bed was also real.
    A kind-faced nurse named Olivia Price came in to check her vitals. “How are you feeling, sweetie?” she asked, her voice soft with a pity that made Adalynn’s skin crawl.
    “My baby,” Adalynn rasped, her throat raw. “Is she…?”
    “She’s a fighter,” Olivia said with a reassuring smile. “Stable for now. She’s in the NICU, getting the best care.”
    A sliver of relief pierced through the fog of pain and betrayal. Stable. That was enough for now. The anger, however, was becoming clearer, sharper. She reached for her phone on the bedside table, her movements slow and agonizing. She would give him one last chance. One final opportunity to not be the monster she now knew he was.
    She dialed his private number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, someone picked up.
    But it wasn’t Julian’s voice.
    “Hello?” The voice was feminine, husky with sleep, and sickeningly familiar. It was Carlene Shaffer.
    Adalynn’s heart stopped. In the background, she could hear the distinct sound of the rain showerhead in their master bathroom. Their bathroom. In their home.
    “Julian’s in the shower right now,” Carlene continued, her tone dripping with smug ownership. “Can I take a message?” A beat of silence, then, “If this is a business matter for Mr. Hawthorne, you can try his office later.”
    The implication was clear. She was the personal. Adalynn was the business.
    While Adalynn had been bleeding on an operating table, her husband had taken his mistress home to their bed. The bed where their child was conceived.
    Adalynn’s voice, when it came, was not the broken whisper of a wounded wife. It was ice. “Carlene,” she said, and she heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line—the sound of a woman realizing she had been caught. “You’re in my house. Wearing my bracelet. Sleeping in my bed. Enjoy it while it lasts. Because when I’m done, you won’t even be a footnote in his story. You’ll be the punchline.”
    She hung up before Carlene could respond.
    Without a word, Adalynn ended the call. The last, fragile thread of hope she didn’t even know she was holding onto snapped. It wasn’t just an affair. It was a complete and utter replacement.
    A cold, terrifyingly clear thought formed in her mind. He cannot know about the baby. Lily was not a Hawthorne. She was a Craig. She was hers alone. This child would not be a pawn in a divorce, a bargaining chip for a man who didn’t deserve the title of father.
    Her hands shook as she scrolled through her contacts and found Sloane Hayes. Her best friend. Her rock.
    Sloane picked up on the first ring. “Addy? What’s up? Ready for our yacht weekend?”
    A choked sob escaped Adalynn’s lips. “Sloane,” she whispered, and then the dam broke. The story spilled out in a torrent of broken, gasping sentences—the restaurant, the bracelet, the rejected calls, the emergency surgery, Carlene answering his phone from their bed.
    On the other end of the line, Sloane’s silence morphed from shock into pure, unadulterated rage. “That son of a bitch,” she finally hissed. “That absolute, grade-A piece of human garbage. I’m going to make him wish he was never born. I’m coming. Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
    After hanging up, Adalynn wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were dry, burning with a new, cold fire. She was done crying. She was done being a victim.
    In the penthouse, Julian stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. Carlene was perched on the edge of his desk, wearing nothing but one of his dress shirts. Her face was pale, her hands trembling slightly.
    “Your wife called,” she said, her voice lacking its usual smug confidence. “I answered for you.”
    Julian frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He rubbed at his temples. “What did she want?”
    “She… she knew I was here. She said—” Carlene stopped, unable to repeat Adalynn’s words. “She’s not what you told me she was, Julian. She’s not weak.”
    “She’s always dramatic,” Julian muttered, pouring himself a scotch. “It’s exhausting. Whatever she said, ignore it. She’s harmless.”
    Carlene opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Harmless. The woman on the phone had not sounded harmless. She had sounded like a promise.
    He accepted the explanation without question. It was easier than confronting the truth.
