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Tag: Suspense

  • Rejected Bride: Married To The Dragon King novel by Catlaina Sloggett Read Online

    Rejected Bride: Married To The Dragon King novel by Catlaina Sloggett

    Blurb

    I knelt on the cold stone of the Dragon God Altar, waiting to marry Lord Harper Carney. It was my only chance to escape the gilded cage of my family.

    But when Harper finally arrived, he wasn’t alone. His arm was wrapped tightly around my cousin, Hettie.

    Right in front of the entire court, he coldly announced that our marriage was a mistake.

    Hettie leaned into his embrace, wearing a triumphant smile while playing the innocent victim.

    The assembled nobles openly jeered at me. They mocked my greatest failing—that I was a worthless “Dragonless” born without the inner fire.

    My own father was furious, not at them, but at me. He demanded I go to Hettie’s estate and beg for her forgiveness.

    When I refused, he threatened to cut off all my funds and revoke my only job at the Royal Scribes’ Office.

    I was publicly abandoned, stripped of my dignity, and left with absolutely nothing.

    I didn’t cry, and I didn’t scream. Why should I be the one to apologize when they were the ones who betrayed me?

    For years, I had endured their abuse, treated like a pawn to be sacrificed at will. But looking at their smug faces, my despair turned into cold resolve.

    I took off my betrothal coronet and dropped it at Harper’s feet, publicly nullifying the contract myself.

    I thought I would have to face the ruin alone, until a mysterious, powerful man with burning golden eyes stepped out of the shadows.

    “Marry me,” he said. “I will be your shield, and we will crush them together.”

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    Rejected Bride: Married To The Dragon King novel Chapter 1

    Addison Jordan POV:

    I stood before the Dragon God Altar, the silk of my white gown whispering against my skin. It felt like a lie.

    The murmur of the crowd was a physical thing, hundreds of pairs of eyes pressing into my back. Each whisper was a tiny needle.

    The ceremonial fires had been lit for an hour.

    My fiancé, Lord Harper Carney, was late.

    My fingernails dug into my palms. The sharp, clean pain was an anchor in the rising tide of humiliation. It was the only thing that felt real.

    A ripple of movement went through the crowd. A gasp.

    My head snapped up. Hope, sharp and foolish, pierced through the dread.

    I saw him then, cutting a path through the assembled nobility. But he wasn’t alone.

    His arm was wrapped tight around my stepsister, Lady Hettie Conway. Her smile was sickeningly sweet, the triumphant bloom of a well-tended weed.

    Every sound in the grand hall—the crackling fires, the rustling silks, the whispers—vanished. All I could hear was the frantic, desperate hammering of my own heart against my ribs.

    They walked toward me, each step a deliberate desecration of what was supposed to be my sacred moment. They were walking on my dignity, grinding it into the cold stone floor.

    Hettie leaned into Harper’s side, her gaze a cloying mix of pity and pride. “Addison,” she purred, her voice just loud enough to carry. “I’m so sorry we’re late.”

    The victory in her tone was a dagger, twisted with practiced grace.

    “Harper loves me,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that everyone could hear. She tilted her head, showing off the necklace she wore. The starlight pendant. The one I had designed. The one meant for the Lady of House Carney. “You should be happy for us.”

    I looked at Harper. The man who had sworn his future to me just last week. His face held no guilt. Only impatience and a flicker of contempt.

    “Addison,” he said, his voice cold and dismissive. “It is what it is. Our betrothal is at an end.”

    The words were a thunderclap in the sudden silence. I was now officially the greatest joke in the capital.

    I could feel the shock, quickly followed by the delicious, hidden delight of the crowd. A scandal was always more entertaining than a ceremony.

    I forced my spine straight. I would not crumble. Not for them.

    I met his gaze, my own as cold as the grave. “Lord Carney,” I said, my voice steady. “I thank you for showing me your true character. From this moment, there is nothing between us.”

    Harper’s brow furrowed, his pride stung by my composure. “Who do you think you are?” he sneered, his voice laced with venom. “You’re a dragonless woman. Without the protection of my house, you are nothing.”

    I didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say.

    I turned my back on them, on the life that had just been stolen from me.

    And as I turned, my eyes scanned the edge of the crowd, searching for an escape. My gaze snagged on a figure standing alone in the shadows of a great pillar, apart from the gossiping throng.

    He was tall, his silhouette a stark cut of darkness against the flickering torchlight.

    The light was too dim to see his face clearly, but I could see his eyes. They were the color of molten gold.

    His gaze cut through the crowd, through the noise and the spectacle. It held no pity, no mockery. It was a deep, searing regard that seemed to see straight through the shattered facade to the wreck beneath.

    For a single, bizarre moment, the frantic rhythm of my heart steadied. It was like finding a solid piece of rock in the middle of a churning, frozen sea.

    He just watched me. As if he were the only other person in the room, the sole witness to my public execution.

    Hettie’s shill voice cut through the air behind me, unwilling to let me have the last word. “A dragonless nobody, abandoned at the altar! You’re worthless now, Addison!”

    My feet faltered for a second.

    Then I walked faster, fleeing the whispers, the stares, the ruin of my life.

    But the stranger’s gaze followed me, a brand of heat on the back of my neck.

    Rejected Bride: Married To The Dragon King novel Chapter 2

    Addison Jordan POV:

    I fled down the altar steps, the sound of my own breathing harsh in my ears. The laughter and whispers of the crowd felt like a physical pursuit.

    A wave of cloying perfume washed over me, and Hettie caught up, blocking my path. Her face was a mask of false concern that made my stomach churn.

    “Addison, don’t be like this. I know you’re upset,” she began, her voice dripping with counterfeit sympathy. “But you can’t blame Harper. Who would want to marry a dragonless woman, whose blood runs cold?”

    The term was a common slur for those of us who couldn’t transform. A reminder that I was lesser. Incomplete.

    I stopped, my gaze flat and empty. “Move. We have nothing more to say to each other.”

    My coldness seemed to finally crack her facade. The feigned sweetness vanished, replaced by the raw, ugly spite I knew so well. “You think you’re still the high and mighty daughter of House Jordan? You’re a public disgrace! A joke!”

    She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss meant only for me. “Everything that was yours will soon be mine. Your chambers, your status, Father’s favor.”

    Her words were poison, meant to find purchase in my deepest insecurities. But the part of me that could feel was already numb.

    A thin, cold smile touched my lips. “Is that so? Then you had best pray that stolen things bring you luck.”

    I pushed past her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a fight. I knew any reaction, any anger, would only feed her triumph.

    I finally escaped the main hall, finding refuge in a quiet, deserted corridor. The sudden silence was a relief, but it couldn’t quiet the storm inside me.

    A low, resonant voice spoke from behind me.

    “She’s wrong.”

    I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. It was him. The man from the shadows.

    He stepped out of the pillar he’d been standing in, his tall frame seeming to shrink the corridor. Up close, his eyes were even more arresting—a pure, liquid gold that was the legendary mark of a pure-blood dragon.

    A jolt of alarm went through me. I took an instinctive step back. “Who are you?”

    He didn’t answer, just closed the distance between us with slow, deliberate strides. He moved with a predator’s grace, utterly silent.

    I caught his scent then—a strange, clean smell of ozone after a lightning strike, mixed with something ancient, like smoke and hot metal. It wasn’t a cologne. It was the scent of power.

    He stopped three paces from me, his golden gaze intense. “You are not worthless, Lady Jordan. Your value is far beyond their comprehension.”

    I stared at him, speechless. In a day filled with betrayal and scorn, he was the first person to offer a single word of anything else.

    I took a moment to truly look at him. He wore a simple, dark tunic, impeccably tailored but unadorned with the crest of any house I recognized. Everything about him screamed power, but a quiet, restrained power, unlike the flashy peacocks of the capital.

    “I don’t understand your meaning, my lord,” I said, my voice tight with caution, falling back on the formality of court.

    A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He didn’t seem to mind my wariness. “It’s quite simple. I saw your predicament. And I heard their foolishness.”

    His golden eyes held a glint of something I couldn’t decipher. “And I, as it happens, have a predicament of my own. I was also stood up by my intended bride today.”

    He said it so casually, as if discussing the weather.

    My jaw dropped. I couldn’t form a coherent thought.

    He held out a hand toward me. It was a large hand, strong and calloused, a warrior’s hand. “Since we have both been so inconveniently abandoned,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Perhaps we should make a pair.”

    My mind went completely blank. The world tilted on its axis.

    “Marry me, Lady Jordan,” he said, his gaze locking with mine. His tone was calm, but it held a weight, a command, that was impossible to ignore. “In return, I will be your shield. I will stand between you and all the storms to come.”

    The proposal was madness. Utter insanity.

    But as I stood there, stripped of my future, my name, my dignity, his offer wasn’t a proposition.

    It was a lifeline.

    I stared into the bottomless gold of his eyes, my heart pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm.

    Rejected Bride: Married To The Dragon King novel Chapter 3

    Addison Jordan POV:

    I stared at the man before me, his outrageous proposal hanging in the air. It was a mad gamble. But I was a gambler who had just lost everything. I had no more chips to lose.

    I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force the chaos in my mind into some semblance of order. “I don’t even know your name, my lord,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

    He seemed to have expected the question. His golden eyes were calm, unreadable. “Albion Ballard. I am a lord from the borderlands.”

    A border lord. It made sense. It explained the raw, untamed power that clung to him, so different from the polished, perfumed nobles of the capital.

    I needed a shield. An identity that would free me from the clutches of House Jordan and the lingering stain of the Carneys.

    “What are your terms?” I asked. That was the crucial question.

    “A contract marriage,” he replied, his voice crisp and direct. “We will be husband and wife in name, to satisfy the world. In private, we are allies. We do not interfere in each other’s lives.”

    The words were a balm to my raw nerves. My greatest fear was trading one cage for another.

    I met his intense gaze. “If I agree, I need your word. This marriage will not be another set of chains.”

    “You have my word,” he said, his voice low and certain. “You will have the freedom you desire. The contract will last until we mutually agree to end it.”

    I was silent for a long moment. My father’s cold face flashed in my mind, then Harper’s betrayal, Hettie’s triumphant smirk. I could not, would not, be their victim any longer.

    This was a leap into the unknown, but staying put was a death sentence.

    I made my decision. I raised my hand and placed it in his outstretched palm.

    His hand was warm and dry, enveloping mine. A strange, unexpected current of heat flowed from his skin to mine, chasing away some of the bone-deep chill that had settled in me. It was the first warmth I had felt all day.

    “I accept, Lord Ballard.”

    He closed his hand around mine, a firm, possessive grip. The corner of his mouth lifted in that ghost of a smile. “A wise choice, Lady Jordan.”

    He didn’t release my hand. Instead, he turned and led me back towards the Dragon God Altar. We weren’t heading for the main stage, but to a small, secluded chamber where an elder sat recording the day’s betrothals.

    The elder looked up, his face a mask of shock as he saw me—the abandoned bride—now on the arm of a stranger.

    Albion wasted no time on pleasantries. He reached into his tunic and produced a heavy, dark metal signet ring, pressing it onto the elder’s desk. It was carved with a complex dragon motif I didn’t recognize.

    The moment the elder saw the signet, his shock morphed into pure, undiluted awe. He scrambled to his feet, bowing his head so low his chin nearly touched his chest. “My lord,” he stammered.

    My own confusion deepened. What was that signet that it could command such reverence? But this was not the time for questions.

    Under the elder’s trembling guidance, we completed the marriage contract under the silent watch of the Dragon God statue. There were no guests, no blessings. Just cold, formal vows and the scratch of a quill on parchment.

    When my name, Addison Jordan, was written next to Albion Ballard, a wave of dizziness washed over me. Hours ago, I was to be Lady Carney. Now, I was Lady Ballard.

    The ceremony was over in minutes. Albion handed me a copy of the parchment. “Keep this. It is your guarantee.”

    I took the heavy document, my new reality feeling fragile as dried ink.

    We walked out of the altar together. Most of the nobles had dispersed, eager to spread the day’s gossip.

    “To avoid unnecessary complications,” Albion said suddenly, his voice low. “I suggest we keep our arrangement private for now.”

    That suited me perfectly. “I agree,” I said quickly.

    He gave me a sideways glance. “You are the new project director for the Sterling Guild’s new development, are you not? The handover must be keeping you busy.”

    I stopped in my tracks and stared at him. “How did you know that?” My appointment was official only yesterday, known to no one outside the Guild’s highest echelons.

    He shrugged, his face giving nothing away. “I happen to know one of the board members.” The words came too smoothly—too practiced, like a line he’d rehearsed a hundred times.

    Smooth enough that my gut told me it was a lie—a pretty cover for an even prettier truth. But I didn’t press. First day of marriage. Pressing felt too serious, too heavy.

    It was only then that I realized—this man felt so close, yet so far. Close enough that I could smell the cedar on his cuffs. Far enough that I had no idea who he really was. Mystery stacked upon mystery, and I didn’t even have the strength to lift the first layer.

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  • Jilted Ex-Wife? The Secret Billionaire Heiress! novel by Hei Baidong Read Online

    Jilted Ex-Wife? The Secret Billionaire Heiress! novel by Hei Baidong

    Blurb

    I was in the hospital, enduring the agonizing pain of labor, while my husband, a famous hockey captain, refused to show up.

    When I called him for the twelfth time, begging for him, he lost his patience.

    “Giving birth is a woman’s job, don’t bother me with this stuff.”

    Then, I heard my stepsister’s sweet voice offering him a drink, and he immediately softened before hanging up on me.

    I gave birth to twins all by myself.

    The nurses treated me with cold indifference, and the family in the next bed loudly mocked me as a pathetic “Puck Bunny” who was just an adopted orphan about to be dumped.

    They were right. A month ago, my husband had thrown divorce papers at me, demanding I make way because my stepsister was pregnant with his child.

