Andriana Neden

My father sold me to a monster to settle a debt. One minute I was a debutante at a gala, and the next, I was being hunted through the service corridors by my own stepmother’s security. I scrambled into a dark penthouse to hide, only to be pinned against the wall by a man whose body felt like a wall of searing heat. He smelled of rain and expensive cedar, his voice a low, pained growl as he gripped my wrist so hard the bone nearly ground together. The next morning, the "Wall Street Monster" arrived at our estate to collect his prize. My father signed the contract without reading a single page, trading me for a wire transfer while my sister laughed at my impending doom. "I heard he uses knives in bed," Kacy whispered, "Hope you have thick skin, sis." A balding, cruel man claimed to be my husband, but it was the silent bodyguard standing in the shadows who caught my tray when I stumbled. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through my veins, and his voice was the same gravelly baritone from the dark room the night before. I was terrified, caught in a web of lies about a disfigured beast who supposedly broke women for sport. I didn't understand why this "bodyguard" was looking at me with such predatory intensity, or why he was the only one who stepped in when my father tried to shove me. Then, inside the car, the bodyguard took off his sunglasses to reveal piercing blue eyes and a face that was devastatingly handsome. "I am Gideon Blackburn," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "And in this house, there is only one rule: Never lie to me." The monster wasn't who they said he was, and he was about to show my family exactly what happens when you try to destroy something that belongs to him.

For three years, I played the perfect, invisible wife to billionaire Dempsey Everett. But late one night, he walked in smelling of another woman's perfume and threw a thick divorce agreement onto the coffee table. "Darcy is back. Sign it." The terms were brutal, a complete wipeout that left me with nothing but the clothes on my back. To make matters worse, his true love Darcy sought me out to humiliate me, smirking that I was just a convenient placeholder keeping his bed warm. Even his mother immediately paraded Darcy around the estate in family heirlooms, treating me like worthless trash they couldn't wait to discard. I stared at the cold, heavy divorce papers, my chest tightening with pain, until my eyes caught the signature line at the bottom. Elinor Parish. A missing 'r'. After three years of sharing a home, a bed, and a life, my husband didn't even know how to spell my last name. All my patience, my quiet acceptance, and the love I had poured into this man had been a cosmic, cruel joke. The realization hit me like a physical blow, but the heartbreak quickly vanished, replaced by a white-hot fury. I swung my arm and slapped him across his arrogant face with every ounce of my suppressed pain, then signed the document without a second thought. Dempsey thought I was just a poor dropout who would beg for his scraps. He had no idea I was hiding my true identity. It was time the Everetts learned what it truly meant to cross the real Parrish royalty.

I sat at a mahogany table long enough to land a plane on, signing the papers that ended my two-year marriage to billionaire Eric Koch. He didn't even show up for the divorce; he was in a private cigar lounge downstairs, sending his lawyer to hand me a five-million-dollar check to buy my silence like I was a discarded employee. For two years, I had perfected the role of the "mouse"—the plain, timid wife Eric looked right past, never suspecting I was actually Rose, the world-renowned designer behind a secret fashion empire. I never told him I was the "angel" who dragged his unconscious body from a burning car years ago, the woman he’d been searching for while he ignored the one across the breakfast table. To celebrate my freedom, I had a one-night stand with a stranger in a penthouse, only to wake up and realize the man I’d just slept with was my ex-husband. Before the ink on our divorce was dry, Eric used his billions to buy my studio, trapping me in a contract that forces me to work for him as a "lowly assistant" or face a fifty-million-dollar penalty. I watched in silence as a fame-hungry actress paraded around his office wearing my stolen heirloom locket—the only proof of my true identity—claiming she was the mystery woman from his bed. Eric looked right through my frumpy disguise with the same cold indifference he showed his wife, never realizing the woman he was hunting was standing right in front of him. I couldn't understand how he could be so obsessed with finding a ghost while treating the living woman who saved him like garbage. Why was he so determined to own every piece of Rose while he had spent two years throwing Aislinn away? "Tell him nothing," I whispered to my reflection as I reapplied the thick foundation that masked my face. "You're dangerous, Ann Reese," he told me later, his eyes narrowing as he sensed a familiar spark behind my thick glasses. I adjusted my bun and looked him in the eye, ready to play the long game. He thinks he’s bought my future, but he’s about to find out that Rose doesn’t just design couture—she designs ruins.