    Twenty minutes later, Sloane burst into the hospital room, her face a mask of fury and concern. She took one look at Adalynn’s pale face, the IV in her arm, and the slight mound under the blanket where her stomach was bandaged, and her eyes filled with tears.
    “Oh, Addy.”
    Adalynn met her gaze, her own eyes steady and resolute. “I’m going to hide her, Sloane,” she said, her voice low and even. “He can never know she was born.” She took a breath. “Secure the child, ditch the father.”
    Sloane stared at her, the shock on her face quickly replaced by a fierce, predatory grin. “Damn right,” she said, her voice full of admiration. “That’s my girl. We are not letting that bastard or his dragon of a mother use that baby to control you or the trust fund. Not happening. When we’re done with him, he won’t even be able to afford the shirt on his back.”
    Sloane immediately took charge. “You rest. I’m going to go meet my goddaughter.” She squeezed Adalynn’s hand. “And don’t you worry. He’s going to pay for this. For every single thing.”
    As Sloane left, Adalynn’s phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification. A new post from Carlene Shaffer. The photo was a selfie, taken from behind Julian’s desk, the glittering skyline of the city spread out behind her. Her chin was tilted up in a look of triumph. On her wrist, the sandalwood bracelet was prominently displayed.
    The caption read: “A new chapter.”
    Adalynn stared at the photo. Then, very calmly, she took a screenshot. She created a new folder on her phone and labeled it: “Evidence.” The screenshot went in, alongside the call log showing her rejected calls to Julian, the timestamp of her 911 call, and a photo of her empty hospital room.
    “A new chapter,” she murmured to herself. “You have no idea.”
    Sloane, who had paused in the doorway to check her own phone, saw it at the same time. A low growl escaped her throat. “I am going to rip her hair out.”
    “No,” Adalynn said, her voice stopping Sloane in her tracks. It was quiet, but held a core of steel. “Not yet. We don’t get emotional. We get strategic.” She looked at her friend, her eyes dark with purpose. “She just publicly wore stolen property and called it a new chapter. When I’m done with her, her entire story will be a cautionary tale that women whisper about at dinner parties for the next twenty years.”
    Sloane saw the look on her face and knew it was true. The sweet, accommodating Adalynn Craig she had known was gone. In her place was a woman who had been pushed past her breaking point and had come back as something far more dangerous.

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 3

    After Sloane left for the NICU, Adalynn’s gaze kept returning to the picture of Carlene on her phone. To the bracelet. The memory was so vivid it felt like it was happening now. A year ago, she had taken a solo trip to a small, secluded monastery in the mountains of Bhutan. Julian’s company had been on the verge of a hostile takeover, and he had been a wreck, consumed by anxiety.
    She’d spent two days with the monks, praying for him, for his peace of mind, for the protection of his legacy. They had blessed the sandalwood beads, infusing them with prayers for fidelity and strength. When she gave it to him, he’d been moved to tears. He’d kissed her and promised he would never take it off, that it would be a symbol of their unbreakable bond.
    Now that symbol was on another woman’s wrist, a trophy of his betrayal. The memory, once a source of comfort, now felt like a shard of glass in her heart. But she didn’t flinch. She let it cut. Let it bleed. Every scar from this moment forward would be a reminder of what she was fighting for.
    Meanwhile, on the fifth floor of the very same hospital, Julian was trying to charm Mr. Knight, a key investor whose health was failing. Carlene was by his side, playing the part of the concerned, attentive associate. They had ridden the elevator up, completely unaware that Julian’s wife was lying in a hospital bed two floors below, recovering from major surgery.
    After the visit, they stopped by the nurses’ station to inquire about scheduling a follow-up. As they approached, they could hear two nurses, Patty Hicks and Olivia Price, talking in low voices.
    “That poor woman in 302, Mrs. Craig,” Patty said, shaking her head. “So beautiful, and she had to go through that emergency C-section all alone. The husband hasn’t shown his face once.”