    I thought my life was a joke. I was just a discarded prop he married to satisfy his grandfather, a fake daughter my adoptive parents only used to elevate my stepsister.

    I was completely alone, ready to sign the papers just to protect my two babies.

    But then, the head of the hospital rushed in, transferred me to the top-floor VIP suite, and handed me a DNA test.

    It turned out I wasn’t an unwanted orphan, but the long-lost daughter of the ultra-wealthy Sinclair family who had been searching for me for twenty years.

    Looking at my billionaire parents and three powerful brothers who just flew in on their private jets to protect me, I picked up my phone to call my arrogant husband.

    This time, I was going to make him leave with nothing.

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    Jilted Ex-Wife? The Secret Billionaire Heiress! novel Chapter 1

    ANYA POV:

    When I was lying in the operating room with postpartum hemorrhage and in urgent need of a family consent form during emergency situations, the twelve phone calls I made to my husband with my last strength were not worth one tenth of the hockey stick in his hand.

    The operating room was in chaos. The monitor screamed and the nurses ran around.

    After a day and a night of childbirth, my body was exhausted. Every pulse took away warm, sticky blood and slipped away from me quietly. I knew I was going to die. I could feel it.

    Two years of marriage, and I should have known. I was just a prop he married to satisfy his family.

    But for the sake of my unborn child, I continued to make one last effort.

    This was the thirteenth time I had called him.

    Waiting in agony, I heard the call connect.

    But it wasn’t his voice. It was his assistant’s, crisp and professional. “Mr. Knight is in a critical strategy meeting before tonight’s game, Mrs. Knight.”

    My voice was so weak I could barely hear it. “Please, let me say something to him, just once…… Maybe after today, he won’t have to answer my calls anymore. ”

    A moment of silence. Then, I heard Keenan’s voice, laced with irritation. The background noise was unmistakable-the sharp tap of hockey sticks on a locker room floor.

    “Anya, what trick are you playing now? Didn’t I tell you every pre-game meeting is crucial?”

    My eyes were blurred with tears. “Keenan, I know you always wanted me to sign that divorce agreement. Now I agree to your request. As long as you come to the hospital—”

    He cut me off, his tone brutal. “Giving birth is a woman’s job. You have doctors and nurses for that. Don’t bother me with this stuff. You can’t afford to be responsible for messing with the team’s focus.”

    Just as I was about to speak again and beg for help, another voice. Sweet, familiar, and dripping with poison. “Keenan, the competition is about to start.don’t let irrelevant people upset you. Come try the energy drink I made for you.”

    The daughter of my adoptive family, Kinley Hayes.

    Keenan’s voice instantly softened. “Okay, babe.”

    The line went dead.

    I let the phone slip from my numb fingers. Tears mixed with the sweat on my face.

    I gave up the struggle, and numbly closed my eyes.

    But nurse Miller suddenly rushed in. “Dr. Reynolds! The mother’s family has just signed the consent form. We’re ready for the operation!”

    When I heard these words, my eyes, which I had just closed, slowly opened again.

    My adoptive parents?

    No, they would rather have me die than let this happen. I couldn’t help but wonder whether maybe the family of one of their patients signed the wrong form.

    But I no longer had the time to care about these things. The darkness had blinded my eyes.

    When I opened my eyes once again, I found myself in a regular ward. Two small, transparent baby beds were placed beside my bed.

    Through the clear plastic, I saw two tiny, wrinkled beings. One slept peacefully, the other waved a minuscule fist in the air. So small. So fragile.

    My children… they are all alive. I am also alive.

    Tears flowed from my eyes as I stretched out my trembling hand, pressing my fingers against the smooth plastic surface of the baby cribs, as if I could feel their warmth through them.

    At that moment, I suddenly remembered the person who signed the informed consent form for the emergency treatment.

    Just as I was about to call the nurse to ask about this matter, the TV on the wall flashed briefly. Someone must have changed the channel. Live sports news began to play in the room.

    “Keenan Knight leads his team to a stunning victory tonight! The star player delivered an unforgettable performance, securing their place in the finals!”

    My eyes snapped open.

    On the screen, Keenan stands in the middle of the rink, arms raised in triumph. The crowd roars behind him. His face is all smiles—the same face that had called me a trick just hours ago.

    And then the camera panned.

    Kinley was there, at his side, clinging to his arm. Her head leaned against his shoulder. She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed.

    The news anchor’s voice continued, “And it looks like the victory isn’t the only good news for Knight tonight! Rumors are swirling that he and his long-time girlfriend, influencer Kinley Hayes, are getting closer to making things official. Wedding bells might be ringing soon for this golden couple!”

    Golden couple. Long-time girlfriend. Wedding bells.

    My chest hurts terribly. But I swallowed the pain back down. I looked at my child again… I couldn’t collapse now.

    In this crowded ward, there were two other beds. Both of these beds were surrounded by family members. The husband held the wife’s hand. The mothers were busy taking care of the newborns. The grandparents laughed as they watched the babies. The room was filled with conversations, laughter, and expressions of love.

    My corner was completely silent. I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep, trying to ignore all this chaos.

    “Look, that’s the woman who married Keenan Knight. I heard she’s just an adopted daughter with no background.”

    “Her husband didn’t even show up for the birth. Tsk, tsk. Being a rich man’s wife isn’t easy.”

    “I heard Keenan’s real love is her influencer sister. This marriage is probably about to end.”

    “She’s so pathetic. A Puck Bunny who thought she could climb the ladder, only to get kicked off.”

    I clenched the blanket, my nails digging into my palm. That was what they thought of me. I didn’t marry him for his fame or his money.

    The malicious speculation was a physical pain, worse than the tearing of childbirth. Humiliation and grief made it hard to breathe.

    As I turned my head, my two babies were snoring softly beside me. They were my only comfort in this world.

    I gently took my daughter’s tiny hand.

    This one-woman show was over. For my children, I had to leave him.

    Jilted Ex-Wife? The Secret Billionaire Heiress! novel Chapter 2

    ANYA POV:

    The whispers from the next bed and Keenan’s cold voice played on a loop in my head. I lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling until it turned a pale, sickly gray.

    When the morning nurse came to the ward, she saw my pale face and my red, swollen eyes. She sighed and urged me to eat something for the children.

    I mechanically scooped up the oatmeal from the hospital bowl and put it into my mouth. It was tasteless, just like swallowing my own humiliation.

    My thoughts drifted back, unbidden, to how this marriage began.

    I was the Hayes family’s adopted daughter, a permanent outsider. They provided food, shelter, and an education, but never any real love.

    I met Keenan at a charity gala. He was the star hockey player, bathed in the spotlight. I was the unremarkable girl in the corner.

    His pursuit had been flattering. I thought I was Cinderella, meeting my prince. Looking back now, I realized he just needed a docile, obedient wife with a simple background to decorate his public image.

    And Kinley, the Hayes’s biological daughter, was an angel in public and a demon in private, tormenting me in the cruelest ways.

    After we got married, Keenan moved her into our home, using the excuse that “Kinley just had a breakup and needs company.”

    Then one day, I discovered that the recommendation letter for my application to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris had mysteriously vanished. Later, I saw Kinley in a local fashion campaign, using a portfolio with a design concept eerily similar to mine.

    From that day on, our house was no longer my home. Keenan’s eyes always followed Kinley. I became the extra, the inconvenient wife.

    Later, Keenan threw a divorce agreement in front of me, right after I’d found out I was pregnant. “Anya, Kinley is pregnant with my child,” he’d said. “We need to give the baby a legitimate family. Sign it. Don’t make this difficult for me.”

    Until then, I had always refused, naively believing that a child might win back his heart.

    What a joke.

    I looked down at the tiny baby in my arms, the other sleeping peacefully beside me.

    They didn’t deserve to grow up in a loveless home filled with lies.

    A divorce. I had to get a divorce.

    Suddenly Nurse Miller walked in, “Mrs. Knight, the head of obstetrics, Dr. Sinclair, is coming for rounds.”

    I was surprised. The department head usually only visited VIPs or patients with special cases. I was just an ordinary new mother.

    A few minutes later, a distinguished man in a white coat entered. He was around fifty, with gold-rimmed glasses and a gentle but sharp, assessing gaze.

    This was Julian Sinclair.

    He walked to my bedside and smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Knight. How are you feeling?” His voice was warm, a stark contrast to everyone else’s indifference.

    “I’m fine, thank you, Dr. Sinclair,” I replied, a little overwhelmed.

    His gaze fell on the two bassinets beside me, and his eyes instantly softened, a flicker of emotion crossing his face. “May I see the children?”

    I nodded. He leaned over, looking at my son and daughter with an intensity that felt personal.

    “They are beautiful,” he said softly. “They look like you.” His eyes returned to my face as he studied my features carefully.

    I felt a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny and instinctively looked away.

    Perhaps due to the awkward atmosphere at that moment, Nurse Miller tried to lighten the mood by smiling and telling me that the person who signed the informed consent form for my family members was Dr. Sinclair.

    I was suddenly shocked.

    But why would he do such a thing? We had never seen him act like this before. Why would he save me?

    Before I could ask any questions, he walked to my bedside and asked, “May I ask you a few questions?”

    I was confused but nodded.

    “Your family… I mean, your biological parents. Do they have any particular medical history?” he asked.

    I shook my head, a bitter taste in my mouth. “I don’t know. I’m an orphan. I was adopted.”

    Julian’s expression seemed more excited when he heard this answer. “And your blood type? Do you know it?”

    I replied. ” O-negative with the Rh-negative factor. The nurses mentioned it’s rare.”

    Hearing this, Julian clenched his hand into a fist. He adjusted his glasses, trying to calm his breathing.

    His reaction was deeply strange. Why would the Head of Obstetrics be so interested in my background and blood type?

    He looked at my face, as if seeing someone else through me, and murmured, “So similar, truly so similar…”

    I grew even more bewildered. “Doctor, is there a problem?”

    Julian snapped back to the present, offering me a reassuring smile. “No, nothing. Just confirming some medical information. You should get some rest.”

    He turned and left the ward, his pace much quicker than when he had arrived.

    I watched him leave, and a strange feeling pierced through my back. Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly. His questions, his gaze… everything was too strange.

    And also, why did he sign that notice of family consent, essentially guaranteeing my life?

    A sense of foreboding settled over me.

    Jilted Ex-Wife? The Secret Billionaire Heiress! novel Chapter 3

    ANYA POV:

    I tried to push Julian’s odd behavior out of my mind, focusing all my attention on my two babies.

    I clumsily learned how to feed them, how to change their diapers. Nurse Miller was patient, her presence the only warmth I felt in this cold, sterile place.

    In the afternoon, the ward door opened again. Julian was back.

    He was followed by two nurses pushing a hospital bed that looked far more advanced and comfortable than mine.

    My stomach tightened. I thought something was wrong with me or the babies, that we needed to be moved to a special care unit.

    Julian walked to my bedside, his face holding a smile I couldn’t understand, a mixture of joy and heartache. “Ms. Hayes, we’re moving you to a different room.”

    I was a little anxious, “Why? Is my children’s health…”

    He cut me off, his tone gentle but firm. “No, you and the children are fine. It’s just that this environment is too noisy. It’s not conducive to your recovery.”

    I felt a pang of anxiety. “But… I don’t have the money for a private room.” Keenan never gave me extra money. My credit card limit wouldn’t cover the cost of an expensive private room.

    Julian’s expression dimmed for a moment, then his voice became even softer. “Don’t worry about the cost. Everything has been arranged. Consider it humanitarian care from the hospital for a special case.”

    The reason sounded flimsy, but his demeanor left no room for argument.

    The families at the other beds watched with curiosity, whispering among themselves. Their stares made me uncomfortable.

    Two nurses efficiently packed my few belongings, while another carefully lifted my babies and placed them in a wheeled, temperature-controlled nursery cart.

    I was helped onto the new bed. The mattress was incredibly soft, the blanket a light, downy quilt.

    Led by Julian, we left the noisy ward.

    We didn’t go to the regular patient floors. Instead, we took a private elevator that required a special key card.

    The elevator ascended smoothly, stopping at the top floor. When the doors opened, I gasped.

    This didn’t look like a hospital at all. It was more like the executive floor of a five-star hotel. Thick carpets muffled our footsteps, art hung on the walls, and the air was filled with the faint scent of fresh flowers.

    The corridor was silent.

    Julian pushed open a door at the end of the hall and gestured for me to enter.

    It was a massive suite, with a separate living area, a bedroom, and a fully equipped kitchenette. A huge floor-to-ceiling window offered a breathtaking view of the Boston skyline.

    Sunlight streamed in, making the entire room bright and warm.

    It was heaven compared to my previous bed, which didn’t even have a view of the sky.

    I was too stunned to speak, just staring at the scene before me.

    The nurses placed my babies in the high-end cribs that were already set up in the bedroom, then quietly left, closing the door behind them.

    Only Julian and I remained in the suite.

    I finally found my voice, my words trembling. “Doctor… what is all this? I can’t afford this, I…”

    Julian walked over to me, his eyes a little red. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me.

    His voice was thick with emotion. “Child, you deserve all of this, and so much more. Because you are not an orphan.”

    My gaze fell to the envelope. The words “DNA Test Report” were printed on it. My heart began to pound against my ribs.

    I looked up, meeting his gaze, which was full of expectation and apology.

    He spoke slowly, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer suppress. “Before you open it, I want you to be prepared. What’s in this report will change your life completely. We… your family… we’ve been looking for you for many years.”

    My mind went blank. I couldn’t process the weight of his words. Family? My family?

    My knuckles were white from gripping the manila envelope. It felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds.

    “My… family?” I repeated the word, a foreign concept on my tongue.

    Julian sat on the sofa next to me, maintaining a respectful but close distance. His voice was filled with a mix of nostalgia and sorrow.