I woke up before dawn to slice strawberries for my husband, Gabe, excited to finally tell him I was pregnant. As a "Wolfless" Omega, I had always been looked down upon, but I thought this baby proved I wasn't broken. But Gabe didn't come home alone. He walked in with Harper, a woman wearing the silk robe he had bought for me, reeking of his scent. He didn't kiss me. He didn't ask how I was. Instead, he sat her in my chair. "Make more pancakes," he ordered. "Harper is hungry." When I refused, demanding he explain why another woman was wearing my clothes, he didn't apologize. He used the Alpha Command. The pressure slammed me to the floor, crushing my bones and threatening the life inside my womb. I had to crawl out of the room while they laughed. My adoptive parents didn't save me; they sold me out for a council seat and a diamond necklace. Then came the public execution of my heart. At the Ascension Ceremony, Gabe took the microphone and rejected me in front of the entire Pack to make Harper his Luna. But they didn't just kick me out. They dragged me to a dirty, back-alley clinic. His mother ordered them to "remove the parasite" inside me. I screamed as they strapped me down. But as the needle touched my skin, the steel door was ripped off its hinges. The Alpha King stood in the debris, his eyes burning with golden rage as he looked at the necklace I wore. "Who dares touch my daughter?" he roared. I wasn't a defect. I was the lost White Wolf Princess. And the man standing behind the King wasn't just a guard—he was my true mate.

I removed an intern from an award nomination for stealing my dead sister's research. My husband, Craig, was furious. He chose to defend her, not me. His rage turned violent. He destroyed my life's work-a cure for Alzheimer's-then shoved me so hard I miscarried our child. He called me "dramatic" as I bled on the floor. Then he locked me in our home, a prisoner, forcing me to sign over my patents to his mistress, the woman who drove my sister to suicide. He thought he had broken me, that I was his to control. But when he tried to humiliate me in the most depraved way imaginable, I saw my chance. I threw myself from a second-story window. As I lay broken on the ground, watching him rush to his mistress's side, I made a vow. My revenge was just beginning.

For two years, I was in love with a man I only knew as C.L. Our anonymous online relationship was my safe haven from a world that terrified me, built on one simple rule: we would never meet. That rule shattered with a single text. He was a bestselling author, and his publisher was forcing him on a book tour. "I need to meet you," he wrote. "I can't do this without you." My social anxiety spiraled. I broke the only rule I could control and told him we should end it. The next morning, my boss ordered me to deliver files to our company's top client-the notoriously private author, Cristian Lancaster. It was him. My anonymous lover was my boss. He looked devastated, as if he' d been crying over my message, but he treated me like a stranger. I later found out the truth: he' d known who I was for two years, quietly waiting for me to trust him. But as our worlds finally collided, a jealous manager saw her chance for revenge. She forced me into a dinner with a dangerous man from my past, a man who drugged my drink and drove me toward a desolate road. As the car sped into the darkness, I hit record on my phone, realizing this was no longer about saving our love story. It was about saving my life.

I gave up my twenty-billion-dollar inheritance and cut ties with my family, all for my boyfriend of five years, Ignatz. But just as I was about to tell him I was pregnant with our child, he dropped a bombshell. He needed me to take the fall for his childhood sweetheart, Everleigh. She'd been in a hit-and-run, and her career couldn't handle the scandal. When I refused and told him about our baby, his face went cold. He told me to terminate the pregnancy immediately. "Everleigh is the woman I love," he said. "Finding out you're pregnant with my child would destroy her." He had his assistant schedule the appointment and sent me to the clinic alone. There, the nurse told me the procedure carried a high risk of permanent infertility. He knew. And he still sent me. I walked out of that clinic, choosing to keep my child. At that exact moment, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a glowing article announcing that Ignatz and Everleigh were expecting their first child, complete with a photo of his hand resting protectively on her stomach. My world shattered. Wiping away a tear, I found the number I hadn't called in five years. "Dad," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I'm ready to come home."