    Olivia sighed, refilling a cup with water. “I know. And the baby, a little girl, so premature she’s still in an isolette. What kind of man misses a moment like that?”
    Julian froze. The name “Craig.” The room number “302.” The word “C-section.” A cold finger traced down his spine. He turned to the nurses, his voice sharper than he intended. “What did you say the patient’s name was?”
    Patty looked up, startled. “Mrs. Craig. Adalynn Craig. She came in last night. Emergency C-section. Almost didn’t make it. Why—do you know her?”
    For one breath, for one heartbeat, the truth hung in the air between them. Julian opened his mouth—
    And Carlene’s hand clamped down on his arm. “Julian,” she said, her voice tight. “We’re going to be late for your meeting.”
    He hesitated. He looked at the nurses. He thought of Adalynn—his wife, his pregnant wife, who was supposed to be at Sloane’s, safe and angry at him, not bleeding out on an operating table. But Carlene’s grip was insistent, her nails digging into his sleeve. And the truth was too big, too terrifying. If he acknowledged it, everything would change.
    So he didn’t.
    “No,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t know her.”
    He turned away from the nurses’ station and walked toward the elevator, Carlene’s hand still on his arm. He didn’t look back. But the words echoed in his head with every step: emergency C-section. Almost didn’t make it. Husband hasn’t shown his face once.
    He knew. Some part of him knew. But he had already chosen not to care.
    Just as they turned the corner, Sloane Hayes walked directly into their path, coming from the direction of the NICU.
    Sloane stopped dead in her tracks. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Hawthorne,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fancy meeting you here. Of all the hospitals in all the world.”
    Julian’s face darkened. “Sloane. What are you doing here?”
    Her eyes flicked dismissively over to Carlene, then back to him. “I’m visiting a friend,” she said, her voice sharp as a blade. “A friend whose husband was too busy wining and dining his mistress to answer his phone while she was bleeding out on the side of the road. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Julian?”
    The blood drained from Julian’s face. For a split second, he looked like a man who had just been punched in the gut. Carlene’s grip on his arm tightened convulsively.
    “Watch your tone, Sloane,” he managed, but his voice had lost its commanding edge. It sounded weak. Defensive. Guilty.
    Sloane just laughed, a cold, humorless sound. She didn’t give away a single detail about Adalynn’s current condition. She didn’t need to. “You’d better hope you haven’t done anything you’ll regret, Julian,” she said, her smile vanishing. “Because I’ve seen what happens to men who cross the Hayes family. Spoiler alert—they don’t recover. And you?” She looked him up and down with utter contempt. “You crossed the wrong woman. And you don’t even know it yet.”
    Carlene, sensing the conversation was about to escalate into a full-blown scene, pulled Julian’s arm again, more insistently this time. “Let’s just go, Julian. She’s not worth it.”
    Julian shot Sloane one last glare before letting Carlene lead him away. The encounter left him feeling irritated and vaguely uneasy, but more than that—he felt exposed. Sloane knew something. Something about Adalynn. Something he should know but was too afraid to ask.
    Sloane watched them go, her fists clenched. She took a deep, calming breath before turning back towards Adalynn’s room. She decided not to mention the run-in. Adalynn didn’t need the extra stress.
    When she entered the room, her expression was bright. “She’s beautiful, Addy,” she gushed, pulling out her phone to show Adalynn a picture she’d snapped through the glass of the isolette. “She’s tiny, but she has your nose. And she’s a fighter. I can already tell.”
    Adalynn stared at the image of her daughter, a tiny, perfect creature connected to a web of wires and tubes. A fierce, primal wave of love washed over her, so powerful it momentarily eclipsed everything else. This tiny person was all that mattered now. The last lingering shred of attachment she might have felt for Julian, the man who co-created this life, severed completely. He was nothing. A stranger. An obstacle.