    He began to tell a story that had been buried for over two decades.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Old Lady of the Iron Crown novel by Edilaine Beckert

    Old Lady of the Iron Crown novel by Edilaine Beckert

    Blurb

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

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

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

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

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

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

    👉 READ NOW

    Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 1

    Roxy POV:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    My heart seized in my chest.

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

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

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

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

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

    The line went dead with a harsh, rhythmic tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 2

    Roxy POV:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The heavy clinic door clicked shut. Silence descended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Doc’s hand froze in midair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Ryder POV:

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

    10%… 45%… 88%…

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

    Beep.

    The screen flashed solid, blazing crimson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 3

    Roxy POV:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The clinic fell into complete, heavy isolation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Then, the iron frame beneath me began to hum.

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

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

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

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

    Then the roar hit.

    It wasn’t two bikes. It wasn’t ten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • The Healer Bride: Awakening the Ruined Dragon King novel by Zana Kheiron

    The Healer Bride: Awakening the Ruined Dragon King novel by Zana Kheiron

    Blurb

    I was the eldest daughter of the Reynolds family, but in a world that worshipped dragon power, I was born completely “Dragonless.”
    After ten years of being engaged to Prince Krishna, the King suddenly decreed that my fiancé would marry my half-sister Deena instead.
    As for me, my father ruthlessly discarded me.
    I was ordered to marry Lord Boyce Carlisle, a crippled, dying warlord with a shattered Dragon Core and failing organs.
    I was being sent to a desolate border fortress just to be a dying man’s nursemaid, and then his widow.
    Deena flaunted her triumphant smile, whispering maliciously in my ear.
    “This is the fate a ‘Dragonless’ deserves. You’re being sent there to be buried with him.”
    My father didn’t even look at me, treating my death sentence as a highly profitable political trade.
    The suffocating despair and humiliation drove me to tie a silk sash to the ceiling beam and kick the chair away.
    Why should I be thrown away like trash?
    Why did my mother and I have to die in obscurity while they celebrated their royal wedding?
    But as the noose tightened, a violent torrent of memories flooded my mind.
    I remembered my past life as a top surgeon on Earth who spent thirty years snatching lives back from the jaws of death.
    I didn’t die.
    I cut myself down, wiped away my tears, and looked at my hands.
    I would heal this dying warlord, and use him to drag every single one of them to hell.

    👉 READ NOW

    The Healer Bride: Awakening the Ruined Dragon King Chapter 1

    Aspen POV:

    The Royal Messenger stood in the center of House Reynolds’ grand hall, slowly unfurling a heavy parchment scroll embroidered with the King’s golden dragon claw sigil.

    “By royal decree of His Grace, King Gamaliel Carlisle.” The messenger’s voice boomed off the high vaulted ceilings, cutting through the suffocating silence. “The betrothal between Prince Krishna Carlisle and Lady Aspen of House Reynolds is hereby dissolved.”

    A collective, theatrical gasp rippled through the assembled family and retainers.

    “In its stead,” the messenger continued with formal gravity, “a new union is declared. Prince Krishna shall take to wife Lady Deena of House Reynolds. Furthermore, in recognition of House Reynolds’ enduring loyalty, His Grace grants Lady Aspen Reynolds in marriage to Lord Boyce Carlisle of Blackwood Keep.”

    Boyce Carlisle.

    The name dropped over the grand hall like a suffocating winter frost.

    Once the kingdom’s invincible War God, blessed with the purest Dragonflame lineage, Boyce was now nothing more than a ruined legend.

    His Dragon Core had been violently shattered in the northern abyssal wars, his rank stripped, his vitality drained.

    He had been left to rot in the desolate wasteland of Blackwood Keep—a crippled, paralyzed “corpse” who couldn’t even speak, let alone summon dragonflame.

    Every single eye in the hall locked onto me, waiting.

    Everyone in the capital knew that Prince Krishna had been my entire world since childhood.

    I had loved him with a devotion bordering on madness, carving his name into my heart and enduring years of ridicule for his sake.

    They had all gathered today expecting a spectacle.

    They expected me to fall to my knees, claw at my chest, scream in hysterical agony, and beg my father not to trade my beloved prince away for a living corpse.

    My stepmother, Eleanor, rested a manicured hand over her chest, pretending to be shaken while her eyes glittered with dark, predatory amusement.

    Beside her, my half-sister, Deena, wore an exquisite gown of shimmering silver dragon-scale silk.

    She took a delicate step forward, her eyes brimming with manufactured tears as she reached out to clasp my hands.

    “Oh, Aspen…” Deena whimpered softly, her voice dripping with sickly-sweet poison. “Please don’t hate me! I begged Father and Prince Krishna to reconsider! But the royal bloodline requires a dragon-blessed bride for Krishna… and Lord Boyce is in such desperate need of a gentle caretaker in the frozen north. I will pray for you every day, Aspen.”

    Her fingers tightened, her sharp nails deliberately digging into the soft skin of my palm in a private, vicious gesture of triumph.

    I looked down at her hands, then slowly lifted my gaze to meet her eyes.

    My heartbeat remained slow, even, and calm.

    There were no hot tears burning behind my eyelids.

    No trembling in my breath.

    My silver-gray eyes were cold, unreadable, and as still as a frozen sea.

    Deena’s rehearsed expression began to fracture.

    The fake tears dried instantly in her eyes as she shrank back from the unsettling stillness in my gaze.

    I withdrew my hands from hers without a single drop of hesitation and turned directly to the royal envoy.

    “I accept the King’s arrangement.”

    My voice was clear, ringing with effortless composure through the silent hall.

    The messenger blinked, his mouth parting slightly, completely taken aback by my absolute lack of resistance.

    Sitting upon the high seat, my father, Elder Fredrick Reynolds, narrowed his eyes, his knuckles tightening around his gilded cane.

    He had stationed guards at every exit, fully expecting another humiliating display of madness from the daughter he considered a disgrace.

    “Aspen,” Fredrick’s voice rumbled down, cold and completely devoid of paternal warmth. “Three days ago, you brought shame upon this house by trying to hang yourself over a broken betrothal. I will not tolerate any more tantrums. You will accept this decree with dignity.”

    I turned toward him, offering a shallow, flawlessly executed curtsy.

    “You need not worry, Father,” I replied, my voice smooth and devoid of any sorrow. “Since it is His Grace’s royal will, we should not delay. Please prepare the dowry that rightfully belongs to the firstborn daughter of House Reynolds—including every ledger, estate deed, and manuscript left behind by my late mother.”

    Eleanor’s breath hitched in sharp disbelief.

    Fredrick’s jaw tightened, unsettled by how easily I had taken control of the room. “You shall have your mother’s chest, Aspen. See to it that you leave for Blackwood Keep by dawn.”

    “Gladly, Father,” I said, a faint, razor-thin smile touching the corner of my lips.

    Without sparing another glance at Deena’s pale, confused face or the whispering crowd of retainers, I turned on my heel and walked out of the grand hall with steady, measured strides.

    They believed they were banishing a broken, lovesick girl to rot in an icy wasteland beside a dying beast.

    They had no idea that they had just set me free—and placed the most lethal weapon in the kingdom directly into my hands.

    I returned to my room and closed the door, shutting out their world.

    Reaching into the drawer, I pulled out a small, weathered wooden box.

    It had belonged to my mother—the only thing of value she had left me.

    I lifted the lid.

    Inside, several thick, leather-bound journals lay quietly among dried herbs.

    Boyce Carlisle.

    The ruined lord.

    I knew nothing about him, but that didn’t matter.

    He was the first piece on my new chessboard.

    The Healer Bride: Awakening the Ruined Dragon King Chapter 2

    Aspen POV:

    The heavy oak door to my chambers was kicked open without so much as a warning knock.

    Deena swept into the room like a gilded peacock, her silk gown shimmering with radiant Dragonflame embroidery.

    It was the ceremonial gown crafted for her upcoming royal engagement feast—a celebration that was supposed to have been mine.

    Two handmaidens scurried behind her, balancing velvet-lined jewel cases laden with royal rubies and enchanted dragon-gold.

    I didn’t look up from my desk.

    My fingers remained steady as I traced the fine botanical sketches in my mother’s worn leather journal, cataloging the neurotoxic and restorative properties of high-altitude mountain moss.

    I treated Deena’s arrival as nothing more than a passing, filthy draft of wind.

    My absolute indifference was a sharper slap than any shouted curse.

    Deena’s smug smile tightened into a brittle grimace.

    Striding across the room, her clawed hand shot out, snatching the leather journal from under my fingers and hurling it violently onto the stone floor.

    “Still playing with dirt and dried weeds?” Deena sneered, kicking the book against the baseboard. “A No-Dragon should learn how to beg at a real master’s feet, not grub around like a peasant in the mud.”

    I stayed still for a moment, then slowly bent down.

    I retrieved the book and gently brushed the dust from its weathered cover, keeping my face entirely blank.

    My silence only fed her twisted arrogance.

    Deena tilted her chin up, deliberately stroking the magnificent teardrop ruby resting against her collarbone.

    “A gift delivered from Prince Krishna himself,” she purred, her voice dripping with vanity. “He calls it The Dragon’s Blood. He told me its fire only belongs on skin as pure and noble as mine.”

    She took two steps closer, leaning down until her breath felt hot and cloying against my ear.

    “Do you want to know what else my sweet prince said about you, Aspen?” she whispered viciously. “He said you were a bore. A cold, defective No-Dragon whose very touch felt like handling dry clay. He said keeping you by his side made him feel like he was dragging a rock.”

    I slowly closed the leather journal, setting it back on the desk.

    Seeing that I still didn’t shed a tear, Deena’s eyes flashed with venomous frustration.

    Needing a heavier blade to draw blood, her lips curved into a wicked, deliberate sneer.

    “Then again, this whole pathetic, dirt-scrabbling existence makes sense,” Deena said, flicking her golden curls. “You’re the spitting image of that dead wretch you called a mother.”

    My pulse stopped.

    The air inside the room turned instantly frigid.

    “She was nothing but a lowborn apothecary slave who used cheap herbal aphrodisiacs to crawl into Father’s bed,” Deena hissed, stepping closer and jabbing a sharp finger toward my chest. “A worthless parasite without a single drop of dragon blood! The moment Father took my mother, your mother was thrown into the freezing courtyard like discarded garbage, coughing up her own lungs until she died alone in the dark. That’s the blood in your veins, Aspen. A lineage of beggars destined to rot!”

    The entire world fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

    Before Deena could even draw her next breath, my arm moved like a striking viper.

    My fingers clamped around her throat with crushing force.

    With a single, violent motion, I drove her backward.

    Her back slammed against the heavy stone wall with a sickening crack, shaking the candle sconces above us.

    Deena’s eyes bulged in instant terror.

    Her breath choked off into a strangled, wet wheeze as her hands frantically clawed at my wrist.

    But my grip was forged of unrelenting steel; she couldn’t move my fingers a fraction of an inch.

    I leaned in close, my silver-gray eyes locking onto hers with a lethal, absolute killing intent.

    “Deena Reynolds,” I whispered. My voice was quiet, smooth, and colder than the frozen peaks of Blackwood Keep. “You can take my former betrothed. You can parade your stolen jewels. You can play whatever games you want in this house.” I tightened my fingers slightly, feeling the violent tremor racking her entire body. “But if you ever drag my mother’s name through your filthy mouth again…” I leaned an inch closer, each word slicing like a razor blade across her skin, “…I swear on her grave, your grand royal wedding will be the day they bury you in the dirt.”

    For the first time in her pampered life, Deena saw true, unhinged danger.

    She realized with terrifying certainty that I wasn’t bluffing.

    I wouldn’t cry, and I wouldn’t beg.

    I would simply end her.

    Her face flushed a deep, mottled purple as tears of pure panic streamed down her cheeks.

    The two handmaidens dropped the velvet cases in horror, trembling in the doorway, too paralyzed by fear to scream for the guards.

    I held her there for three agonizing seconds, letting the cold terror sink deep into her bones, before releasing my grip.

    Deena collapsed onto the stone floor like a sack of silk and jewels, clutching her bruised throat, gasping desperately for air in ragged, terrified sobs.

    I stood over her, casually smoothing out the cuffs of my dress.

    Then, a faint, chilling smile touched my lips.

    I stepped over her trembling legs, reached down into one of the open cases scattered across the rug, and picked up a small, crystal jar sealed with gold wax.

    It was her prized royal beautifying balm—an expensive concoction of moon-lily oil and crushed pearl that she religiously applied to her neck and face every evening before any grand banquet.

    A perfect scheme for vengeance formed in my head.

    I weighed the cold crystal in my palm, and then, right before her terrified, tear-filled eyes, I slipped the jar into my pocket.

    “Get out of my room,” I said softly.

    The spell of pride was utterly broken.

    Deena scrambled to her hands and knees, clawing at the doorway before stumbling out into the corridor, her frantic weeping echoing down the stone halls as her maids fled behind her.

    The Healer Bride: Awakening the Ruined Dragon King Chapter 3

    Aspen POV:

    After Deena fled in hysterical terror, a heavy, cold stillness settled over the bedchamber.

    The lingering scent of her cloying perfume mixed with the sharp odor of fear.

    I walked over to the stone casement, watching her scurry across the torchlit courtyard below, clutching her bruised neck while her maids scrambled behind her.

    My hands were still steady—not a single tremor of hesitation, only the cold adrenaline of calculated retribution.

    I closed my eyes, and the bitter memories of the past flooded into my mind.

    I remembered my mother, Elara Beaumont.

    She had been the most brilliant apothecary in the realm, gifted with an unparalleled understanding of biological chemistry and medicinal flora.

    But because she was a No-Dragon, high society viewed her as little more than an outcast.

    When she met my father, Fredrick Reynolds, he was nothing more than an ambitious merchant upstart who had bought a petty noble title, plagued by a latent, crippling bloodline disease.

