Fumo Baobao

I waited seven years for Jax Vetti, the youngest Capo in New York, to finally claim me. Instead, five minutes before our scheduled engagement, he called me a burden behind a velvet curtain. Standing on the center stage of the Gala, he didn't reach for my hand. He took the hand of Chloe Davenport, his rival’s daughter, and announced to the underworld that she was carrying his heir. When the explosion tore through the ballroom moments later, Jax didn't hesitate. He threw his body over Chloe, shielding her completely, and dragged her to the safe room. I was left behind, exposed and helpless, until a massive crystal chandelier crashed down, crushing my legs and slicing my throat. While I lay bleeding out on the cold floor, Jax returned. He looked at my shattered body not with horror, but with disgust. "You're a liability, Savvy," he sneered, ordering his guards to dump me in the courtyard like trash so I wouldn't upset his pregnant fiancée. I clutched the bullet casing he gave me years ago—a blood oath he swore would bind us forever. He had promised to protect me, but tonight, he stepped over my broken body to comfort the woman who was secretly plotting his demise. His second-in-command found me before the cold took me. "He's lost his mind," Ben whispered, scooping me up and driving me to a private jet bound for Sicily. I didn't die that night. But the girl who loved Jax Vetti did. Six months later, I returned from the dead. Not as his victim, but as the woman who would turn his wedding into a funeral.

On my first wedding anniversary, I woke up pregnant and thrilled, waiting for my husband, Carter. But a trending TikTok video shattered my world. It showed Carter celebrating the same anniversary with a famous influencer, Kenley Mendez. He had lied to me for an entire year with a fake marriage certificate while being legally married to her. When I confronted him, he spun a story about Kenley dying of cancer, begging for my sympathy. But his lies quickly turned to violence. During a fight, he struck me so hard that I collapsed, and later that day, I miscarried our baby. To protect his perfect public image, Carter' s company then released a statement branding me as a delusional mistress. The internet exploded with hate, and I became the villain in his tragic love story. I had lost my baby, my husband, and my reputation. The man I had loved and supported for eight years had not only betrayed me but systematically destroyed my life. Lying in that cold hospital bed, with nothing left to lose, I picked up my phone. I turned off the beauty filters, looked straight into the camera, and hit 'Go Live.'

My boss, August Ortega, forced me to donate bone marrow to his fiancée. She was afraid of getting a scar. For seven years, I’d been the assistant to the boy I grew up with, the man who now despised me. But his fiancée, Harlow, wanted more than my marrow; she wanted me gone. She framed me for shattering a five-million-dollar gift, and August made me kneel on the broken crystal until my knees bled. She framed me for assault at a gala, and he had me arrested, where I was beaten bloody in a holding cell. Then, to punish me for a sex tape I never leaked, he kidnapped my parents. He made me watch as he dangled them from a crane on an unfinished skyscraper, hundreds of feet in the air. He called my phone, his voice cold and smug. "Have you learned your lesson yet, Cora? Are you ready to apologize?" As he spoke, the rope snapped. My parents plummeted into the darkness. A terrifying calm washed over me. The taste of blood filled my mouth, a symptom of the illness he never knew I had. He laughed on the other end of the line, a cruel, ugly sound. "Feel free to jump off that roof if it hurts so much. It would be a fitting end for you." "Okay," I whispered. And then, I stepped off the edge of the building and into the empty air.

My mentor, Dr. Vance, dedicated her life to a sustainable energy project. But her sudden, aggressive illness, too fast to be natural, told me it was an attack. Powerful people wanted her work stopped. So, when she whispered to me to protect it, to not let them win, I made the hardest decision of my life. I reached for the plug on her life support machine, an act of mercy and protection. But just as my fingers closed around it, the door burst open. "Ava! What the hell are you doing?" It was Ethan, my husband, Dr. Vance's son. He saw my hand on the plug. He saw his mother, still and silent. He saw a murderer. Chloe Hayes, his childhood friend, rushed to his side. "Oh my God, Ethan! She's... she's killing your mother!" Her words sealed my fate. He shoved me, calling me a murderer. He slapped me, snarling, "You bitch." He became a monster, fueled by grief and Chloe's lies. He moved into the guest room, stopped speaking to me except to hurl insults. He drained our accounts, buying lavish gifts for Chloe. One night, drunk, he forced himself on me. A few weeks later, I was pregnant, a tiny, foolish hope. But Chloe's poisonous words ignited his rage. He shoved me. I fell, my stomach hitting the desk. The life inside me, gone. I was cleaning the rug he loved, hand bleeding, when Chloe twisted the story. He forced me to my knees, then watched, unmoved, as I scrubbed. Then, to destroy Eleanor's legacy, Chloe burned her notebooks, tearing them right in front of me. My birthday. Ethan stood on stage, Chloe by his side, her hand resting protectively on her stomach. "Chloe and I are getting engaged! And we're going to have a baby!" The public execution. My reputation systematically dismantled. I stood there, taking every lie, knowing if they all hated me, no one would look for me when I vanished. So, I disappeared. I didn't understand how he could twist reality so violently, how his grief had blinded him to the truth. Why, after everything, did he hate me so much? I shredded my identity. Ava Riley ceased to exist. I became Anya Sharma, the lead scientist of Project Legacy, ready to fulfill my promise and build a new life beyond the wreckage of the old.