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  • His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable by Decaf Demon

    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable by Decaf Demon
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    For four years, I played the part of the perfect, pathetic wife to my billionaire husband, Damian Nunez. Bleeding from a gunshot wound I took to secure a multi-billion-dollar deal for his company, I dragged myself to our penthouse, ready to finally end the charade.

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    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable Chapter 1 Divorce, leaving with nothing

    June’s brutal sun blazed down, warping the New York City skyline in a haze of sweltering heat.
    Gabriella stepped out of the corporate skyscraper, her clothes streaked with drying blood. She stared down at the signed partnership contract in her hand, a bitter smile tugging at her delicate, porcelain features.
    She’d taken a bullet to lock this deal down.
    And it would be the last thing she ever did for Damian Nunez.
    Damian had chased her relentlessly for three years. They’d been married for one, until he’d looked her dead in the eye and said he was bored of her. At first, she’d screamed, fought, sobbed-only to be met with his cold, cutting mockery. “Gabriella, you look hideous right now. You make me sick. Let’s get a divorce.”
    She’d found out later it was never just boredom. He’d met his so-called soulmate.
    He hadn’t set foot in their Tribeca penthouse in two months, not since the day he’d first mentioned divorce.
    There was no point in dragging this out any longer.
    Gabriella changed out of her bloodied clothes, hailed a yellow cab, and rode straight to Damian’s downtown Manhattan headquarters. She took the private elevator directly to the top-floor executive suite, and before she could reach the office door, a soft, breathy female voice froze her to the spot, drifting through the crack in the heavy oak door.
    “Damian, stop it… you’re gonna make my lips swell.”
    A sharp, searing pain seized Gabriella’s chest.
    To force herself to let go completely, she pushed the half-open door and stepped inside.
    The lavish, sprawling office came into view. Hayleigh Blair was perched in Damian’s lap, face flushed, lips swollen and marked, clear evidence of what they’d been doing only moments before.
    The biological daughter of the Blair family that had taken Gabriella in-the same woman who’d always claimed this marriage was meant to be hers.
    When she saw Gabriella walk in, panic flashed across her young face, and she scrambled off Damian’s lap. “Sis, I-“
    Gabriella didn’t spare her a single glance. She walked straight to the solid mahogany desk, set down the signed partnership contract, and laid a divorce agreement on top of it.
    Only then did she look up at the man across from her: Damian Nunez, the wealthiest man in New York City. He wore a tailored black dress shirt and slacks, exuding lazy old-money elegance, his features sharp and devastatingly handsome. Beneath his dark, swept-back hair, his face twisted into cold disgust as he stared at her-a look that sent a stabbing pain straight through her chest.
    “The corporate partnership is locked down. Fully executed contract,” she said, her voice eerily calm, as if this marriage meant nothing to her at all. “Beneath it is the divorce agreement. I’ve already signed it. It’s 2 PM. We’re going to the courthouse to finalize this today.”
    Only the deathly pallor of her face, and the way her thin, fragile frame swayed unsteadily on her feet, gave away the agony she was in.
    A flicker of surprise crossed Damian’s face, quickly replaced by his usual icy contempt. “Color me impressed, Gabriella. Half the firms on Wall Street couldn’t close this deal, and you locked it down. I’m curious-how exactly did you get this over the line?”
    His low, drawling voice dripped with disdain, as if he was already certain she’d used underhanded means to secure the contract.
    Gabriella’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her gaze dropping for a split second to hide the raw pain in her eyes. She let out a cold, hollow laugh. “You only care about the end result, don’t you, Mr. Nunez? Why do you care about the process? Are you gonna sign the divorce papers, or not?”
    Hayleigh looked up at Damian anxiously, voice tight and pleading. “Damian, you promised you’d marry me. This marriage was never meant to be hers in the first place-it was mine. I’m back now, and you have to keep your promise.”
    Damian lifted a hand, brushing his fingers gently over her soft cheek, before glancing at Gabriella, expression dark and unreadable. “Marry you? Of course I will. I’m gonna finalize the divorce with this woman right now.”