    It was my mother who spent sleepless nights formulating rare tinctures to purge his condition, single-handedly curing him and paving his ascension to the Council of Elders.

    Yet the moment Fredrick secured his wealth and power, he discarded her like an old shoe.

    He brought in Eleanor as his concubine, seduced by her claims of diluted dragon lineage—a glorified half-blood pedigree he foolishly believed would elevate him—while banishing my mother, his lawful wife, to a dilapidated pavilion on the outskirts of the estate to cough up blood until she died of a broken heart.

    Her dying words to me had been, “Aspen, never trust a Reynolds.”

    For years, I had been a blind fool, pouring my entire heart into Prince Krishna in a desperate search for love and belonging—only to walk the exact same tragic path as my mother.

    Three days ago, when Fredrick Reynolds marched into this room at Eleanor’s urging, coldly commanding me to yield my betrothal and legitimate status to Deena—his concubine’s daughter—and submit to being sold off to the ruined, paralyzed Boyce Carlisle, the final pillar of my sanity collapsed.

    Consumed by grief, betrayal, and unbearable despair, I tied a silk cord around the rafters and hung myself.

    Everyone in the manor believed it was a sheer miracle that I opened my eyes three days later.

    They had no idea that during those three days of comatose darkness, my soul had crossed the dimensional void into a parallel, hyper-advanced civilization known as the Modern World.

    In that world, I grew up as a penniless orphan.

    But in a society governed by merit, knowledge, and modern science, I rose through sheer grit, graduating at the absolute top of the nation’s premier medical academy.

    I devoted that entire lifetime to clinical surgery, neurotrauma, and advanced pharmacology—saving countless lives and pioneering revolutionary neural regeneration techniques that earned me the legendary title of The Peerless Healer.

    I lived that second life to a peaceful old age, closing my eyes on my deathbed—only to wake up in a sudden gasp back in my twenty-year-old body, precisely two days after my suicide.

    The weak, weeping girl who begged for Prince Krishna’s scraps of affection died on that cord.

    I had returned as a master surgeon and biochemical genius, armed with centuries of cutting-edge clinical mastery that this primitive world of swords and dragons could never comprehend.

    I opened my eyes.

    Every trace of sorrow was gone, replaced by absolute, glacial resolve.

    Walking back to the table, I set down the crystal jar of royal beautifying balm I had taken from Deena.

    From the hidden compartment in my mother’s wooden chest, I pulled out a small packet wrapped in oiled paper: Dragon’s Shade powder.

    On its own, the crushed herb was harmless.

    But when combined with the lunar pearl extract used exclusively in royal court cosmetics and activated by body heat, it triggered a violent, delayed biochemical reaction twelve hours later.

    The symptoms were horrifying: an angry, weeping scarlet rash covering the entire face and chest, paired with unbearable agony and itching.

    It mimicked a disgusting, incurable pestilence, yet after twelve hours, the compound would metabolize completely and vanish without a trace, leaving no evidence for any physician to find.

    Using a fine silver needle, I stirred a precise pinch of the powder into Deena’s cream until the paste was seamlessly smooth.

    I knew Deena’s vanity.

    With her engagement banquet only three days away, she would order her servants to sneak back and retrieve her prized cream, and she would slather it on religiously.

    I could already picture it: Prince Krishna lifting his radiant bride’s veil on their wedding night, only to recoil in sheer revulsion at the hideous, festering rash covering her face.

    A razor-thin smile touched my lips.

    Consider this the first installment of your debt, little sister.

    I set the doctored jar in a visible shadow near the door.

    A gentle knock broke the silence, and Penny, my personal handmaiden, slipped into the room carrying a bowl of hot broth.

    Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

    “My lady…” Penny’s voice trembled with grief. “The entire manor is whispering. They say… they say the Elder is exiling you to the frozen wasteland of Blackwood Keep. Lord Boyce is a shattered, dying man… it’s too cruel!”

    I took the warm bowl and looked into her tear-streaked face.

    Penny had been with me since childhood, the only person in this venomous household genuinely loyal to me.

    “Penny,” I said softly, my voice firm and reassuring. “I leave for Blackwood Keep at dawn. It is a dangerous, frozen ruin, and you are not obligated to follow me.”

    Penny didn’t hesitate.

    She dropped to her knees, grasping my hand tightly.

    “Wherever you go, my lady, Penny will go. Even if Blackwood Keep is a dragon’s tomb, I will never leave your side.”

    Warmth spread through my chest.

    “Pack our warmest cloaks and every medical ledger in this room, Penny. We aren’t going there to die. We are going there to take command.”

    After Penny left to prepare our trunks, I looked out toward the distant northern mountains.

    My next moves were clear: First, give Deena and Krishna an unforgettable wedding catastrophe. Second, establish absolute control over Blackwood Keep. Third, heal Boyce Carlisle.

    To the world, he was a living corpse with a shattered Dragon Core.

    To the greatest surgeon of two worlds, he was the ultimate clinical challenge—and the sharpest, most terrifying weapon I would ever forge.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • The Jilted Heiress And Her Spectacular Comeback novel by Bian

    The Jilted Heiress And Her Spectacular Comeback novel by Bian featuring

    👉 READ NOW

    I was double-checking the final payments for our upcoming wedding when I saw it.

    A $50,000 transfer from our joint account to a woman named Alyssia Stuart, labeled “living expenses and Connor’s tuition.”

    My fiancé, Jairo, the tech mogul I had spent ten years building from the ground up using my family’s hidden resources, was secretly sponsoring another family.

    I hacked into his laptop and found a hidden social media archive filled with photos of him, Alyssia, and a little boy with his exact eyes.

    “J says he’s going to give me a real home soon, make me his one and only wife.”

    Alyssia’s caption glared at me, posted the same week Jairo claimed to be on a business trip.

    He had even used the anonymous Ivy League scholarship fund I had secretly established for him to pay for his mistress’s degree.

    For a decade, I gave up my name and my powerful family to be his quiet, supportive partner, designing the very tech that made him a Wall Street wunderkind.

    And to this woman, I was just a “complication” to be handled.

    Instead of crying, I calmly took photos of every single screenshot and packed my bags.

    I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years.

    “Mom, we’re finished. Is that marriage arrangement with Culver Collins still on the table?”

    It was time to reclaim my identity as the Montgomery heiress and watch the empire I built for him burn to the ground.

    👉 READ NOW

    The Jilted Heiress And Her Spectacular Comeback Chapter 1

    Denice’s fingers froze over the keyboard. She had been finalizing the pitch deck for Jairo’s roadshow, the logo for Slater Dynamics—her design.
    Suddenly, a notification silently popped up in the lower right corner of the screen, like a silent bomb exploding in the stillness of the study.
    A bank transfer.
    Fifty million dollars.
    She told herself it was a business expense. A corporate acquisition.
    But the recipient was a personal account: Alyssia Stuart.
    Alyssia. The woman who was the subject of so much gossip in the company, the one entangled with Jairo.
    Her heart skipped a beat, a painful, jarring thud in her chest. Her fingertips went cold. She clicked on the transaction details, her breath held tight in her lungs.
    The memo field contained a single word.
    “Gift.”
    Just then, the laptop screen lit up with an instant message. The sender ID was “Alyssia S.”
    “Darling, the money came through. You’re too good to me. Connor is asking when Daddy is coming home to see him.By the way… Connor asked when you’re coming home to see him. Come over as soon as you get a chance, and forget about that stupid woman of yours.”
    The air rushed out of Denice’s lungs.
    Connor?
    Daddy?
    It felt like all the blood in her body was flowing backward, a cold, sickening tide rising to her throat.
    Her hand trembled as she moved the mouse, clicking open the chat window that Jairo had carelessly left running in the background. It wasn’t just one message. It was years of them.
    Years of explicit flirtations, intimate promises, a secret life laid bare on the screen.
    She saw Jairo complaining that his engagement to her was a “business necessity.” He promised Alyssia that as soon as the company went public, he would break things off with Denice and marry her.
    Denice’s vision blurred. She bit down hard on her lip, the taste of blood a sharp counterpoint to the nausea churning in her stomach. The man she had loved for eight years, the man she had abandoned her family and birthright for, the man she had helped build from nothing… he had been using her as a tool.
    A new message from Alyssia appeared in the chat log. It was a photo. Alyssia, smiling softly against the backdrop of the Hamptons shoreline.
    That was where Jairo had been last week for his “business trip.”
    Denice’s fingers, stiff and numb, moved to the browser history. She found Alyssia’s social media profile. It was private, but the profile picture was a silhouette of a blonde woman holding a young boy.
    She logged in using Jairo’s saved credentials. His account followed Alyssia’s.
    Instantly, a flood of images and videos filled the screen.
    There was Alyssia wearing the limited-edition couture gown Jairo had supposedly bought as an investment. There she was, wearing the watch Denice had picked out for Jairo’s thirtieth birthday. Posing in restaurants Denice had booked for them. Vacationing in resorts Denice had researched.
    Each photo was a knife, twisting in her heart.
    She clicked on a pinned video. The location was unmistakable. It was this very apartment. This very study.
    In the video, Alyssia was perched on the edge of Jairo’s desk, wearing nothing but his white dress shirt, her legs swinging playfully. She smiled at the camera, a sweet, provocative smile.
    The camera panned down to a small boy playing with blocks on the floor. He looked to be about four or five years old.
    “Connor, do you miss Daddy?” Alyssia’s voice was syrupy sweet.
    The boy looked up, his face a blur as the camera shook, but his happy cry was perfectly clear. “Daddy! When is Daddy bringing me and Mommy home?”
    “Soon, baby,” Alyssia cooed, her voice filled with the certainty of a winner. “Soon, we’ll be a family.”
    Denice slammed the laptop shut.
    The loud crack echoed in the cavernous room.
    She scrambled from the chair, stumbling into the master bathroom. She fell to her knees on the cold marble floor, dry heaving. Nothing came up but the bitter taste of bile.
    She looked up, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, streaked with tears she hadn’t realized she was crying. The last trace of love in her eyes was extinguished, replaced by an absolute, chilling cold.
    In a world she never knew existed, she was the villain standing in the way of their “true love.”
    Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. A text from Jairo.
    “Still working, baby? Get some rest. Love you.”
    The words “Love you” were so obscene, so disgusting, she felt another wave of nausea.
    She took a deep, shuddering breath, wiping the tears from her face. Her eyes were unnervingly calm now.
    She stood up, straightened her clothes, and walked back into the study.
    She didn’t delete a single file. She simply returned the laptop to its sleep state, as if nothing had happened.
    She reopened her laptop, her movements becoming precise and detached. She returned to Alyssia’s social media page, digging deeper, past the public facade. Inside a private photo album labeled “Family” — the password, absurdly, was Jairo’s birthday — she found it.
    A photo of Jairo holding the boy. Connor’s face was clearly visible. He was smiling, his eyes a deep, soulful brown, perfectly mirroring Jairo’s eyes.
    She found another scanned PDF file, from NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. A DNA paternity test. She zoomed in on the results. Probability of paternity: 99.99%. Father: Jairo Slater. Child: Connor Stuart.
    She stared at the black text until it blurred. Her lungs finally expanded as she drew in a long, ragged breath. She closed her laptop.
    Jairo hadn’t just stolen her money. He had stolen her life. And now, she was going to destroy his.

    The Jilted Heiress And Her Spectacular Comeback Chapter 2

    Denice slumped into the leather chair in Jairo’s study.
    Her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. No tears. Crying was a physical response to pain, and at this moment, she felt none. Instead, she felt a cold, terrifying clarity.
    She took out her phone and connected it to the laptop.
    She dragged all the chat logs, photos, videos, bank transfer receipts, and the DNA report into her highly encrypted cloud drive. When the progress bar reached one hundred percent, she titled the folder: “Reckoning.” Then she unplugged the USB, cleared the system access logs, and shut the laptop.
    She took a deep breath, the air burning her lungs, and pressed the call button.
    The dial tone echoed in the dead-silent room, each ring a hammer blow solidifying her resolve.
    After three rings, a woman’s voice answered, elegant and imperious, with a sharp edge of impatience. “Denice? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
    It was her mother, Eleanor Montgomery, the true matriarch of the Montgomery family. Since Denice had walked out eight years ago for Jairo, their conversations had been brief and cold.
    Denice ignored the reprimand. “It’s over between Jairo Slater and me.”
    A long silence stretched from the other end of the line. Denice could picture her mother perfectly: one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised, assessing the information.
    Finally, Eleanor’s voice returned, laced with a faint, unmistakable thread of satisfaction. “A wise decision. Albeit eight years too late.”
    Denice didn’t argue. She cut straight to the point. “A few years ago, you mentioned a business arrangement… a marriage alliance with the Collins family. Is that offer still on the table?”
    Another silence, this one weighted with calculation. The Collins family. Kings among New York’s new money, their power was immense, enough to elevate the Montgomery’s old-money empire to new heights.
    “Culver Collins is not an easy man to handle,” Eleanor said slowly. “Are you sure you’re prepared for that?”
    A cold smile touched Denice’s lips. “I only need his name and his resources, Mother. As for affection, I no longer have a use for that sort of thing.”
    That seemed to please Eleanor. To her, emotion was the most useless commodity in the world of business. “Very well,” she replied briskly. “I’ll make the arrangements. Vincent Hayes, Mr. Collins’s executive assistant, will contact you tomorrow morning at ten.”
    The call ended. Denice lowered the phone, feeling a profound, hollowed-out exhaustion. Her relationship with her family was just another transaction.
    She turned back to Jairo’s computer, scrolling through Alyssia’s social media again.
    She noticed a post where Alyssia thanked an “anonymous Ivy League benefactor” for the scholarship that allowed her to finish her degree, accompanied by a photo of her and Jairo on the Yale campus.
    A flicker of confusion crossed Denice’s mind. She remembered Jairo taking a short course at Yale around the same time. She had even encouraged him to apply for an anonymous grant. A coincidence?
    She didn’t dwell on it, but a gut feeling told her something was wrong with this woman. She took a screenshot and saved it to a new, encrypted folder on her cloud drive. The folder was titled: “Reckoning.”
    She stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
    She twisted the engagement ring off her finger. The diamond Jairo had given her, once her most treasured possession.
    She didn’t throw it. She didn’t smash it.
    She walked to the desk and casually tossed it into the back of a drawer, where it landed with a soft clink among discarded pens and paperclips.
    With that done, an unprecedented calm settled over her. She walked into the bedroom. Jairo was still fast asleep in the guest room.
    She opened her closet, filled with the muted, conservative clothes she’d bought to suit Jairo’s taste for a “low-key” partner.
    Her eyes scanned past them, landing on a garment bag tucked away in the very back. It was the only piece of couture she had brought with her when she left home, the last dress she had worn as a Montgomery heir.
    She unzipped the bag. A cascade of shimmering, dark blue silk, embroidered with crystals was revealed.
    She took out her phone and sent a text to her personal assistant. “Chloe, have all of my clothes and jewelry in storage sent over. Yes, all of it.”
    Then, she walked into the bathroom and began to remove her makeup.
    She turned on the shower, the hot water washing over her skin, as if it could cleanse her of eight years of foolishness and naivety.
    She closed her eyes. The faces of Jairo and Alyssia, and the boy named Connor, were seared into her mind.
    She would not let them have their happiness. She would make them pay the steepest price for what they had done.
    Outside the bathroom door, her phone lit up. A new email notification glowed on the screen.
    Subject: Meeting with Mr. Collins. From: Vincent Hayes.

