Dolorita Drinker

I died of a broken heart while my fiancé, Kade, was busy comforting his "best friend" over a cold. When I opened my eyes, I was back at our engagement party, ten years in the past. I didn't hesitate. I took off the ring and called it quits. But Kyla wasn't letting go that easily. She deliberately ate a peanut cookie, faking a severe reaction to frame me. Kade didn't ask questions. He looked at me with pure hatred. "You monster! You knew she was allergic!" He even blamed me for his driver's sudden heart attack, screaming that I was a murderer who deserved to be ruined. I didn't defend myself. I didn't cry. I simply boarded a plane to London and vanished from his life. Thirteen years later, I returned as a world-renowned architect. Kade, who had finally uncovered the truth and spent a decade in silent penance, fell to his knees begging for a second chance. I looked at the man who had once been my world and smiled coldly. "I forgive you, Kade. But the Harper who loved you is dead. You killed her yourself."

The crystal chandelier swayed violently above the dinner table. In that fraction of a second, time seemed to stop. My husband, Dante, didn't hesitate. He didn't reach for me. He dove across the table, tackling his "fragile" first love, Mia, to the floor. He shielded her body with his own. Gravity took over. The heavy metal slammed into my legs, crushing them instantly. While I lay buried under the debris, bleeding into the beige carpet, Dante was screaming for a medic—because Mia had a paper cut. It wasn't the first time he chose her. He had run my taxi off the road because she faked a fall. He gave her my dying father's antique rosary just because she thought it was a pretty accessory. But the final blow wasn't physical. While Dante was at a hotel comforting Mia through a "nightmare," he ignored the urgent calls to authorize my father's bone marrow transplant. My father died alone of infection because Dante was too busy playing hero to a liar. When Dante finally returned to the penthouse, expecting me to be waiting there to beg for his forgiveness, he found the house silent. He found the signed divorce papers in the fireplace. And then, he found the death certificate dated three days ago. I didn't leave a note. I didn't leave a fight. I just left him with the silence he deserved, and vanished into the night.

The day my guardian, Dante Moretti, announced his engagement was the day I started planning my death. Not a literal one, but the death of the girl who had orbited his world for ten years. He was the Don of the Moretti family, the man I'd secretly loved since I was a child. But with his new fiancée, Sofia, on his arm, he began to erase me. He even forgot my severe allergy, gifting me a watch that would blister my skin. He had ripped apart the diary where I confessed my love for him. "I am your guardian," he'd spat. "Do not ever cross that line again." Yet one night, drunk and stumbling, he crashed his mouth onto mine, his hands roaming my body as he pushed me against the wall. He groaned, but the name that escaped his lips wasn't mine. "Sofia..." When I screamed my own name—Elara—he shoved me away in horror. He wasn't horrified by his betrayal, but by the fact that he'd kissed the wrong woman. That was the final straw. I took the acceptance letter to a university in Toronto that I had kept hidden like a prayer. I called my estranged father and booked a one-way ticket. This time, I would burn my old life to the ground and leave nothing but ashes behind.

From the moment I was born, a tiny, almost invisible birthmark behind my left ear sealed my fate. My mother, living by old superstitions, saw it as a bad omen, setting me apart from my identical twin, Sophia. She became the family favorite, showered with love and opportunity, while I became the "unlucky" one, living in her shadow with a nanny on a forgotten corner of our estate. Then, the unimaginable happened: Liam Davis, the adopted son of a powerful political figure, was at our family dinner, when he was never supposed to be there. And Sophia, my identical twin, who was supposed to marry the tech CEO Ethan Vance, shocked everyone by declaring her choice: she would marry Liam Davis. Sophia, with a smug, triumphant smile, later cornered me, "I told you I wanted your life. This time, I'm taking the right path from the beginning. Liam's power, his influence... it will all be mine. You can have the bankrupt tech genius." Her words chillingly confirmed it: she remembered everything from our first life, just like me. In that past life, I was married off to Liam Davis, a cold, distant man whose political ambition was built on secrets and ruthless tactics. His rise to power was bloody, leaving me a shield against his enemies and enduring constant humiliation in the shadows. Sophia had seen only the glamorous result, not the treacherous path, blindly envying my hard-won position. She thought marrying Liam was her shortcut to the life she deserved. Now, she believed she was seizing a better future, unaware that she was stepping into the very hell I had endured. She had chosen Liam, but she hadn't chosen the man he became with me. And I, the "unlucky" twin, was left with Ethan Vance, the supposed "bankrupt tech genius" destined for ruin. But I refused to be a passive victim again. This time, I knew the game, and I understood Sophia' s blindness. She wanted my old life? She could have it. Because this time, I would choose my own path. And maybe, just maybe, this "failed" marriage might hold a secret I never anticipated.