    The tenderness in his eyes as he looked at Hayleigh cut through Gabriella’s chest like a knife. In that moment, she realized with a sickening jolt that Damian had never looked at her with that much softness. Not once in all their years together.
    “Damian, I knew you’d always choose me,” Hayleigh cooed, snuggling happily into his chest, shooting Gabriella a triumphant, challenging smirk over his shoulder.
    Gabriella dropped her gaze to the floor, refusing to look at the sight shattering her heart. She could barely tell if the searing pain was from the bullet wound in her side, or the one that had just split open her chest.
    Damian picked up the divorce agreement, flipping through the pages until he landed on the clause Gabriella had amended. His pupils constricted violently, voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly rumble. “You’re waiving every single right to the Nunez family fortune? You’re walking away with nothing? A clean break?”
    Gabriella forced the words out through gritted teeth, voice hoarse and broken. “If we’re getting a divorce, we’re cutting ties completely. I want nothing from you.”
    Once she’d made up her mind, she never turned back.
    Four years. Her four years with him were over. It was time to leave, for good.
    Damian’s handsome face shifted, a storm of conflicting emotions raging in his deep eyes, disdain plain to see. “That’s so you, Gabriella. You always have to be this ruthless with everything. Let’s go. The courthouse.”

    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable Chapter 2 She was shot in a calculated attack

    A bitter smile tugged at Gabriella’s lips. So this was what she’d always been to him.
    An hour later, Gabriella and Damian Nunez stepped out of the New York City Civil Courthouse, each holding a finalized divorce decree in their hand.
    Hayleigh Blair waited eagerly by the curb, eyes lighting up the second she saw the divorce papers in Damian’s hand. She’d finally earned the right to be Damian Nunez’s wife, fair and square.
    She put on a fake look of concern as she glanced at Gabriella. Something had shifted in the woman-her striking features were even more captivating now, but there was a cold, unapproachable edge to her that made it hard to meet her eye.
    Hayleigh had always been jealous of that face. Now, she’d never have to look at it again.
    “The family doesn’t want you anymore, and you walked away with nothing,” Hayleigh simpered, voice sickly sweet. “Do you even have anywhere to go?”
    In her eyes, Gabriella was nothing but a backwoods hick from the Ohio Rust Belt. It had been a blessing for her to even be tied to the Blair household, and now that blessing was gone.
    Gabriella let out a cold, humorless laugh. Even now, Hayleigh was still pretending to care about her.
    Memories flashed through her mind, sharp and unforgiving: when the Blairs found out she’d been switched at birth, they’d shipped her off to live with distant relatives in the Rust Belt the second she was born, never checking in, never caring. They’d only brought her back to New York when she turned 18-the same year she’d met Damian Nunez.
    Hayleigh, the Blairs’ real daughter, had been found two years prior, immediately sent to an elite private boarding school in Switzerland, all to make her worthy of old-money heir Damian Nunez.
    It wasn’t until Hayleigh returned to New York for good that Gabriella learned the truth: the family had found their real daughter, and they wanted nothing to do with her anymore.
    They’d never raised her. Cutting ties meant nothing to her. She’d only come back to New York to find out what had happened to her birth parents.
    She’d also finally learned why she’d been sent away in the first place: she was never a Blair, not by blood.
    And just a few days prior, she’d overheard Damian’s friends talking, and learned the truth: Damian had met the sweet, innocent Hayleigh on a business trip to Europe, and fallen head over heels at first sight. When Hayleigh came back to New York, they’d fallen into a whirlwind romance.
    Hayleigh had even sent Gabriella explicit photos of her and Damian in bed, over and over, just to taunt her, to humiliate her.
    A homewrecker, bold and unapologetic to the extreme.
    Gabriella shot her a single, indifferent glance. “Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Blair. Where I go is none of your business.”