    The Jilted Heiress And Her Spectacular Comeback Chapter 3

    Denice sat in the small, temporary office Jairo had set up for her at Slater Dynamics, a place for her to handle his “miscellaneous” tasks. She glanced down at the diamond on her finger—a ring she had fished out of the drawer this morning, not as a symbol of love, but as a weapon for the performance ahead. The employees who walked by cast glances at her, a mixture of pity and poorly concealed schadenfreude.
    They had all heard the rumors about Jairo and some woman named Alyssia. They all thought Denice was the poor, clueless fiancée.
    She ignored their stares. She opened the project management software on her desktop and located the file for a core project codenamed “Phoenix.”
    It was the company’s key to profitability for the next quarter, a plan she had spent countless sleepless nights perfecting. Jairo had staked his reputation on it.
    She moved the mouse. Without a flicker of hesitation, she clicked the “Terminate Project” button.
    In the reason-for-termination field, she typed: “Core design contains irreparable flaws.”
    A system prompt appeared, warning that the action was irreversible.
    She clicked “Confirm.”
    The entire project vanished from everyone’s worklist.
    Almost instantly, her phone began to scream, the screen flashing with Jairo’s name.
    She didn’t answer. She declined the call, switched her phone to silent, and tossed it onto the desk.
    The office was suddenly quiet. Everyone was stunned by what she had just done. Whispers erupted. “Is she crazy? That’s the Phoenix project!”
    Denice stood up, picked up her handbag, and prepared to leave. Her sole purpose for coming here today was complete.
    Just as she reached the main entrance, the elevator doors opened on her floor. Denice looked up and saw a figure step out of the elevator. She immediately recognized the face—Alyssia.
    Alicia also saw Denise, having seen her photo in Jairo’s phone before.Her eyes widening in shock, followed by a flash of ugly, naked jealousy. But she quickly masked it, flashing a sickly sweet, triumphant smile.She wore an ill-fitting, off-season Chanel tweed suit that screamed “nouveau riche trying too hard.” She gripped a gaudy designer handbag. When she saw Denice in her deep-blue silk gown, her eyes widened in shock, followed by a flash of ugly, naked envy. But she quickly masked it, putting on a sickly sweet, triumphant smile.
    She straightened her back and puffed out her chest. She walked straight up to Denice, her voice cloyingly saccharine, laced with feigned innocence and gloating. “Miss Montgomery, are you here for Jairo? He’s probably busy right now. An urgent meeting came up.”
    Denice looked at her coldly, as if observing a pathetic, show-off insect. “I’m just here to take out the trash.” Her gaze flicked meaningfully toward Alyssia. A flicker of irritation crossed Alyssia’s face.
    Then Alyssia strode past Denice, deliberately trying to bump her with her shoulder. At that moment, Denice sidestepped. Alyssia’s footing wavered, and she stumbled backward in her cheap high heels. She lost her balance and landed hard on the hallway carpet, her Chanel bag spilling open, lipstick and receipts scattering everywhere.
    Denice looked down at her, her eyes icy cold. Alyssia’s eyes were bloodshot with anger and humiliation; she struggled to get up but fell back again. She pointed at Denice, her voice sharp enough to pierce the air: “You’re nothing but a stand‑in! Jairo doesn’t love you at all! He gave me fifty million dollars yesterday, and he’s going to marry me next month!”
    Denice looked down at her, who was slumped on the floor. “That Chanel suit is a spring 2019 outdated style,” Denice said, her voice flat and bored. “If you’re going to steal fifty million dollars, at least buy something that fits.”
    Alyssia’s face went pale. Her mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.
    “Remember your place, Miss Stuart.” Denice’s voice was soft but carried an unmistakable authority. “As long as this engagement ring is on my finger, I am Jairo’s legally recognized fiancée. And you,” she paused, letting her gaze sweep contemptuously from head to toe over Alyssia, “are nothing.”
    Without another glance, Denice turned and walked toward the elevator, leaving Alyssia staring after her elegant, resolute back. As the elevator doors slowly closed, Denice saw Alyssia’s face contort with rage.
    The elevator descended smoothly. Only then did the cold mask on Denice’s face crack, revealing a hint of weariness.
    Jairo’s calls and texts kept flooding her phone. Without a single glance, she cleared them all.
    She knew he must be frantic. The Phoenix Project was his biggest promise to his investors. But she also knew that he wouldn’t dare break up with her now. Not now. Because without her, he couldn’t explain the core design of the project to anyone. He needed her. And that was her greatest leverage.
    Stepping out of the office building, the New York sunlight felt harsh. Denice put on her sunglasses, hiding her eyes and every ounce of emotion within them.
    She hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of one of New York’s most exclusive private clubs. She was going to see Culver Collins, heir to the Collins family. She needed a new, more powerful ally.
    The taxi merged into the flow of traffic. Denice leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
    She was going to make Jairo understand that he had lost far more than just a project.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace by Miaomiao

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle's Embrace by Miaomiao

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    Hollis stumbled into her family mansion, soaked in rain and wearing a strange man’s oversized shirt after a traumatizing night.
    But instead of offering comfort, her stepmother and stepsister ambushed her.
    They framed her for offending a powerful billionaire, demanding she pay a massive settlement.
    When her fiancé Aris arrived, Hollis thought she finally had an ally.
    Instead, he looked at her with pure disgust.
    “We’re over. I’m marrying Kyla now,” he sneered, wrapping his arm around her stepsister.
    To force her submission, her stepmother canceled her college admission and threatened to leak degrading photos of her to the press.
    That night, they even spiked her dinner and handed her over to thugs to be delivered to the old billionaire’s bed.
    Betrayed, humiliated, and stripped of everything, a white-hot rage burned through Hollis’s despair.
    Why did the people she lived with want to destroy her so ruthlessly?
    Using her last ounce of strength, she escaped the thugs and stumbled into a random hotel room.
    The next day, Hollis crashed Aris and Kyla’s lavish engagement party, holding the arm of a mysterious, imposing man.
    “Everyone, I’d like you to meet my new fiancé,” she announced with a victorious smile.
    Aris stared at the man, his face draining of all color as a terrified whisper escaped his throat.
    “Uncle Alaric?”

    👉 READ NOW

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace Chapter 1

    The key trembled in Hollis’s hand.
    It took three tries before it finally slid into the lock. The heavy oak door of the Buchanan mansion swung inward, spilling golden light onto the porch.
    She stumbled across the threshold, her body a wreck of trembling limbs. A man’s white dress shirt, far too large for her, was the only thing she wore. Its hem barely grazed her upper thighs, and the collar carried the unfamiliar, sharp scent of tobacco.
    The living room was brightly lit.
    Her stepmother, Beverley, and stepsister, Kyla, were seated on the velvet sofa. They looked as if they had been waiting for her.
    Kyla’s lips twitched, a flicker of triumph she couldn’t quite hide as she took in Hollis’s disheveled state.
    Beverley set her porcelain teacup down on its saucer. The sharp clink echoed in the silent room. Her eyes, cold and sharp as splintered glass, raked over Hollis’s body.
    “Look who’s finally home.”
    Her voice was smooth, but laced with ice. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back tonight.”
    Kyla rose from the sofa, her face a mask of false concern. She moved toward Hollis, reaching out as if to help.
    “Hollis, what happened to you? That shirt… Aris will be so upset.”
    The mention of her fiancé’s name was a deliberate twist of the knife.
    Hollis flinched away from Kyla’s touch, a wave of nausea rolling through her. The dull ache in her body and the fractured, nightmarish images in her head made her stomach churn. She braced herself against the wall of the foyer, fighting to stay upright.
    Her gaze locked onto Beverley.
    A bitter laugh escaped her raw throat. “My drink,” she rasped, her voice hoarse with hatred. “You tampered with my drink, didn’t you?”
    A flash of panic crossed Beverley’s perfectly made-up face before it was replaced by practiced indignation. She elegantly crossed her legs.
    “Hollis, what nonsense are you talking about? I think you partied a little too hard and your brain has gone to mush.”
    Kyla chimed in, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “Sister, how can you say that about Mom? She was just worried you’d drink too much and embarrass yourself at the party.”
    Hollis ignored Kyla. Her eyes remained fixed on Beverley, a predator stalking its prey. She pushed herself off the wall and took a shaky step forward.
    “Worried about me? Was sending me to an old man’s bed also for my own good?”
    The accusation hung in the air, thick and poisonous. Beverley’s composure finally cracked. Her eyes darted away for a second, a telltale sign of her guilt.
    She raised her voice to cover her unease. “If you say one more slanderous word, I swear I will tell your father!”
    Just then, a phone vibrated violently on the coffee table. The screen lit up, displaying the caller ID: Clay Thorne.
    Beverley’s face went white.
    Her hand shot out, a reflexive move to silence the call, but it was too late. She snatched the phone, trying to move away to answer it privately.
    Hollis lunged.
    With a burst of adrenaline, she closed the distance and slammed her finger down on the speakerphone button just as Beverley answered.
    A greasy, furious man’s voice erupted from the phone’s speaker.
    “Beverley! What the hell are you playing at? I waited all night! Where’s the girl you promised me? Are you screwing with me? Do you still want that investment or not!”
    A dead silence fell over the living room.
    Kyla’s face was a mask of chalky horror. She stared at her mother, her mouth agape.
    Beverley froze, looking like a strangled duck, the blood draining from her face.
    Hollis’s heart plummeted. A tidal wave of grief and rage washed over her. The proof was there, undeniable. But as the man’s grating voice echoed in her memory, a more terrifying thought surfaced.
    The hazy figure from her nightmares—tall, powerful, with an oppressive presence—did not match the voice on the phone. Not at all.
    Beverley’s plan had failed.
    She had been sent to the wrong room.
    Delivered to the wrong man.
    Looking at her stepmother’s panicked face, Hollis felt no thrill of victory. Only a profound, chilling emptiness and a terrifying confusion.
    Beverley finally snapped back to reality. She shrieked, lunging for the phone. Hollis stepped back, letting it fall onto the plush rug.
    Frantically, Beverley jabbed at the screen to end the call. She then glared at Hollis, her eyes filled with pure venom, like a cornered animal.
    “You ruined it! You ruined everything!” Beverley’s voice was distorted with fury.
    Hollis pressed her fingers to her temple, a fresh wave of dizziness washing over her. The drugs hadn’t fully worn off.
    She didn’t want to speak to them, didn’t want to even look at them. She turned to go to her room.
    Beverley’s hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. Her nails dug into Hollis’s skin.
    “Where do you think you’re going? You think this is over?” Beverley hissed through clenched teeth.
    Hollis tried to pull away, but her body was too weak. She couldn’t break the grip.
    Kyla stood by, her expression a complex mix of shock and something else, something unreadable. She made no move to help.
    A grotesque smile spread across Beverley’s face. “Hollis, since you refuse to be obedient, you can’t blame me for what comes next.”