The first thing I felt was a dull throb, the smell of antiseptic, and the piercing brightness of a hospital room. A nurse informed me I was Olivia Vance, and my husband, Alexander Vance, wasn't there. Then she mentioned another "accident" and a woman named Sophia, saying, "You'd think a man like him would have better things to do." My nurse, Emily, told me I had a concussion and a fractured wrist, and that she'd seen me a "dozen times" for pulling "stunts to get his attention." I looked down at a wedding band on my left hand – a cruel joke. I was told it was 2025. My last memory was 2018. Seven missing years. And an unfamiliar face stared back from the reflection-thin, tired, broken. My phone, filled with pictures of a cold mansion, smiling strangers, and a dangerous-looking Alexander Vance, confirmed I was married to him. Then I found the contract: an agreement signed in 2020 to be his public wife for five years in exchange for a settlement. The term was up. Scrolling through desperate, one-sided texts to him, I found a chilling message from two days ago: "He will never love you. You're just a substitute. He's with me tonight." A violent memory hit me: a yacht, Sophia Miller's poisonous voice telling me, "He's tired of you, Olivia. You were just a placeholder." Then her hands on my chest, a sudden shove, and the cold water engulfing me. The bruises, the fractured wrist, the aching ribs – all for a stranger I had apparently loved. My past was a living nightmare, but now, with a blank slate, I knew one thing: I was not bringing that broken woman back.

The emerald silk dress was my quiet celebration, a well-deserved indulgence after years of hard work. I clicked 'confirm purchase,' a simple act that should have brought joy. Instead, it launched a nightmare. The boutique owner, a Mr. Thorne, called, accusing me of theft and fraud, claiming a refund request for a dress I never even received. My world shattered when he weaponized social media, branding me a "THIEF" with my face and workplace plastered online, unleashing a torrent of vitriol that bled into my office, jeopardizing my career. How could a simple purchase turn into public humiliation, extortion, and the complete destruction of my reputation by a man who was clearly lying? And why was everyone so quick to believe him? Cornered, abandoned, and facing an ultimatum from my boss, a cold rage ignited within me-I decided then and there, I wouldn't just make this go away; I would burn his carefully constructed world to the ground.

My husband, Ethan, an art history professor, used to call me his muse, claiming the lines of my architectural designs inspired his work. Then, his voice, once filled with adoration for me, began to brim with passion for Chloe, his new TA-a "brilliant mind" and his latest "muse" with whom he was spending "late nights in the archives." The faint, floral perfume clinging to his clothes, dismissed as paranoia, solidified when I found his laptop: not Renaissance art, but dozens of photos of Chloe, culminating in a chilling image-Chloe, wearing my silk robe, on our bed, dated just two nights ago when he was supposedly working late. A sudden, sick curiosity twisted into blinding betrayal, as the sanctuary I designed with such care became a monument to his deceit, turning my perfect partnership into a living lie. With newfound, icy clarity, I vowed to dismantle the life we' d built, brick by painful brick, and reclaim every piece of myself he had shattered.

