Call Me Cutie

When the kidnapper pressed a tactical knife to Falon's throat and demanded a one-million-dollar ransom, she was certain her fiancé would pay. Instead, Jerod's annoyed voice echoed through the speaker. He was busy cutting a cake with his fragile, manipulative mistress, Abby. "Do whatever you want with her," Jerod told the thug. "I am done." The call disconnected. Left to die, Falon was injected with a lethal black-market aphrodisiac. She fought her way out, escaping into the freezing rain, and threw herself at the mercy of a stranger in a black Maybach. That stranger was Bell Farrell, a ruthless billionaire and Jerod's biggest corporate rival. To survive the burning drug and shatter the memories of her fiancé's betrayal, she gave herself to the devil that night. The next morning, Falon woke up in a stranger's bed, staring at her bruised skin. For four years, she had endured her abusive family's cruelty, watching them treat her fake, adopted sister like a princess while using Falon as a corporate pawn. She had compromised everything for Jerod, only to be thrown away like garbage. Why did she have to suffer while the people who destroyed her played the victims? Falon took off her five-carat engagement ring and threw it in the trash. She put on a sharp black suit and crashed her family's elite ballroom gala, ready to burn their high-society facade to the ground.

I woke up with a splitting headache and a pinstriped lawyer shoving a contract in my face, demanding I sign away my rights to the Sterling estate. My husband, the billionaire Arthur Sterling, had been missing for three months after a plane crash, and everyone assumed he was dead. The lawyer sneered, threatening to leak compromising photos of my "shopping trips" if I didn't accept a measly fifty-thousand-dollar settlement. That was when the horrifying reality hit me: I had transmigrated into the body of Gloria Peck, the gold-digging villainess of the novel *The Sterling Legacy*. In the original story, I signed the papers, abandoned Arthur's children, and ended up frozen to death on a park bench after the family's eldest son, Jones, grew up to destroy me. But my current reality was even more desperate-I discovered I had five million dollars in gambling debts and debt collectors who didn't take "no" for an answer. Signing that paper wasn't a fresh start; it was a death sentence. Jones, Arthur's fourteen-year-old son, sat in the corner of the office, watching me with a hatred so cold it felt like a physical weight on my skin. I realized that if I followed the script, I would die. If I played the victim, I would die. I was trapped between a predatory legal team, a vengeful stepson, and a mountain of debt that fifty thousand dollars couldn't even begin to touch. How could I survive in a world where I was the most hated woman in the city, with a bank account that held exactly five hundred dollars and a target on my back? I didn't pick up the pen to sign. Instead, I slammed it into the mahogany table, piercing the heart of the agreement. "This contract is garbage," I told the stunned lawyer. Just as I prepared to fight for my life, the office door swung open, and Arthur Sterling-the man the world thought was dead-walked back into his empire, his eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity. The script was officially broken, and I was just getting started.

I was the secret girlfriend of rising political star Kellen Jefferson, and the sacrifice he made thirty-eight times to appease his manipulative sister, Cherrelle. Her cruelty escalated from ruining my career to pushing me off a stage, breaking my wrist. Kellen covered it up. He chose her again when she pushed me down a flight of stairs, covering up the attempted murder. He chose her when he publicly kissed her after she framed me for stalking. But the moment that truly killed my love was when I was abducted. I called him, begging for help. He never answered. Later, I saw the video: he watched my call come in and, at his sister' s urging, let it go to voicemail. He abandoned me to die. After escaping with my life, I disappeared. Two years later, he saw my face on the cover of a magazine-a celebrated artist with a new life and a new love. And he finally understood what he had lost.

He broke my heart ninety-nine times, but it was the last one that finally killed my love for him. At his family's party, his new girl theatrically stumbled, pulling us both into the pool. My heavy gown dragged me down, and I gasped for air, reaching for him. But he shoved right past me. He saved her. Through the chlorinated water, I heard his voice, sharp and clear for everyone to hear. "Your life is no longer my problem." The world went silent. My love for him died in that pool. But the final humiliation came a week later, at a high-stakes poker game. He kissed her in front of everyone, a brutal, public execution of my worth. Then he looked straight at me, his voice booming across the silent room. "She's a much better kisser than you ever were." Later that night, I overheard him talking to his second-in-command. "I'll keep her around long enough to make Ellie jealous. Give it a few weeks. She'll come crawling back, begging me to take her back. She always does." My love, my pain, my heartbreak—it was all just a game to him. So I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I went home, opened my laptop, and applied to a university in New York. This wasn't a threat. This was a burial.