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace Chapter 2

    Beverley’s fingers were like a vise around Hollis’s wrist. She leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper meant only for Hollis’s ears.
    “Clay Thorne’s suite is 803. You’re going to go up there right now and ‘apologize’ properly. Otherwise, you can prepare to find five hundred thousand dollars to compensate me for my loss.”
    Hollis stared at her, stunned. The audacity was breathtaking. Five hundred thousand dollars? She was a student. She didn’t have that kind of money.
    With a sudden surge of strength—more a frantic reflex than real power—she ripped her arm free and stumbled back, putting distance between them.
    “You’re insane! I’m not going!”
    Beverley smoothed down her expensive silk robe, a cold smile playing on her lips. “No money? What about the trust fund your dear mother left you? You’re almost old enough to access it. Or, you could always call the police. Let’s see who they believe—a disgraced Buchanan girl with a ruined reputation, or me, a respected philanthropist.”
    Hollis’s body trembled with rage. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the 9-1-1 icon. It was her only weapon.
    Seeing the motion, Kyla shrieked. “Sister, don’t do something stupid! Think of the family’s reputation!”
    Just then, the butler’s voice echoed from the foyer. “Ma’am, Miss, Mr. Baird is here.”
    The name Aris Baird struck the room like a bolt of lightning. The three women froze. Hollis’s finger remained suspended over her phone screen.
    Aris. Her fiancé. What was he doing here at this hour?
    A cold dread washed over her as she saw the matching, triumphant expressions on Beverley’s and Kyla’s faces. She understood instantly. This was part of their plan.
    Aris Baird strode in, tall and impeccably dressed in an Armani suit. His handsome face was a blank mask, his deep blue eyes sweeping across the room before they landed on Hollis.
    When his gaze fell on the wrinkled man’s shirt she wore, her messy hair, and her pale, bruised face, his expression curdled into one of pure, undisguised disgust.
    Hollis’s heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. The comfort and protection she had desperately hoped for were not there. Only judgment. Contempt.
    He walked past her as if she were invisible, settling his attention instead on the two women who stood waiting—Beverley with her practiced smile, Kyla already drifting toward him with a familiar ease that made Hollis’s stomach turn.
    Beverley’s voice cut through the air, smooth and deliberate. “Aris, dear, I’m so sorry you had to see this… unpleasantness. Some things are better left unseen.”
    Hollis watched them—the way Kyla’s hand found its way to Aris’s arm, the way Beverley positioned herself as the matriarch of a scene she had written herself. The three of them stood together, a closed circle that had no room for her.
    Aris’s gaze finally landed on her—cold, dismissive, as if she were a piece of trash he had just noticed on the floor.
    Aris’s looking down at her from his great height.
    He reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a checkbook and a Montblanc pen. With a few swift strokes, he wrote, tore out the check, and tossed it down in front of her.
    It fluttered to a stop near her feet.
    “Take it. It’s a breakup fee,” Aris said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “We’re over.”
    Hollis slowly lifted her head. Her bloodshot eyes stared at the man she had loved for three years.
    She didn’t look at the check. She just asked, “Why?”
    Aris let out a cold laugh, as if she’d just told the world’s most pathetic joke. “Why? Hollis, you have the nerve to ask me why? The future wife of a Baird cannot be a shameless woman who fools around with strange men.”
    “I wasn’t!” Hollis scrambled to her feet, her voice rising with desperation. “I was set up!”
    Kyla immediately shrank behind Aris, feigning fear. “Aris, she’s scaring me…”
    Aris shielded Kyla, his expression hardening with even more revulsion. “Shut up. Stop acting. It only makes me sicker. You’re not a virgin anymore, are you? That’s a fact!”
    The cruel words struck Hollis’s deepest wound, the raw, secret shame she was still grappling with.
    “So”—Aris paused, delivering the final blow—”I’ve decided to cancel our engagement. My fiancée… will be Kyla.”
    The world stopped. Hollis stared at Aris, then at the triumphant, hypocritical face of her sister peeking out from behind his arm.

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace Chapter 3

    The world stopped. Hollis stared at Aris, then at Kyla’s triumphant, hypocritical face peeking out from behind his arm.
    Aris’s words hung in the air like a death sentence. The silence in the room was absolute.
    But then, something flickered in Hollis’s chest. Not grief. Not more shock. A tiny, sharp spark of disbelief that refused to be extinguished.
    She looked at Aris again—really looked. Not at the handsome face she had loved, but at the man standing before her, the man who had just pronounced her “used goods” and replaced her with her sister in the space of a single breath.
    And she heard it.
    Not what he had said—but how he had said it.
    “You’re not a virgin anymore, are you?”
    Not “Did you sleep with someone else?” Not “What happened to you?” Not even “Who was that man?”
    He had stated it as fact. As if he already knew the outcome. As if he had expected it.
    Hollis’s blood turned cold.
    Her voice came out slow, barely more than a whisper. “How did you know?”
    Aris frowned. “Know what?”
    “That I wasn’t a virgin anymore.” She held his gaze. “I never told you that. I never said a word about what happened last night. You walked in, saw the shirt, and you didn’t ask—you just knew. How?”
    A flash of something crossed his face—too quick to read, but it was there. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
    “It’s obvious,” he said, but his voice had lost some of its edge. “You’re wearing a strange man’s clothes. Your hair is a mess. You look like—”
    “Like someone who was drugged and dragged to a hotel room,” Hollis cut him off. Her voice was rising now, a tremor running through it, but not from weakness. “Like someone who doesn’t remember half of what happened because her drink was tampered with. Like a victim, Aris. Not a cheater.”
    She stepped closer to him. He did not step back, but his eyes darted away for a fraction of a second.
    “You didn’t ask me what happened. You didn’t give me a chance to explain. You just pronounced me guilty. Because—”
    She stopped. The words formed in her mind like ice crystallizing.
    Because you already knew what was supposed to happen.
    The phone call. The wrong room. Clay Thorne’s furious voice demanding the girl he was promised.
    And Aris, her fiancé, standing here in the early morning, acting as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.
    “You knew,” Hollis said. Her voice was flat now. Empty. “You knew about the drink. You knew about the plan. You knew they were going to send me to someone else’s bed—and you let it happen.”
    Kyla’s face went pale behind Aris’s shoulder. “That’s ridiculous—”
    “Shut up,” Hollis snapped, her eyes never leaving Aris. “I’m talking to him.”
    Aris’s composure cracked. Just a hairline fracture, barely visible—but she saw it. The way his lips pressed together. The way his hand, the one not holding Kyla’s, curled into a fist at his side.
    “You’re hysterical,” he said, but it came out too fast. “You have no proof of anything.”
    “I have you,” Hollis said, and her voice was ice. “I have the way you just answered me. You didn’t say ‘I didn’t know.’ You said ‘You have no proof.’ That’s not a denial, Aris. That’s an admission.”
    He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
    And in that silence, everything clicked into place.
    Her stepmother’s scheme. Her sister’s eager complicity. And her fiancé—the man who had kissed her goodnight a hundred times, who had promised to love her forever—standing here, waiting for her to fall so he could catch Kyla instead.
    He had not been betrayed by her.
    He had been waiting to betray her.
    Hollis let out a breath. It came out shaky, but she did not break.
    She reached into her pocket and pulled out the check he had thrown at her. She had picked it up without thinking, an instinct to not leave anything of his lying on her family’s floor.
    She unfolded it slowly, looked at the number, and then let it fall from her fingers.
    It drifted down and landed at his feet.
    “That,” Hollis said, her voice as cold as a tombstone, “was for my dead love.”
    “Keep your filthy money,” she spat. “Buy your new fiancée some candy.”
    She threw the confetti of paper into their faces, then turned and ran out of the house without a backward glance.
    Hollis ran blindly through the New York streets. The cold wind whipped at her face, but it couldn’t cool the fire of rage and despair in her heart. She was homeless.
    The next day, exhausted and numb, she made her way back to her dorm at New York University, seeking a moment of peace.
    She was stopped by her academic advisor before she even reached the building entrance. The advisor’s face was etched with pity and discomfort.
    She was told that her stepmother, Beverley, had come to the university that morning. Acting as Hollis’s “guardian,” she had filed the paperwork for a mandatory withdrawal.
    The news hit Hollis like a physical blow. NYU was her escape. The one thing she had earned all by herself.
    She ran to the registrar’s office, but the answer was the same. The withdrawal was processed. It could not be reversed without her guardian’s consent.
    Hollis called Beverley. Her stepmother’s voice was smug and victorious on the other end of the line.
    “I gave you a chance, Hollis. Now, you only have one path left.”
    The threat was clear.
    “Eight o’clock tonight. The St. Regis, suite 803. Mr. Clay Thorne is waiting for you. If you’re not there, photos of you with your ‘wild man’ will be on the front page of every gossip magazine tomorrow morning.”
    Beverley hung up.
    Hollis listened to the dead tone, feeling as if the entire world had gone dark.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. by Zhao Da

    Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. by Zhao Da
    👉 READ NOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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    Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. Chapter 1

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

    Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. Chapter 2

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

    Dump One Loser, Gain Six Husbands. Chapter 3

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

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Untouchable: The Alpha’s Miracle Doctor by Yue Rujing

    Untouchable: The Alpha's Miracle Doctor by Yue Rujing
    👉 READ NOW

    I was the wolfless disgrace of the pack, traded like cattle to a dying monster.

    When a royal decree stripped away my engagement, my own father gave my fiancé to my cruel sister, Charly. My punishment for being born without a wolf? A forced marriage to Demetri Contreras—the crippled, disgraced Alpha left to rot from silver poison.

    They threw me into a frozen, forgotten estate, waiting for my new husband to die so I could be buried as a silent widow.

    Charly laughed as she stole my life, my mate, and my future. My family discarded me, just like they murdered my mother years ago.

    They thought this exile would break me. They thought I was a helpless pawn.

    They didn’t know that inside this fragile body lived the soul of the top interstellar miracle surgeon.

    Looking at the ruined, festering Alpha bleeding on my wedding bed, I didn’t see a corpse. I saw the deadliest weapon in the realm.

    The fallen Alpha needs a miracle to survive. Lucky for him, I am the miracle.

    I will drag this monster back from the gates of hell—and together, we will burn my enemies to ash.

    👉 READ NOW

    Untouchable: The Alpha’s Miracle Doctor Chapter 1

    Haven Kramer POV：
    The silence in the living room was thick, but it didn’t weigh on me. I sat comfortably on the edge of the silk armchair, my hands resting loosely in my lap, calmly observing the theater playing out around me.
    My father, Alpha Gordon Kramer, stood by the mantelpiece with his back to me, staring into the unlit fireplace. His rigid posture was a performance of grim authority, but to my trained eyes, the overextension of his shoulder muscles betrayed pure, anxious tension. He was nervous. I found that amusing.
    A heavy tread on the marble floor signaled the arrival of the King’s envoy.
    A severe-looking wolf with graying temples stepped into the room, clad in the King’s formal uniform. His face was a mask of absolute neutrality. The air in the room crackled with tension, but my heart rate remained a steady, resting sixty beats per minute.
    My father finally turned, his expression a carefully constructed mask of solemn welcome. “Emissary,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He pointedly did not look at me. It was a classic evasion tactic. He thought he was breaking my heart; in reality, he was just confirming his own cowardice.
    The envoy gave a curt nod, wasting no time on pleasantries. He drew a parchment scroll tied with a royal blue ribbon from his inner pocket and unrolled it with a soft crackle.
    “By decree of the Alpha King,” the envoy began, his monotone voice echoing in the vast room. “Regarding the union between the houses of Contreras and Kramer.”
    I leaned back slightly.
    “It is noted that Alpha Darren Contreras is an exemplary heir, beloved and strong. And it is noted that his brother, Alpha Demetri Contreras, was grievously wounded by silver in the Western War, his connection to his wolf severed, leaving him a broken shell.”
    The formal descriptions of the two brothers hung in the air. One a golden boy, the other a crippled outcast.
    “It has been confirmed by the council that Haven Kramer is wolfless,” the envoy continued, casting a brief, pitying glance my way. “A wolfless mate is an unacceptable match for a future leader. Therefore, the betrothal between Alpha Darren Contreras and Haven Kramer is hereby declared null and void.”
    Beside the mantelpiece, my father’s expression remained placid, his eyes distant. He looked exactly like a merchant watching a trade deal close. To him, I was just damaged goods being offloaded at a steep discount to preserve an alliance.
    “In her stead,” the envoy read, “her sister, Charly Kramer, a true wolf of good standing, shall be joined with Alpha Darren Contreras. And to honor the original alliance, Haven Kramer shall be given to the crippled Alpha, Demetri Contreras.”
    “The weddings will be held simultaneously in three days’ time,” the envoy concluded, neatly rolling the scroll and handing it to my father. With a curt bow, he turned and walked out.
    The silence returned. My father finally looked at me, likely bracing himself for the hysterics, tears, or begging that the “old” Haven would have provided.
    Instead, I stood up smoothly, smoothing down the skirts of my dress.
    “Three days,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room, entirely devoid of tremor. “I will be ready.”
    Before my father could recover from his visible shock, I turned on my heel and walked up to my lavish bedroom.
    I was sitting at my vanity, listening to the quiet night outside, when my door opened without a knock. The cloying scent of sweet pea perfume, heavily laced with unearned triumph, announced her arrival.
    My sister, Charly.
    “Oh, my poor sister,” she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy as she glided into the room, wearing an expensive white lace dress. She came to stand behind me, her fingers reaching out to stroke my hair as if comforting a pet. “I was so heartbroken to hear the news.”
    I remained perfectly still, watching her reflection in the dark glass of the window.
    When I gave her no reaction, her facade quickly cracked. The corner of her mouth twitched into a smug smirk. “But you know, being wolfless, you were never worthy of Darren anyway. This is for the good of the family.”
    She leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear, dropping her voice to a venomous whisper. “Besides, Darren was always mine. You were just keeping his spot warm.”
    I slowly lifted my head, meeting her gaze in the mirror. My eyes were completely flat, cold as chips of ice.
    Charly flinched, the triumphant smile freezing on her face. She took an involuntary step back, unnerved by the lack of tears.
    Slowly, deliberately, I rose from the chair. I picked up a heavy, silver-backed comb from the vanity and began to rhythmically, elegantly pull it through my hair.
    “Marrying a broken man is better than marrying a piece of trash,” I said softly, my voice even and calm.
    The color instantly drained from Charly’s face. “You—”
    “Our wedding is in three days, isn’t it?” I turned to face her directly, letting the full weight of my detached, icy gaze fall upon her. “Go plan your ceremony, Charly. I accept the arrangement completely.”
    Charly stood there, utterly baffled. I thought she had come prepared for tears, hysterics, and a desperate sister she could kick while she was down. My utter lack of distress disarmed her entirely.