In the Iron Vultures biker club, I was Jennifer Johns, the resident weirdo, the perpetually broke scavenger who couldn't even ride a bike. They called me useless, a charity case. But then came the Sturgis Gauntlet, a brutal, mandatory rally that threatened to bankrupt us. Suddenly, the club charter was dragged out, revealing my forgotten title: Treasurer. I was forced to go. On the road, their high-tech bikes overheated, water ran out, and they faced disqualification. I quietly offered up "my junk" – military-grade canteens and custom coolant – saving them. They just looked at me with pity, convinced I was so poor I' d sacrificed my pathetic scrap for them. When we were ambushed by the Silver Vipers, everyone was knocked out, except for me. I hid, then emerged to tend to them, only for Doc, our medic, to accuse me. "You' re the only one untouched. You set us up, traitor." They dumped out my canvas sack, expecting to find proof of betrayal. Instead, a pathetic collection of rusty bolts and frayed wires spilled onto the ground. The anger faded, replaced by overwhelming guilt and pity. They believed I was simply a girl so poor I collected garbage to sell online. They thought I was a loyal but pitiable member, too useless to be anything else. But standing there, watching them see only what they expected, I felt a cold surge of something else. This wasn't pity. This was opportunity.

My alarm buzzed, a cheerful tune that mocked the dread in my stomach. Today was the day: our family road trip to Vegas. Last time, it was the day I died. I remembered the screech of tires, shrill against hot asphalt. The sickening crunch of metal, the world swirling upside down. Then, the suffocating smell of gasoline, my own blood. Frank – my father – had orchestrated it all. He'd meticulously sabotaged our car, intent on murdering my mother and me for our organs. His mistress, Jessica, had a dying son, Leo, and we were merely unwilling donors for their twisted scheme. I gasped, shooting bolt upright in my cramped suburban bedroom. The morning sun streamed through the cheap floral wallpaper, a cruel contrast to the grim reality that had just resurfaced. The gruesome memory of my death, brutally betrayed by my own flesh and blood, washed over me like a tidal wave of ice and raw panic. My blood ran cold. This wasn't a nightmare; it was today. The same day he planned to carve me up for parts. How could a father, the sworn protector, conceive such a monstrous act for another woman' s child? The sheer injustice, the chilling horror of it, was unbearable, turning my stomach. But then, the nausea receded, replaced by something cold, hard, and sharp: pure, unyielding rage. I wasn't that naive 19-year-old anymore. I was a ghost with a score to settle. This time, there would be no crash. No organs harvested. This time, they would be the ones to feel pain.

For five years, I played a part. I was Ava, the quiet admin assistant. I lived in a Brooklyn walk-up, deeply in love with my charming boyfriend, Ethan Hayes. Our life together felt so real, so perfectly normal. Then, one night, I overheard him. He called me a "minor asset to be divested." A low-risk, low-yield stock, ready to be cut loose. It was for his upcoming merger with Chloe Parker. He was getting married, and I was just his secret. His 'simple' comfort to manage. The crushing blow wasn't just his words, but his fiancé Chloe' s endless DMs. She taunted me with pictures of their engagement ring and private jet "strategy sessions." My heart shattered. Then, during a car crash, his first instinct solidified everything. He shielded an absent Chloe, not the bleeding me beside him. He chose his lie over my life. How could the man who swore he loved me now see me as a disposable asset? Worth less than a lie? How could I have so completely misjudged him? The indignity and calculated cruelty burned through my veins. They thought I was simple. They thought I was weak. But they were about to find out how wrong they were. I returned home, not to a Brooklyn walk-up. I returned to AuraSphere. The multi-billion dollar private equity firm my family owns. And I was coming for them.

My eyes snapped open to the blare of my alarm, October 17th. Senior year. Mock SAT Day. A familiar, suffocating nightmare. For a second, I didn' t know where I was, then the cold dread washed over me: I was back. Back to that exact day. The beginning of the end. I remembered it all: the accusations, Tiffany Hayes' smug face, Chad' s betrayal, my mother' s tears and worsening cough, the crushing weight of a ruined future, my own descent into despair that had culminated in unspeakable suffering. I had meticulously sabotaged myself this time, purposely failing the mock SAT to avoid repeating history. But when the scores were posted, Tiffany Hayes had a near-perfect score of 1580. Even more terrifying, she had replicated my unique, deliberately flawed math solutions-down to a random doodle I' d made. How? How was she inside my head? This wasn't just cheating; it was invasive, a violation of my very thoughts. No more. This time, armed with my father' s secret tech empire and a former military intelligence expert Mr. K, I wouldn't be the victim. I was going to expose her, reclaim my life, and save my family from the nightmare she' d already put us through once.