I was the scholarship kid at Westbrook University, dating the star quarterback, Gage Barton. Everyone on campus thought I was living a fairytale, the brilliant girl from the wrong side of the tracks who had captured the prince's heart. My roommate, Cayden, was my best friend, the one I trusted with all my secrets. But my fairytale was a lie. My prince was a cruel narcissist who saw me as his pet project, and my best friend was a snake who secretly slept with him, seething with jealousy over everything I had earned. Their betrayal culminated in an act of pure evil. Using my own laptop, Cayden permanently deleted my entire thesis-one hundred and twelve pages of research that represented my only ticket out of their world. My future was gone in a single click. When I confronted them, they laughed. "It's just a stupid paper," Gage sneered, accusing me of deleting it myself to save face. They stood together, a united front of privilege and cruelty, believing they had finally broken me. But they were wrong. I calmly walked over to Cayden's desk, where her own laptop was open, her final project displayed on the screen. Next to it sat a full glass of water. I picked it up and poured it directly onto the keyboard. The screen sparked, then went black. As she shrieked in horror, I repeated his words back to her, my voice cold as ice. "It's just a stupid project. Why are you making such a big drama out of it?"

My wife, Sarah, always had a radiant smile, bright and flawless, just like the diamond necklace she wore. Everyone at the party, celebrating the pinnacle of my architectural career, saw us as the perfect couple, living in a stunning penthouse. But beneath the facade, a chilling rot was eating away at our foundation. Two weeks ago, hunting for a charging cable in Sarah' s car, I stumbled upon a burner phone. It lit up, revealing not just flirtatious texts, but explicit photos and mocking conversations between my beautiful wife and my ambitious mentee, Alex. They called me "The Old Man," a relic to be managed. The discovery was a physical blow, turning my decade-long marriage into a carefully constructed lie. Every shared glance, every subtle touch between them became a dagger. I saw Alex meticulously undermining me, charming clients, systematically taking over not just my marriage, but my entire company. The pain of betrayal was excruciating, but the calm that settled over me was even more terrifying. How could I have been so blind? How could the woman I built a life for, the man I trusted like a brother, conspire so intricately against me? The architect in me, trained to see structures and systems, knew one thing: this wasn't just an affair; it was a planned takeover. So, I gripped the cold metal railing of my penthouse balcony, the city lights blurring below. I wouldn't just leave. They wouldn't find me. I would disappear completely, to die and be reborn as someone else, someone who didn't remember the name Sarah. And my final design would be my escape.

The morning after my wedding, I found myself in a cold interrogation room. My beautiful white dress was gone, replaced by a gray jumpsuit that felt rough and alien. My new husband, Ethan, looked at me like I was a monster, shattering the dream we'd built. They accused me of murdering his entire family at our wedding brunch, a twisted nightmare beyond comprehension. I knew the truth, but I couldn't speak, bound by a terrible secret that protected him. But then, Ethan strapped me to a terrifying memory-reading machine, broadcasting my deepest secrets to the world. He believed it would expose my guilt, confirming the monstrous betrayal he saw in me. He didn't know it would rip open a decade of manipulation and unveil the real killer, destroying the very foundations of his life. He demanded the truth, but what if the truth was far more horrific than any lie?

The doctor's words echoed, a distant hum, yet crystal clear: "Congratulations, Mrs. Prescott, you're pregnant!" My husband Ethan beamed beside me, his grip on my hand tightening, a wide, genuine smile lighting his face – the kind of pure joy I hadn't seen in far too long. He pulled me into a hug, his voice booming with happiness that filled the sterile room. But a cold dread pierced me, deeper than any clinic air conditioning. This exact moment. I remembered it. In my last life, this pregnancy, this supposed joy, became the very weapon they used against me. Chloe, Ethan's first choice, the woman he was supposed to marry, had returned. She feigned concern, using her 'wellness expertise' facade to get close. She then whispered poison in Ethan' s ear, painting me as a burden, before orchestrating my 'accident' – a fall that led to the tragic loss of my child, and soon after, my own broken, wasted death. I could still hear Chloe's voice, soft and venomous, as I lay bleeding: "You were always beneath us, Ava. Just in the way." That memory burned, a raw wound in my soul. The sheer injustice of their cruelty, the depths of their betrayal, still sent ice through my veins. How could I have been so naive, so easily discarded? The confusion, the despair from that past life resurfaced, potent and suffocating. But this time, I was ready. The knowledge wasn't a shroud, but a shield. I blinked, forcing a fragile smile. My new goal was clear, etched in the pain of my past: survive, protect my child, and utterly destroy them.