    Untouchable: The Alpha’s Miracle Doctor Chapter 2

    Haven Kramer POV:
    Charly’s shock quickly curdled back into anger. My composure was a greater insult than any screaming match could ever be. Her face flushed a blotchy red.
    “Accept? What choice do you have?” she spat, her voice sharp and brittle. “A filthy wolfless. Marrying into the Contreras family at all is a gift from the Moon Goddess you don’t deserve!”
    I ignored her, turning my back to walk to my wardrobe. I began to sift through the dresses, my movements unhurried. As if I were merely choosing an outfit for a mundane dinner party.
    This utter dismissal was more than she could stand.
    She lunged, grabbing my arm. Her nails dug into my skin. “I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?”
    Her face was inches from mine, her expression twisted with vicious glee. “Do you know why Father agreed so easily? The Contreras family paid a fortune! Your ‘funeral trousseau’ has secured our family’s prosperity for the next decade!”
    The words were meant to crush me, to remind me of my worthlessness. She leaned closer still, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “And Father already knows Demetri is dying. The silver poison is in his bones. The healers say he won’t last the month. You’re marrying him to be his widow. To spend your life guarding a corpse and an empty title.”
    I still didn’t give her the satisfaction of a breakdown.
    Frustrated by my absolute silence, Charly’s face distorted with pure malice. She shoved me roughly, shouting in my face, “Why aren’t you crying? You think you’re still the precious eldest daughter? Your mother was nothing but a low-born old bitch, and you’re just a little bitch!”
    That was the line.
    My movements ceased.
    Slowly, inch by inch, I turned my head. The ice in my eyes was gone. In its place, a fire blazed, so hot and furious it felt like it could melt steel.
    Charly saw the sudden murder in my gaze and her hand flew from my arm as if she’d been burned.
    Before she could process what was happening, I moved.
    My speed was a blur. My hand shot out and clamped like an iron vice around her throat. With a surge of overwhelming strength, I slammed her backward against the solid oak of the wardrobe.
    Thump.
    The impact rattled the heavy wood. Charly’s head cracked against the surface, and a strangled gasp escaped her lips as the air was forced from her lungs.
    Her eyes, wide with terror, stared at me. The face she had known for twenty years was now a stranger’s mask, a harbinger from hell. This was not the weak, yielding sister she loved to bully.
    My fingers were bone-white from the force of my grip, but my expression was eerily calm. The contrast was monstrous.
    “Apologize,” I said. My voice was a raw, cold rasp, like a blade scraped over stone. “Apologize to my mother.”
    Charly’s face was turning a horrifying shade of purple. She clawed frantically at my wrist, her throat making wet, gagging sounds. She couldn’t form a single word.
    “Say it again,” I whispered, tightening my grip just enough to cut off her pathetic whimpers. “Say another word about her.”
    Her struggles weakened. Tears of pure terror streamed down her face. She began to beat a weak tattoo against the wardrobe with her free hand, a desperate, silent plea for help.
    Seeing her pathetic, sniveling state cooled the inferno in my chest. Killing her here would be too quick. Too merciful.
    I released her.
    Charly slid down the wardrobe like a discarded doll, landing in a heap on the floor. She clutched her throat, coughing and retching, desperately sucking in air. Snot and tears smeared her perfect makeup. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a new kind of fear. A primal fear.
    I stood over her, my own expression one of utter disgust.
    “Get out,” I said. One word.
    She scrambled to her feet, a clumsy, pathetic mess of limbs. She didn’t dare look at me again. She stumbled to the door, fumbling with the handle. Just before she pulled it open, she risked a final, hateful glare over her shoulder.
    “You’ll regret this!” she choked out, the threat utterly hollow.
    A cold smile touched my lips. It sent a visible shiver down her spine.
    She yanked the door open and fled, her footsteps pounding down the hall.
    The door slammed shut, leaving me in silence once more. I leaned against the wall, my body trembling slightly from the rush of adrenaline. I lifted my hand, staring at my fingers. They were steady now.
    Tonight, they had tasted violence for the first time.
    And it was only the beginning.

    Untouchable: The Alpha’s Miracle Doctor Chapter 3

    Haven Kramer POV:
    The silence that followed Charly’s flight was absolute. I walked to the window and watched her frantic, scurrying figure disappear across the manicured lawns. My expression was flat, my heart a cold, steady drum.
    I uncurled my hand, palm up. The feeling of her throat under my fingers lingered—a foreign sensation of power that sent a cold thrill through my veins. I knew Charly. She was already running to our father, spinning a tale of victimhood. There would be consequences.
    But I no longer cared. If they wanted to push me into the abyss, I would claw my way back out from hell itself and drag them all down with me.
    My gaze fell upon a small, locked wooden box on my nightstand. It was the only thing I had left of my mother, Elara Beaumont. After I was born, my mother died in a so-called “hunting accident.” A convenient fall from a cliff. I believed it was murder.
    I walked to it, my steps measured. From a chain around my neck, I pulled a small, tarnished key. The lock clicked open with a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room.
    Inside, there were no jewels, no gold. Just a few faded, leather-bound diaries and a single, thick vellum envelope.
    I lifted the envelope, unfolding the paper soft with age. It was a letter written in my mother’s elegant, flowing script, its words of love underlined with a deep, aching sorrow. She told her story—how she had used her family’s resources and her own strength to help Gordon Kramer challenge and win the title of Alpha. But once he had the power, he grew ashamed of her and began an affair with Concetta, Charly’s mother.
    My dearest Haven, the last lines read, if you are reading this, I am gone. Do not trust Gordon Kramer. Do not trust any of them. Survive. At any cost, you must survive.
    A single, hot tear finally escaped and fell onto the page, smearing the ink. My heart broke for my mother.
    But I would not share her fate.I was not helpless.
    I had knowledge from another world, memories of a life where I held power not in bloodlines, but in skill. That was my weapon.
    Yes. Two lifetimes.
    Seven days ago, I almost lost my life to betrayal. Back then, I was deeply and innocently in love with my betrothed, Alpha Darren Contreras. But Gordon Kramer, swayed by Concetta’s malicious scheming, forced me to hand over my beloved and my entire future to my sister, Charly. To me, Darren was my world. Unable to endure the suffocating grief, the humiliation, and the sight of my sister stealing the man I loved, I chose to end my own life.
    Perhaps the Moon Goddess took pity on me, because I did not die.
    During the seven days I lay in a coma, my soul traveled to a highly advanced interstellar world called Astraea. Although I was born an orphan there, living in a crowded shelter, that technologically superior society allowed me to graduate from the top Imperial Medical Academy through my own relentless efforts and the help of a kind benefactor. After I repaid my debt of gratitude to that benefactor, I threw myself entirely into the work of saving lives, mastering the complex biological structures of various humanoid and beast-kin species. My surgical skills reached a level that commanded absolute reverence. In the final years of my long and fulfilling life there, the patients I had cured bestowed upon me a legendary title—”The Miracle Healer.”
    When I closed my eyes for the last time on Astraea, I thought my journey had ended. Yet, I woke up back in the werewolf realm, returning to this body exactly seven days later.
    My past infatuation with Darren means nothing to me now. But my lingering resentment and my mother’s tragic fate remain. Since fate has granted me a second chance, I will use it to collect every single debt. Everything they owe me, everything they owe my mother, I will take back piece by piece. Those who deceived and humiliated me will face retribution. I am a healer, and I possess a merciful heart. But that mercy will never be granted to my enemies.
    I carefully folded the letter, placed it back with the diaries, and locked the box. This box would go with me. It was my anchor and my mission.
    I wiped my eyes. When I looked up, my reflection in the vanity mirror was a stranger. Pale face, green eyes, a mane of brown hair. But behind the eyes, the soul of a surgeon who had stared down death a thousand times was now fully in control.
    The faces flashed through my mind, a gallery of smiling betrayers. The last face was one I’d never seen, only imagined: the pale, ruined face of Demetri Contreras. The dying Alpha.
    Choosing to marry the crippled Alpha was an act of survival forced upon me by the council. But it was also the first calculated step of my grand design. He was the hell they were sending me to, but his broken body was a patient only a master surgeon could rebuild. A powerful, indebted Alpha, brought back from the brink of death by my hand, would be the sharpest blade I could possibly wield against the Kramer family.
    After he was healed? A cold smile touched my lips. I trusted no one, least of all powerful men. This was a transaction. My skills for his power. A platform for my revenge.
    A soft, respectful knock came at the door. A maid’s voice, timid. “Miss, the Alpha requests your presence in his study.”
    Charly’s tears had worked their magic. Gordon was ready to deliver his judgment.
    Even though I forced myself to remain detached, a tight knot of nerves twisted in my stomach as I stood up.
    But I quickly smoothed my dress, my expression shifting, melting back into the mask of a meek, fragile girl. The avenger vanished, hidden deep inside.
    “Of course,” I called out, my voice soft and pliant. “I’ll be right there.”

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss by Mo Yufei

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss by Mo Yufei
    👉 READ NOW

    I was an intern nurse working exhausting shifts, yet my mother constantly forced me into blind dates with wealthy, arrogant men to secure our family’s social standing.

    During a terrifying hospital lockdown, an assassin disguised as a doctor held a scalpel to my throat. I was almost killed, but a high-ranking military colonel threw his own body down a flight of concrete stairs to shield me.

    I survived with cuts and bruises, but when I went home, my mother didn’t care about my near-death experience. She was only furious that I had rushed out on my blind date with Preston, a rich financial analyst.

    She forced me to meet him to apologize. When Preston grabbed my arm, bruised me, and mocked my attack as a pathetic lie, my mother still took his side.

    “Men get angry,” she told me coldly. “It’s your job not to provoke them. You will beg for his forgiveness, or you are no longer welcome in this house.”

    I had narrowly escaped an assassin, yet my own family was willing to feed me to a monster just for a fat paycheck and neighborhood gossip.

    My heart went completely dead.

    So, when the intimidating Colonel appeared, offering me maximum military protection through a sudden marriage, I didn’t hesitate.

    I walked back into my parents’ house and calmly slapped a crisp marriage certificate onto the coffee table.

    “I won’t be apologizing to Preston. I got married today.”

    👉 READ NOW

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss Chapter 1

    “If you’re going to order the salmon, make sure they don’t overcook it. The last time I was here, it was practically cat food.”
    Caroline Thompson stared at the man sitting across from her. Preston Finch. Financial analyst. Ivy League graduate. The eighteenth blind date her mother had forced her into in the last two years.
    He wasn’t looking at her. He was using his silver fork to trace the menu like he was grading a flawed exam paper.
    “The wine list here is a joke,” Preston continued, snapping the leather bound menu shut. He finally looked at her, his chin tilted in perpetual judgment. “At my club in New York, we have a sommelier. Here? I wouldn’t trust them to open a beer.”
    Caroline’s fingers dug into the fabric of her dress under the table. This was her life now. Sitting across from arrogant men who thought a fat paycheck bought them the right to treat everyone else like peasants.
    “So, Caroline,” Preston leaned back, offering a smirk that was probably meant to be charming but landed closer to constipated. “My mother mentioned you’re a nurse?”
    “Intern nurse,” Caroline corrected automatically. “At Washington United Medical Center.”
    “Right.” The smirk deepened into outright dismissal. “Must be exhausting. All that cleaning up and taking orders. And the pay? Practically minimum wage, right? Honestly, a pretty girl like you should just find a guy who provides. Someone who makes enough so you don’t have to wipe up vomit for a living.”
    A muscle ticked in Caroline’s temple. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his financial advice, but her phone buzzed.
    She never took personal calls on a date. But right now, it was the only thing keeping her from baptizing Preston with her ice water.
    She glanced at the screen. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t just the hospital. It was the direct emergency line from the Chief of Staff.
    She answered it right there. “Thompson.”
    “Caroline.” Dr. Alistair Cromwell never used her first name. His voice, usually dripping with academic condescension, was flat. Breathless. “Get back here. Now.”
    “I’m off the clock, Dr. Cromwell. Is something—”
    “I don’t have time to repeat myself.” The line crackled with background shouting. “This is not a drill. We are at Code Atlas. I say again, Code Atlas. Get here in ten minutes or don’t bother coming back at all.”
    Click.
    Caroline sat frozen, the dial tone buzzing against her ear.
    Code Atlas.
    In all her years of training, she had only heard that term whispered in break rooms like a ghost story. It meant catastrophe. Mass casualties. A high-level terror threat. It meant the world was falling apart.
    “I have to go,” Caroline said, already grabbing her coat.
    Preston scoffed, slamming his water glass down. “You’re joking. What kind of emergency could a nurse possibly have? We haven’t even ordered.”
    “It’s a Code Atlas,” she said, not caring if he understood. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and dropped it on his pristine white tablecloth. “This covers my share of nothing. Goodbye, Preston.”
    She didn’t wait for his face to finish flushing red. She turned on her heel and practically sprinted out of the restaurant.
    The Washington air hit her in a heavy, soaking downpour. Adrenaline washed away the lingering disgust of the date. She flagged down a cab dropping someone off at the corner, sliding into the back seat before the passenger was fully on the curb.
    “Washington United Medical Center,” she gasped. “Step on it.”
    By the time the cab screeched to a halt, the rain had slowed to a mist, but the chill in Caroline’s bones only deepened.
    She stepped out and stopped dead.
    The hospital had been turned into a fortress.
    The main entrance wasn’t blocked by ambulances, but by military police. Two armored Humvees idled across the driveway, their headlights cutting through the fog. Men in full combat gear, rifles strapped to their chests, stood behind concrete barricades.
    This wasn’t a mass casualty event. This was a federal lockdown.
    Heart hammering against her ribs, Caroline approached the nearest checkpoint, holding up her ID badge with a trembling hand. “Caroline Thompson. I was paged by Dr. Cromwell.”
    The guard, a soldier with eyes like flint, scanned her badge, checked a clipboard, and stepped aside. “Go straight to the main desk. Do not deviate from the hallway, ma’am.”
    Caroline slipped under the yellow tape. The lobby was unrecognizable. The usual chaotic symphony of the ER was gone, replaced by a suffocating, terrified silence. Doctors and nurses huddled in clusters. Armed soldiers lined the corridors like statues.
    “Thompson!”
    Dr. Cromwell was striding toward her. He looked like he had aged a decade since morning. His white coat was rumpled, a dark coffee stain splashed across his tie.
    “Listen carefully, I don’t have time for questions,” he snapped, his forehead gleaming with sweat. “You are assigned to ICU Room 3. You will monitor the patient’s vitals. You will not speak to him. You will not touch any personal effects in the room. If his heart rate fluctuates by more than ten percent, you hit this button.” He shoved a black pager into her palm. “Do you understand me?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Go.”
    Caroline walked briskly toward the private elevator bank. The air smelled different here—sharper, metallic, like ozone and gunpowder.
    As she turned the corner, the doors of the VIP elevator slid open. A group of people emerged, moving like a single, lethal organism. Men in dark suits. Military brass with medals gleaming.
    But they were just background noise.
    In the center, walking slightly ahead, was a man who looked like he had been carved from granite and violence.
    He was well over six feet, his shoulders straining the seams of his digital camouflage uniform. The rank on his chest—a silver eagle—demanded absolute submission. His face was a landscape of sharp angles and hard lines, his jaw set like a steel trap.
    As the group passed, the man turned his head.
    His eyes—a cold, piercing, impossible gray—swept the corridor. And for a fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto Caroline’s.
    It was like stepping onto a landmine.
    The air was violently sucked from her lungs. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot down her spine, freezing her blood. Those eyes didn’t just look at her; they stripped her down, assessed her threat level, and branded her in the span of a single heartbeat.
    “Colonel Romero,” an aide murmured, handing the man a classified tablet.
    The spell shattered. The man—Colonel Romero—broke eye contact, taking the tablet without missing a stride. He began firing off orders in a low, gravelly voice that vibrated down the hallway.
    Caroline let out a shaky breath, her knees suddenly weak. She hadn’t realized she was holding onto the wall until a hand grabbed her arm.
    “Are you breathing?” her friend Brenna whispered, pulling Caroline into a supply alcove. Brenna’s face was paper-white. “Oh my god, Caroline. Did you see him?”
    Caroline swallowed hard, her throat like sandpaper. “The Colonel?”
    “Jarrod Romero,” Brenna breathed, the name heavy with awe and terror. “Department of Defense. My cousin at the Pentagon says he’s the guy they call when the world is ending.” She clutched a medical chart to her chest. “He looks like he’d shoot you just for breathing his air.”
    Caroline rubbed the back of her neck, trying to dispel the lingering, phantom heat from that brief eye contact. “Where are you headed?”
    “ICU 3. Cromwell’s special assignment.”
    Brenna’s eyes widened, all gossip vanishing instantly. “Oh, God. Caroline, be careful. That patient… this whole thing is black-ops. The FBI tried to get in twenty minutes ago and Romero’s men turned them away at gunpoint.”
    “I just have to watch the monitors,” Caroline said, though her voice lacked conviction.
    She grabbed a supply cart and pushed through the double doors of the ICU wing. They hissed shut behind her, sealing her in a sterile, fluorescent-lit silence.
    Two MPs stood outside Room 3, their faces blank masks. They checked her badge twice before unlocking the door.
    The room was freezing. The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor was the only sound.
    In the bed lay a young man, motionless. His face was a swollen canvas of bruises, thick bandages wrapping his torso. Caroline moved to the bedside, picking up the chart.
    Alston Petersen. Lieutenant. JAG Corps.
    The list of his injuries read like a torture report.
    She set the chart down, her eyes fixed on the rhythmic spike of the heart monitor. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.
    She had told Brenna she just had to watch the monitors. But standing in the freezing room, looking at the broken soldier, Caroline knew the truth.
    She had just walked into the eye of a very deadly storm. And the man with the ice-gray eyes was the one holding the lightning.