The California sun felt like a fresh start, a golden promise for my new life as an architect in LA, working alongside my successful older brother, David. But that promise shattered the moment my phone buzzed with an unknown number. "So you' re the one," a cold voice sneered, "The little sister who' s trying to sleep with her brother." My mind reeled. David, engaged? He never told me. And then this woman, Chloe, his fiancée, accused me of being a "homewrecker," her words laced with venom. The next morning, she escalated, posting a photo of David and me in our office' s company-wide chat, publicly branding me as someone with "no shame." "You' re not his 'sister.' You' re not related by blood at all," she broadcasted, twisting the truth of my adoption into a weapon, exposing our private family history to my new colleagues. I turned to David, my protector, expecting him to defend me. Instead, he simply messaged, "Sarah, don' t engage. Just ignore it. You' re making it worse." His inaction was a betrayal, a chilling realization that the brother I idolized was letting me be publicly humiliated, prioritizing "image" over my dignity. What kind of monster would weaponize family history? And why was David, my anchor, abandoning me to the storm? I knew then that this wasn't just a jealous fiancée; this was a battle, and my cherished brother was on the wrong side.

The final code for "True Love AI" glowed on my office monitor, a perfect symbol for my perfect life: successful tech CEO, marrying the woman I' ve loved for five years in seven days. Then Olivia called, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. "Ethan, can you come home? We need to talk." When I arrived, she dropped a bomb: she couldn' t marry me. She had to marry Daniel Reed, her ex-boyfriend, to fulfill his "deceased mother' s dying wish." My world fractured. This multi-million dollar AI, this sprawling estate, our perfect future-all secondary to some archaic notion of filial piety. And then came the sting: she wanted me to fund their wedding, a casual request for $50,000 for "arrangements." How could she betray me so utterly, and then demand I finance her new life? Could she truly be so cold, so transactional, after everything? But as I stared at her audacious texts, a small detail from a shared photo clicked into place. If she saw my love as a tool for manipulation, then I, Ethan Miller, would return the favor. My wedding would proceed as planned, but she wouldn' t be the bride.

The crystal decanter felt heavy in my hand as I prepared to strike my sister, Gabby, believing she had betrayed our family. Suddenly, glowing blue messages appeared before my eyes, revealing a shocking truth: I was being played, and my brother Ethan and our supposed sister Nicole were orchestrating a cruel frame-up. My world shattered as I watched them feign innocence, and Ethan, caught in his lie, spitefully ordered Gabby to be locked in the terrifying wine cellar, a place of profound trauma for her. The realization that I had been a blind participant in my family' s monstrous charade, that I had stood by while Gabby was tormented, hit me like a physical blow. But seeing Gabby's pure terror, and knowing Ethan had tortured her for weeks, something cold and sharp hardened inside me: I was done feeling guilty; I was going to turn her into a weapon.

Father is addicted to gambling and abusive; mother is promiscuous. I am the result of their impulsive decision one night, and they did not want me. My grandparents took me back home. But my life did not get much better. I was abused by my uncle's family and bullied by classmates. It wasn't until my third year of junior high school that a transfer student came to our school, a troublemaker who skipped classes, drank and fought. When I was dragged into the bathroom and about to be bullied again, he stood in front of me.

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.

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.

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.

Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.

My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.

The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand. Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn. She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back.

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.

Donna's previous life had been a complete mess. Despite her family's objections, she married Andrew, building a life with him from nothing and enduring years of hardship by his side. But when success finally came, he betrayed her-having an affair with her stepsister, Sakura. Worse, the two conspired against her, ultimately having her locked away in a psychiatric hospital. In the end, she was pushed from a building. She and the child she was carrying passed away in agony. Now reborn, Donna was determined to rewrite everything. But fate had other plans. She awoke not in her own body, but in someone else's-Bonnie, a woman whose life was even more entangled in chaos than her own. Bonnie had been used by her fiancé, Randor. He cheated on her with his secretary, then coldly orchestrated her death during a cruelly planned surgery. Donna sighed at the cruel irony. If this was the form her rebirth had taken, then so be it. She would start by helping Bonnie take revenge on that despicable man she once called her fiancé!

She fell into her sister's trap and had a one night stand that left her pregnant. Four years later, when she returned with her kid, a charming but bossy gentleman entered her life. From the moment she laid eyes on him, she found him familiar, but couldn't figure out why until she saw her son stand next to that man...

For three years, I documented the slow death of my marriage in a black journal. It was my 100-point divorce plan: for every time my husband, Blake, chose his first love, Ariana, over me, I deducted points. When the score hit zero, I would leave. The final points vanished the night he left me bleeding out from a car crash. I was eight weeks pregnant with the child we had prayed for. In the ER, the nurses frantically called him-the star surgeon of the very hospital I was dying in. "Dr. Santos, we have a Jane Doe, O-negative, bleeding out. She's pregnant, and we're about to lose them both. We need you to authorize an emergency blood transfer." His voice came over the speaker, cold and impatient. "I can't. My priority is Miss Whitfield. Do what you can for the patient, but I can't divert anything right now." He hung up. He condemned his own child to death to ensure his ex-girlfriend had resources on standby after a minor procedure.