The familiar AP Computer Science lab hummed, a painful reminder of last year's public humiliation. My innovative app, once celebrated, shockingly showed abysmal results, while my boyfriend Ethan and Brittany unveiled an identical project, claiming victory. My mentor' s disbelief, the principal' s shame, and my parents' crushing humiliation broke me. Accused of fabrication, I spiraled into a dark, isolating breakdown. Now, back in the lab for senior year, the wound still fresh, Ethan sat beside me, his voice a disarming lull. Then, a thought, loud and sickeningly clear, echoed in my mind: "Keep coding, Maya! Every line brings me and Brittany closer to that MIT scholarship! Haha!" My blood froze; this wasn't clairvoyance, but a chilling memory of his internal monologue, played just for me. My dream, stolen by them, confirmed by his own mind - how was this possible? The origin of this bizarre ability didn't matter; knowing the truth, I suddenly had a second chance. They' d made their move, but they had no idea who they were truly dealing with this time.

I loved Blake Vanderbilt with everything I had. He was my world, and when he told me about his rare, career-ending nerve condition, my heart truly shattered. The experimental treatment was $80,000, a fortune for a struggling songwriter like me, but I would do anything. So, I sold my father's most treasured possession, a vintage 1959 Gibson Les Paul, the last piece I had of him. Handing over that guitar felt like losing a piece of my soul, but it was for Blake, for us, for our music. Days later, bringing him cookies at his upscale clinic, I overheard voices from a half-open door. "Can you believe she actually sold it?" Chloe Astor's mocking laugh cut through me. Then Blake's voice, clear and strong, "Eighty grand, straight into my account. Paid for this lovely clinic visit, and Chloe's new demo." My blood ran cold. They had laughed about my sacrifice, my tears, and planned to play a video of my heartbreak at a party – my birthday party. The cookies clattered to the floor, my world crumbling around me. He was healthy, radiant, and everything had been a lie. The betrayal knocked the air from my lungs. How could someone I loved so deeply be so monstrously cruel? Weeks later, after being publicly humiliated and assaulted by Chloe's friends, waking up in a hospital bed with stitches in my head, I received a cryptic text. It was from a lawyer, informing me that my long-lost grandfather, a legendary music mogul, had just passed away. And he'd left his entire multi-million dollar estate to me.

My older sister just married a rich man, Jim Sterling. I’m an 8-year-old girl who can’t speak, suddenly flung into a world of grand mansions and glittering parties. But this supposed fairytale quickly turned into a profound nightmare. Adults whispered "charity case" behind my back. Girls at school sneered "mute freak," and one even tried to exploit my stepfather’s generosity for her own father’s business. My new step-grandmother, Marian, saw me as nothing but an obstacle, actively plotting to drive my sister and me away. She even manipulated my biological father, a terrifying ghost from my darkest past, into a chilling encounter, hoping to prove I was "unsuitable" for this new life. Why did everyone see my silence as a weakness, a flaw? Why was the cruelty so relentless? My voicelessness had always made me a target, and now the malicious whispers threatened to drown me entirely. But then, an unexpected truth began to emerge. My stepfather, Jim, stood firm as my unwavering protector, publicly claiming me as his daughter and establishing a trust fund in my name. My step-siblings, initially distant, slowly began to rally around me. And the terrifying plot orchestrated by Marian was exposed by Jim's relentless investigation. Would I remain a silent victim, forever defined by my past trauma and the cruel words of others? Or could I, the 'mute freak,' finally find my voice, not just in whispers, but in a roar that would redefine my future and claim my true place in this world?