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."

I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector. That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world. The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor. The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist. Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch-a titan of industry and my best friend's father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared. "Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb. Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen. "Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back." I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

Lillian woke in a werecreature universe as a total loser. Good news was that women ruled here and could take multiple mates, yet she still ended up as the one everyone looked down on. Compared to her talented sister at every turn, she watched her first match get stolen and her next four mates reject her without mercy. The first mate was the King of Succubine himself. On their very first meeting, he warned Lillian that he was only staying long enough to recover from his injuries-and that there could never be anything between them. The second mate was a merman. He took one look at her and said he had no interest in a loser like her, tossing her some cash so she could break off their bond herself. The third mate was the progenitor vampire-over a thousand years old. He admitted to admiring her sister instead and made it clear he had no interest in a layabout like Lillian. Lillian cut every bond and chose her own path instead. But as she rose higher and higher, those same men returned, full of regret and begging her to look at them again. The fourth mate was a werewolf Lillian had rescued from an underground fighting ring. She thought he might actually stay-until he revealed himself as royalty. And of course, he wanted to break their bond for more power.

As I lay on the floor of our manor, bleeding out from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, I used my last ounce of strength to call my husband, Cole. I begged him for help, my vision blurring. But the only thing I heard was the clinking of champagne glasses and his mistress's giggle in the background. "Stop the drama, June," Cole snapped, his voice cold. "We're about to go on stage. Don't call again." He hung up, leaving me to die alone on the Persian rug while he accepted an award with another woman on his arm. I woke up in the hospital days later. My baby was gone. They had removed my fallopian tube. Cole finally arrived, smelling of expensive scotch and his mistress's perfume. He didn't hug me. He didn't cry. Instead, he leaned over my hospital bed, pressing his knee into the mattress until my fresh stitches tore open and bled. "You embarrassed me by calling an ambulance," he hissed. "My mistress, Alycia, says you're faking it. Clean yourself up." He left me bleeding again to go announce a $10 million donation to Alycia's "groundbreaking" medical research. I stared at the TV screen, numb. The research Alycia was taking credit for? It was mine. I wrote that patent years ago under a pseudonym. They thought I was just a poor, orphan housewife who needed Cole's money to survive. They had no idea I was actually a billionaire scientist hiding my identity. I pulled the IV needle out of my arm. A drop of blood fell onto the divorce papers I had been hiding. I didn't wipe it off. I signed my name right over it. Then I walked into the bank, reactivated my dormant account with $128 million, and bought the penthouse directly overlooking Cole's house. The mourning widow is dead. The avenger is born.

Kayla stood outside the CEO suite, holding a custom suit for her fiancé, Brennon. They had spent seven years building a tech company from a freezing garage into a billion-dollar empire. But through the cracked door, she heard the breathy laugh of Evelin, the newly hired director. Then came Brennon's low, careless voice. "The wedding's a PR milestone for the IPO, nothing more." Kayla's blood turned to ice. "She's comfortable. Makes sense on paper," Brennon continued. "But you, Evelin. You understand ambition." The betrayal hit her like a physical blow. She had written the core code that made him a billionaire. She had stayed up until 4 AM debugging while he slept on a futon. Now, he was mocking their relationship to his mistress and handing over her life's work to a woman who couldn't even read a data log. Seven years of loyalty, reduced to a PR stunt. She didn't cry. Instead, a cold, violent clarity washed over her. Why should she let him keep the crown she forged? Without a word, she pulled the three-carat diamond off her finger and dropped it into her bag. She walked out of the building, drafted her resignation, and accepted a VP position at his biggest Wall Street rival. It was time to show Brennon what happened when the real genius behind his empire decided to tear it down.