    She didn’t spare Damian a single look. Spine perfectly straight, she hailed a yellow cab on the side of the road and climbed inside, the door slamming shut behind her.
    She’d walked away so decisively because she knew the other terrible thing Damian had done.
    Damian’s hand tightened around the divorce decree until his knuckles turned white, veins bulging in his forearm. She’d left without even glancing at him. Not once.
    But why had her gait been so off? So strange?
    He stared at the cab as it disappeared into New York traffic, gaze fixed on the empty road long after it was gone, unable to look away.
    “Damian, this is perfect!” Hayleigh gushed, clinging to his arm. “That backwoods hick is finally gone, and we can be together, properly, for everyone to see.”
    She was so overjoyed, she could barely wait to call her parents and tell them the good news.
    A cold glint flashed through Damian’s eyes, but his voice was soft and tender when he spoke. “Hayleigh, let me drive you home.”
    “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Hayleigh beamed. “Daddy will be so happy when he hears you’re divorced. Let’s go home and tell him the good news right now!”
    Damian’s eyes swirled with barely restrained emotion, unreadable to anyone but himself. He looked down at the sweet, innocent young woman in front of him, and smiled a soft, gentle smile. “Of course, Hayleigh. Let’s go tell your father right now.”
    “Yes!” Hayleigh was ecstatic. She’d finally gotten rid of Gabriella for good. Gone completely. It was all thanks to her mother’s flawless plan, the one that had gotten Damian and Gabriella divorced once and for all.
    Damian pulled the car to a stop in front of the Blair family’s grand Upper East Side townhouse. His phone buzzed in his pocket, caller ID flashing the CEO of H.Y. Holdings. He told Hayleigh to get out of the car and wait for him inside.
    Hayleigh nodded obediently, climbing out and waiting on the front steps.
    “Hello?” Damian answered, voice low and gravelly, features sharp and cold.
    A mocking, yet deeply impressed voice came through the line. “Well, well. Your sales director’s got some real nerve. Showed up at my warehouse with a knife to my throat, made me sign that damn contract. I put a bullet in her side, and she dug that slug out with her bare hands right in front of me. I’ve never admired a woman in my life, but your Gabriella? She’s the one. She still breathing?”
    Damian’s pupils constricted violently, his blood turning to ice in his veins. “What did you just say?”

    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable Chapter 3 Left, picked up by a luxury car

    Damian hung up the phone, knuckles white around the device, and immediately dialed his executive assistant’s number.
    “Where is Gabriella Blair?”
    “Mr. Nunez, Miss Blair stopped by the estate briefly earlier. She grabbed a single suitcase and left.”
    Damian had known she would leave, but he’d never imagined she’d vanish this fast. Shot, and with nowhere to go?
    “Did she say where she was going?”
    “No, sir. But Director Blair was picked up by a multi-million dollar luxury vehicle. A man was behind the wheel-handsome, clearly extremely wealthy.”
    A sheet of ice instantly descended over Damian’s dark eyes. He slowly set the phone down on his desk, face schooled into a mask of casual indifference, even as rage and venom coiled tight in his chest.
    Divorced for less than a day, and she’s already being chauffeured around by some rich bastard. She never loved me at all, did she? That’s why she betrayed me without a second thought.
    Gabriella, you’re really something.
    Gabriella had been picked up by her older brother, Andrew Carlisle, and driven straight to Carlisle Manor-the Carlisle Foundation’s palatial, heavily guarded private estate in the heart of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Andrew had been called away on urgent foundation business, leaving her alone in the manor. He had no idea she’d been shot.
    She lay back on the soft, custom-made king-sized bed, staring at the familiar, opulent surroundings of the suite she hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. She couldn’t hold on any longer. Her face was deathly pale, cold sweat beading and dripping down her forehead. The searing pain from the bullet wound in her side, tangled with the crushing heartache in her chest, was unbearable.