For seven years, I was with Blake, my ambitious Silicon Valley boyfriend. He told me he was building a dream, always "testing" my independence to prove I was with him for love, not money. I believed him, working tirelessly to pay my equal share. Then, my mom got critically ill, needing a $2000 scan so urgent it couldn't wait for insurance. I begged Blake for a loan, promising to pay him back, stressing it was a matter of life and death. He coldly refused, hid behind his "principles," and dismissed my desperation as a "test" of my resilience. Three agonizing days later, my mother died. Amidst my grief, a sickening truth began to unravel. Blake wasn't a struggling founder; he was a silent multi-millionaire, secretly lavishing gifts worth hundreds of thousands on another woman. I found texts where he mocked me to his friends, calling my plea a "handout" and my situation "desperate." How could the man I loved and supported for seven years be so monstrous? How could he let my mother die over $2000 he casually spent on jewelry? The betrayal sliced deeper than any knife. But the final twist was the cruelest: Blake secretly owned the coffee shop where I worked for minimum wage. Not only that, he had been systematically diverting my earned bonuses—including a $2000 payment right when I needed it—into his own private account. The money I had *earned* for my mom’s life, he had stolen. That day, my grief turned into an ice-cold rage, and I knew exactly what I had to do.

My life was a symphony, building to a crescendo with the "Tomorrow's Country Star" finale. I was Emily Carter, a singer-songwriter on the cusp of realizing my dreams, my heart entwined with Jake Myers, a music producer, and the creative force behind my most personal work, "Heartland Echoes." Then, in a shocking betrayal that ripped my world apart, Jake, along with his 'college sweetheart' Brittany Sloane, presented *my* masterpiece as hers on national television. The internet screamed "Plagiarist!" and "Fraud!" as my reputation crumbled to ashes. The public crucifixion that followed was a living nightmare; the shame coiled around me until I couldn't breathe. My parents, heartbroken and broken by the endless harassment directed at me, withered away, leaving me utterly alone before I, too, succumbed to the despair and the dark. From that desolate void, I was forced to watch my betrayers prosper. Jake and Brittany thrived, building their careers on the bones of my tragedy, even laughing about "Emily Who?" in the privacy of a hot mic. To be reduced to a meme, to die knowing they got away with it, to watch them celebrate their sordid triumph – the injustice was an acid in my soul, fueling a rage beyond measure. But fate, it seemed, wasn't done with me yet. One blinding moment, I was back, returned to the critical juncture before my public downfall, grasping a second chance, and armed with a terrible knowledge: a medical diagnosis that, in my previous life, had seemed a curse, but was now the key to my twisted opportunity. This time, I would sacrifice my voice for vengeance, and the narrative would be entirely mine.

For years, I, an Apache Spirit Guide, brought blessings to the Maxwell ranch, transforming its barren soil into fertile land through ancient ways. My marriage to Ethan had sealed a sacred pact, and our son, Kay, was a vibrant symbol of this union, his laughter echoing through the canyons. Then, Sophia Kincaid, Ethan’s past love, reappeared. She claimed to be pregnant with his child and, manipulated by a shady psychic, demanded Kay’s sacred turquoise amulet—a protection blessed by my elders—to ensure her baby’s “destiny.” Ethan, blinded by Sophia’s charm, violently ripped the amulet from our five-year-old son’s neck. Kay died that night, bleeding and gasping in my arms, while Ethan, oblivious to his son's violent pineapple allergy, entertained Sophia. My grief was absolute, yet for him, it was merely an inconvenience. Publicly humiliated, forced to drink a vile potion stealing my fertility, my hands brutally broken by Ethan himself, I wondered: how could the man I loved, the father of my child, descend into such monstrous cruelty? Lying broken and bleeding in the dust, the man I married abandoned me. But as darkness threatened to consume me, my ancestors whispered, igniting a new fire within. Now, I, Wind Walker, have returned to my people, ready to embrace my true power and witness the Maxwell legacy crumble, just as Ethan’s soul did.