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

I woke up from a coma in the hospital, universally condemned as the vicious daughter who pushed the beloved fake heiress, Georgina, down the stairs. My ruthless billionaire brother, Angelo, stood over my bed with cold eyes, ready to destroy me for hurting his precious sister. But as I looked at him, a terrifying prophecy from my coma flooded my brain. Our entire family was doomed. In the original timeline, Georgina would team up with corporate rivals to bankrupt the company, frame Angelo, and send him to federal prison, while our parents would abandon me to die miserably. Lying there, I didn't dare speak. I just desperately cursed my idiot brother in my head. "This stupid brother is still yelling at me for that fake heiress. He doesn't even know he's going to be framed and sent to prison next month!" I just wanted to stay quiet, let them ruin themselves, and run away from this toxic family. But strangely, Angelo didn't strangle me. Instead, his attitude took a shocking turn. He abruptly fired the driver plotting to kill him, destroyed the abusive fiancé of a family ally, and publicly humiliated Georgina at a high-society gala. He even shielded me from our abusive parents, declaring to the world that I was the only sister he would ever protect. I was completely terrified and confused. Why was the tyrant brother suddenly acting like a protective beast? It wasn't until he flawlessly crushed a massive corporate attack using the exact financial secrets I had just complained about in my mind that a horrifying realization hit me. He could hear my inner thoughts!

I woke up on silk sheets that smelled of expensive cedar and cold sandalwood, a world away from my cramped apartment in Brooklyn. Beside me lay Ezra Gardner-my boss, the billionaire CEO of Gardner Holdings, and the man who could end my career with a snap of his fingers. He didn't offer an apology for the night before; instead, he looked at me with terrifying clarity and proposed a cold, calculated business arrangement. "Marriage. It stabilizes the board and solves the PR crisis before it begins." He dressed me in archival Chanel and sent me home in his Maybach, but my life was already falling apart. My boyfriend, Irving, claimed he had passed out early, yet his location data placed him at my best friend's apartment until three in the morning. When I tried to run, I realized Ezra was already ten steps ahead, tracking my movements and uncovering the secret I'd spent twenty years hiding: my connection to the powerful Senator Grimes. I was trapped between a CEO who treated me like a line item on a quarterly report and a boyfriend who had been using me while sleeping with my closest friend. I felt like a pawn in a game I didn't understand, wondering why a man like Ezra would walk up forty flights of stairs on a broken leg just to make sure I was safe. "Showtime, Mrs. Gardner." Standing on the red carpet in a gown that cost more than my life, I watched my cheating ex-boyfriend's face turn pale as Ezra claimed me in front of the world. I wasn't just an assistant anymore; I was a weapon, and it was time to burn their world down.

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

After spending five grueling years securing the Madden Pack's empire, I thought my Alpha mate and I were finally building a perfect family. But on my birthday, I returned home to find a thick, impenetrable wall of ice in our Mate bond. Caden had completely shut me out to throw a lavish party for my half-sister, Adalynn. He let Adalynn pollute our penthouse with her cheap perfume and brainwash my five-year-old daughter, Elara. "Auntie Adalynn is a million times better than Mommy!" Elara chirped happily to a camera, while Caden watched with a doting smile. He publicly humiliated me, commanded the servants to ignore me, and deliberately fed Elara severe allergens just to spite my maternal rules. When my pup ended up in the pack hospital gasping for air, Caden confiscated her tablet and roared at her to stop crying for the mother who "abandoned" her. My heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces. I couldn't understand how the man destined to protect my soul could twist my love into cruelty and use our helpless cub as a punching bag for his ego. But the weeping, pathetic Luna died right there. I calmly signed the divorce papers, surrendered all my assets, and walked out into the cold night. Opening my encrypted laptop, I reclaimed my hidden identity as the global elite hacker "Ghost" and initiated a lethal protocol. It was time to burn his entire world to the ground.