    She lay there weak and exhausted, eyes closed, long lashes trembling softly. She couldn’t understand it. How could two people who’d once loved each other so deeply, fall apart so completely, so suddenly?
    Every memory of the past four years with Damian flashed through her mind-the soft, tender look in his eyes that was once only for her, a look that now belonged to someone else forever. The thought sent a searing, tearing pain through her chest.
    It turned out even the most heartfelt vows had an expiration date.
    There was another reason she’d been so determined to finalize the divorce: she was pregnant.
    But Damian had eyes and ears everywhere, his reach endless across Wall Street and Manhattan. She could never, under any circumstances, let him find out about the baby.
    After she’d been shot, she’d dug the bullet out of her own side with her bare hands. She’d refused anesthesia, terrified it would harm the baby growing inside her.
    Her mind drifted to the promise she’d made her grandfather, the head of the Carlisle Foundation, all those years ago. She’d finally made her decision: she would return home, take her rightful place as the sole heir to the Carlisle legacy.
    She had finally let go of this broken relationship for good. It was time to return to where she truly belonged, to step back into her true identity: Gabriella Carlisle.
    One Month Later.
    Early autumn, bright and sun-drenched.
    Gabriella’s wound had fully healed. She stepped out of Carlisle Manor, slipping a pair of oversized designer sunglasses over her eyes. She stared up at the brilliant sunlight, a deep, unbridled smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
    For a month, she’d lain low here, cutting off all contact with the outside world.
    She wore a sharp, tailored crimson blazer, her red lipstick bold and vivid, her smile unruly and free. She climbed into the waiting luxury sedan at the curb, and gave the driver a single instruction: the Nunez Group headquarters. She was going to collect the last of her things from her office.
    At the base of the Nunez Group skyscraper.
    Gabriella pulled open the car door, and came face to face with Damian Nunez, who was just stepping out of the building. Beside him stood Hayleigh Blair, her smile soft and demure, her arm looped through his.
    The tender, loving look in Damian’s eyes as he glanced down at Hayleigh stabbed straight through Gabriella’s chest. Her hand at her side clenched into a tight fist, unbidden.
    Hayleigh’s eyes flicked to Gabriella, a flash of surprise crossing her face-what was she doing back here? But her expression smoothed over instantly, and she shot Gabriella a challenging, triumphant smile. “Blair, long time no see!” she greeted, voice sickly sweet.
    Gabriella ignored her completely.
    Damian looked at Gabriella with a lazy, mocking smirk, his gaze sweeping past her to the multi-million dollar luxury sedan idling behind her. Their eyes locked, and his sharp, penetrating gaze drifted, almost imperceptibly, to her side where the bullet wound had been.
    He let out a cold, sharp laugh, disgust swirling in the depths of his eyes. “You’ve got quite the life, Blair. Took a bullet to the side, and you’re still up and walking around like nothing happened. You’re lucky to be alive.”
    A sharp, searing pain lanced through Gabriella’s chest. The heart he’d broken hadn’t gone numb; it hurt worse than ever, now that he’d said it out loud. “My apologies for not dying and disappointing you,” she said, voice flat and cold. “I’m just here to collect my things from my office, then I’ll be gone.”
    Damian stared at her cold, emotionless gaze, his eyes growing darker, more frigid, more bloodthirsty by the second. “No wonder you walked away with nothing in the divorce, Gabriella. You already had your next sugar daddy lined up, didn’t you? You’re absolutely shameless.”
    The words stabbed into her chest like a knife. Gabriella looked up at his cruel, smirking face, and let out a cold, bitter laugh. “You cheated on your wife while you were still married, Mr. Nunez. What right do you have to call me shameless?”
    She stepped past the two of them, spine perfectly straight, and walked toward the glass doors of the Nunez Group skyscraper.
    Damian’s furious voice boomed out from behind her, sharp and unyielding: “Gabriella! Stop right there!”

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