Lily was drugged at her ex’s wedding. Before she could notice that, she was greeted with a more explosive scene, a murder. Jack’s face darkened as she suddenly got all mixed up with his plans. Giving an order to clean up the place, he took her to another room when the drug’s effects were getting stronger on her. Not being able to handle it anymore, she decided to just get straight to the point. It turned out that having an unexpected visitor was better than he expected.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

I stood in the pouring rain at my father-in-law's funeral, the heels of my black pumps sinking into the mud. I was Mrs. Vargas, the wife of New York's most powerful billionaire, yet I was standing at the edge of the crowd like a forgotten statue. Ten feet away, under the dry shelter of the family tent, my husband Hayes held another woman against his chest. It wasn't me he was whispering comfort to; it was Felicity, his late brother's widow and childhood sweetheart. The humiliation didn't end at the cemetery. Hayes moved Felicity and her son into our home, relegating me to the guest wing while she took over the primary suites. He watched silently as her son smashed the only photograph of my deceased parents, then demanded I apologize for "scaring" the boy with my reaction. When Felicity's negligence ruined a twelve-million-dollar family heirloom, Hayes had the audacity to ask me to use my own savings to buy her a "consolation" engagement ring. He treated me like a parasite, never realizing I was a brilliant scientist with a hidden fortune and three patents to my name. I realized then that our three-year marriage was a hollow farce. Hayes had never even touched me, claiming he wanted to "remain pure" for his memory of Felicity. I was nothing more than a business merger, a smudge on the lens of the perfect family portrait he was building with another man's widow. The breaking point came during a lethal blizzard. Hayes promised to accompany me to my family's mandatory gala-a tradition where my absence meant a death sentence. But at the last second, he stood me up to stay home and tend to Felicity's stubbed toe. Left alone to face the wrath of the Santos Matriarch, I was forced to kneel in the freezing snow as punishment until my lungs began to fail and my vision blurred. Just as the darkness started to take me, a black Maybach smashed through the iron gates. My exiled brother, the man the world calls "The Wolf," stepped out of the storm to reclaim what Hayes had discarded. Hayes thought I was a helpless doll who couldn't survive a day without his trust fund, but he's about to find out what happens when you let a Santos daughter freeze.

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 was the orphaned "parasite" of the Tyler family, taken in only to be abused for fifteen years after my parents died in a tragic car crash. To finally escape their control, I sold my first time to my ruthless billionaire boss, Ellsworth Mosley, for one million dollars. I thought it was a clean transaction. But the next morning, covered in severe bruises he left on me, I was handed a brutal contract with a fifty-million-dollar penalty. He didn't just buy my silence; he bought me. My nightmare only worsened when my adoptive family found out about my connection to the billionaire. Instead of disgust, they invited me to a hypocritical family dinner. "Talk to Mosley, convince him to invest in our failing business," my adoptive father demanded shamelessly. His son, who had tormented me for years, even grabbed my hand. "Do this, and we can be officially engaged. You'll finally be a real Tyler." They wanted me to whore myself out to save the family that had treated me like a stray dog. I shattered my wine glass, cursed them to go bankrupt, and walked out into the rain. As I reached the door, my phone vibrated with a terrifying summons from Ellsworth. But it was the panicked whisper behind me that froze my blood. "She knows about the brakes on her parents' car. If anyone finds out what we did, we'll go to prison." They murdered my parents. I gripped my phone, accepting the devil's call. Since I was already bound to a monster, I would use his power to drag them all to hell.

After my boyfriend of four years publicly humiliated me at a charity gala, calling me a "charity case," I drowned my sorrows at a dive bar and had a one-night stand with a stranger. I woke up the next morning in a luxury hotel suite to find out the stranger was Christian Porter, the most ruthless billionaire on Wall Street. Worse, paparazzi had photographed us leaving the bar. He coldly informed me that the photos would create a scandal that could tank his company's upcoming IPO, costing him hundreds of millions. As if my world wasn't collapsing fast enough, I got a call that my younger brother had been arrested for assaulting my ex in my defense. Christian didn't want my apology; he wanted a solution. He slammed a prenuptial agreement on the table in front of me. He gave me an ultimatum: sign a two-year marriage contract to turn the scandal into a corporate fairy tale, or he would ruin me. Trapped, I agreed. But when my furious brother confronted him at the police station, Christian looked him dead in the eye and said something that left me breathless. "I didn't marry her to solve a problem," he said, his voice echoing in the small room. "I married her because I've been in love with her for ten years."