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss Chapter 2

    The next twelve hours were a blur of checking vitals and adjusting IV drips. Caroline didn’t sit down once. Every time Lieutenant Petersen stirred, she was there, checking his pupils, measuring his output. He woke up briefly around 3 AM, his eyes glassy with pain.
    “Water,” he croaked.
    She held the cup with a straw to his lips, letting him take small sips. “Slowly, Lieutenant. You’ve been out for a while.”
    He looked at her, confused, then his gaze drifted to the guards outside the door. “Where is…” His voice trailed off, too weak to finish.
    “You’re safe,” Caroline said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it herself. “Just rest.”
    He closed his eyes and drifted off again. Caroline sank back into the chair, rubbing her burning eyes. She hadn’t heard anything from the outside world. No news on what Code Atlas meant, no updates on the lockdown. Just the hum of the machines and the muffled sound of boots in the hallway.
    Around 6 AM, the door swung open without a knock.
    Caroline jumped to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat. Jarrod Romero stood in the doorway. He looked exactly as he had the night before-immaculate, unyielding, and completely exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but his posture was rigid.
    He stepped inside, followed by two men in suits who looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Dr. Cromwell scurried in behind them, looking like a nervous chihuahua next to a pack of wolves.
    “Status report,” Romero barked. He wasn’t looking at Caroline. He was looking at the bed.
    “Vitals are stable, Colonel,” Dr. Cromwell said, stepping forward. “No signs of infection. The surgery was a success, though we won’t know about nerve damage for-“
    “I wasn’t asking you, Doctor.” Romero’s voice cut through the room like a blade. He shifted his gaze to Caroline, his eyes pinning her in place. “The nurse. Report.”
    Cromwell’s mouth snapped shut. He took a step back, his face flushing.
    Romero finally turned his full gaze to Caroline. Up close, his eyes were even more unnerving. They were a pale, stormy gray, fringed with dark lashes. They assessed her with a clinical detachment that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
    “Now,” he repeated.
    Caroline swallowed, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. She wiped them on her scrubs and forced her voice to stay level. “Lieutenant Petersen’s heart rate has been consistent, hovering around 72 BPM. Blood pressure 120/80. He woke briefly at 0300 hours, oriented but weak. I administered 2mg of morphine via IV at 0315 for pain management. Urine output is within normal limits.”
    Romero listened without blinking. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes stayed locked on her face. Then, his gaze dropped. It moved down her scrubs, past the name tag pinned to her chest, and landed on the chart in her hands.
    Specifically, on the signature line at the bottom.
    Caroline watched his face. There was a minuscule shift. A slight narrowing of his eyes. His jaw, already tight, seemed to clench even harder. He stared at the name “Caroline Thompson” for a beat too long.
    Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. He looked back up at her face, his expression once again a mask of stone.
    “Acceptable,” he said. He turned to Cromwell. “I want the security detail doubled. No one gets within fifty feet of this room without my explicit authorization. Not the hospital administrator, not the Joint Chiefs, not even God himself. Is that clear?”
    “Y-yes, Colonel,” Cromwell stammered. “But the board is already asking questions about the cost-“
    Romero took a step toward Cromwell. It was a subtle movement, but Cromwell flinched like he’d been struck. “I am not concerned with the board, Doctor. I am concerned with keeping this man alive. If you can’t manage that, I will find someone who can.”
    Cromwell paled. “Understood.”
    Romero turned back to the door. As he passed Caroline, he paused. He didn’t look at her, but his voice washed over her, low and cold.
    “Do your job, Nurse. Nothing else.”
    He walked out, his entourage trailing behind him. The door swung shut, and the oppressive weight in the room lifted.
    Caroline let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter to steady them.
    “What an ass,” she muttered under her breath.
    But even as she said it, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had looked at her name. Like it meant something. Like he recognized it.
    The rest of the shift passed without incident. When Brenna came in to relieve her at 7 AM, Caroline practically ran to the locker room. She stripped off her scrubs, tossing them into the hamper, and stepped into the shower. The hot water sluiced over her, washing away the sweat and the antiseptic smell, but it couldn’t wash away the memory of those gray eyes.
    She dressed in the clothes she had worn to the date-the little black dress and the heels. She looked ridiculous. She felt ridiculous.
    The cab ride home was suffocating. The morning traffic was a nightmare, and by the time the taxi pulled into the driveway of her parents’ house, her nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She paid the fare, then opened the front door, bracing herself.
    “Where have you been?”
    The voice came from the living room. Caroline closed her eyes for a second, gathering her patience, before walking in.
    Her mother, Mrs. Thompson, was sitting on the edge of the sofa. She was still in her housecoat, her arms crossed over her chest. Her face was a mask of barely contained fury.
    “I was working,” Caroline said, dropping her bag on the entryway table. “There was an emergency at the hospital.”
    “An emergency?” Her mother stood up, her voice rising. “Preston’s mother Brenda called me at six o’clock this morning. Do you know what she said? She said you walked out on Preston in the middle of dinner. You left him sitting there like a fool!”
    Caroline rubbed the back of her neck. “Mom, I had to go. It was a Code-“
    “I don’t care if the building was on fire!” Mrs. Thompson shrieked. “You do not walk out on a man like Preston! He makes three hundred thousand dollars a year, Caroline! He has a condo in Georgetown! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a man like that?”
    “He’s a snob,” Caroline said, her voice hardening. “He thinks nurses are beneath him. He told me I should just quit and find a man to support me.”
    “That’s called being a provider!” her mother shot back. “That’s what men do! Your father provided for me, and I provided him a home. That’s how the world works!”
    Caroline looked at her father, who was sitting in the armchair in the corner, hiding behind his newspaper. He didn’t look up. He never did.
    “I’m not having this argument,” Caroline said, turning toward the stairs. “I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours. I need sleep.”
    “You’re not going anywhere until we resolve this!” her mother snapped, stepping into her path. “Brenda is humiliated. Preston is humiliated. You have ruined our standing in the community!”
    “Your standing?” Caroline let out a bitter laugh. “Is that all you care about? What the neighbors think?”
    “It’s called respect, Caroline! Something you clearly know nothing about!” Mrs. Thompson’s eyes were blazing. “I have already spoken to Brenda. You are going to call Preston, and you are going to apologize to him. Personally.”
    Caroline stared at her mother in disbelief. “Apologize? For what? For having a job that matters?”
    “For being rude! For being ungrateful!” Her mother jabbed a finger toward the phone on the hall table. “You will call him, and you will make this right, or so help me God, I will call him myself and apologize on your behalf. Do you want that? Do you want your mother begging for your forgiveness?”
    The threat hit Caroline like a physical blow. The image of her mother groveling to a man like Preston Finch made her stomach turn. It was the ultimate manipulation, the one card her mother always played when she knew she was losing the argument.
    Caroline’s shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion and a hollow ache in her chest.
    “Fine,” she whispered. “I’ll call him.”
    She walked past her mother, not meeting her eyes, and trudged up the stairs to her room. She closed the door, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor.
    She buried her face in her hands. She’d just endured the kind of pressure at the hospital that felt like a gun to her head, and now she came home to face this. She was trapped. Work, family, the expectations of everyone around her—they were all chains binding her.

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss Chapter 3

    The next morning, the drive to the hospital was a blur. Caroline’s mind was numb, stuck on a loop of Preston’s “good girl” and her mother’s triumphant smile. She felt like a puppet, her strings being pulled by everyone around her.
    When she walked into the hospital, her phone buzzed. A text from Brenna.
    More suits today. ICU is locked down tight. Be careful.
    Caroline sighed and headed for the elevator. The ICU wing was even more tense than the day before. The guards at the end of the hall were different-bigger, meaner, carrying heavier weaponry. They checked her badge three times before letting her through.
    She pushed open the door to Room 3 and stopped.
    Dr. Simon Adler, the attending physician, was standing by the bed, whispering urgently with the Colonel Jarrod Romero.
    Romero was in the same combat uniform, but today he looked even more on edge. His hands were clasped behind his back, the knuckles white. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle was jumping in his cheek.
    They both looked up as she entered.
    Caroline froze in the doorway. The air in the room felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension. Dr. Adler looked nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Romero just looked dangerous.
    “Nurse Thompson,” Dr. Adler said, clearing his throat. “The Colonel was just reviewing the patient’s progress.”
    Caroline nodded, not trusting her voice. She walked over to the monitors, keeping her eyes on the screens. She could feel Jarrod’s gaze on her, heavy and assessing. It was the same feeling she had gotten in the hallway yesterday-like being caught in a searchlight.
    “The medication schedule needs to be adjusted,” Jarrod said, his voice low. “He’s too sedated. I need him lucid by 1800 hours.”
    “Colonel, if we reduce the sedation, his pain levels will be-” Dr. Adler started.
    “I am aware of the risks, Doctor,” Jarrod cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Adjust the dosage. That is an order.”
    Dr. Adler swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
    Jarrod turned and walked toward the door. As he passed Caroline, he stopped. He was close enough that she could smell him again-cedar, gunpowder, and something distinctly male. Her pulse skipped a beat.
    He looked down at her. His gray eyes were unreadable, but there was an intensity in them that made her breath catch.
    “Watch your back, Nurse,” he said quietly. “The walls have ears.”
    Then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and Caroline let out a shaky breath.
    What did that mean? She looked around the room, suddenly paranoid. The walls have ears? Was he warning her about something? Or someone?
    She turned back to the bed. Lieutenant Petersen was watching her, his eyes clearer than they had been the night before.
    “We all trust the Colonel,” Petersen rasped, his voice weak. “He’s… decisive. You just do your job, and he’ll handle the rest. Please, be careful. This world… it isn’t for civilians.”
    Caroline stared at him, confused, but Petersen had already closed his eyes, his breath evening out as sleep reclaimed him.
    She stood there for a long moment, her mind racing. Standing in this room with a wounded soldier and a cryptic warning from a terrifying colonel, she realized she might be drawing closer to something far more dangerous than her stubborn mother and that ill-mannered Preston.

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