My best friend Chloe and I were cybersecurity experts, surviving the digital wasteland after the world fell apart. We kept our small community thriving, a beacon of order in chaos. Then, tech entrepreneurs Jake Anderson and Noah Carter appeared, promising to "fix" everything. Jake, charismatic and charming, made me believe he loved me. I poured my expertise, my hope, and my heart into their project: rebuilding the core economic systems. During a critical mission, I almost died, fighting off a hostile takeover. Weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant with Jake' s child, a fragile joy in our grim reality. But then, Chloe, on what was supposed to be a simple mission, was ambushed. They held her for three days, violating her digitally, shattering her mind. Jake and Noah swore vengeance, waging a ruthless war to eliminate their rivals. We thought we were finally safe, weathering the storm together. Until one night, I overheard them. My pregnancy was a "good move," tying me to Jake. Chloe was "broken," but useful. Our deepest traumas, our pain, our sacrifices-all planned, all for Olivia Reed, a socialite they were putting on the path to ultimate power. The love I thought was real became the most painful cage of all. My child, leverage. Chloe, bait. Our lives, tools. I found Chloe, her eyes mirroring my devastation. We were trapped in a web of lies, but we would find a way to escape.

The digital timer in my vision pulsed, counting down to my supposed obliteration-ten minutes until my existence was wiped clean. Three years ago, a car crash stole my parents, leaving me, then just nineteen, to raise my two stepsons, Ethan and Caleb. I' d given up my Olympic dreams to give them a stable home. I believed their promises, that we were a family, that they would always protect me. Then Chloe Davis walked in, an intern, all wide eyes and sweet smiles, a delicate charm bracelet glinting on her wrist. From that day, I became their personal scapegoat, my achievements overshadowed, my talent exploited, all to bolster Chloe' s image. Last week, a sabotaged client presentation, files deleted, backups corrupted, and Chloe was responsible. But Ethan, in the crowded boardroom, turned to me, his face a cold mask: "Sarah, this is your fault." Caleb chimed in, refusing to meet my eyes, "Chloe is new, she's still learning. You should know better." They didn' t even ask, just saw Chloe' s tears and blamed me. I swallowed the familiar, bitter humiliation, the weight of their betrayal a physical pressure on my lungs. But today, I chose to fail. "I' m not abandoning it. I' m choosing to fail," I whispered to the empty room. [Decision confirmed. Initiating protocol for mission failure. The consequences are irreversible. Host will be held fully responsible.] The system' s voice was calm, but the penalty was clear: my existence would be erased, my "Goodness Value" transferred to Chloe. Then, the office door burst open. Ethan and Caleb stormed in, accusing me of sabotaging Chloe again. Chloe appeared, tear-streaked and fragile, playing victim once more. "Sarah, find the contract. Now. And then you are going to go out there and apologize to Chloe in front of everyone for stressing her out." I knew this was my final task, a deep dive into humiliation before freedom. I had nowhere left to go. So I stepped forward.

The pain was an old, familiar ghost, living in my leg, a constant reminder of the dancer I used to be. My life had become a quiet echo of a forgotten dream, teaching kids the future I' d lost, marked by the silence of a world without applause. Then, the Grand Metropolitan Ballet called. Not a friend, not a bill collector. It was a frantic stage manager reporting an accident, a fallen lighting rig, and my mentor, Mr. Harrison, in bad shape. They said it looked really bad. My mind raced. Mr. Harrison, the man who shaped me, who was more a father than my own, lay broken. A cold dread, colder than the ache in my leg, crept up my spine. "David? And Lily?" I asked, my words numb. My ambitious brother and my sweet, charming adopted sister, the new prodigy-the girl who effortlessly took everything that was once mine. They were together, busy preparing for Lily' s debut, while Mr. Harrison lay critically injured. Not dread, but a sickening memory rose-the same crippling injury, the same cold indifference from my family. I remembered David telling me Lily would take my Swan Lake role, casually, for the good of the company. I remembered Ethan, my brilliant ex-fiancé, saying my damage was irreversible, while a flicker of relief crossed his eyes as he looked at Lily. In that memory, I gave up, watching them soar, isolating Mr. Harrison. I died a slow death, my spirit broken, then heard of his lonely, accidental death and saw their triumphant faces on magazine covers. A sharp gasp snapped me back. This wasn' t a memory; it was a warning. The same people, the same motives, the same suspicious "accident." But this time, I wasn' t a broken, passive victim. I looked at my useless leg, at the crutches-symbols of defeat. A slow, determined fire ignited within me. No. Not again. They took my career, my future. They would not take another person I loved. "I' m on my way," I said, my voice sharp and clear. This time, I knew their game. I knew the darkness behind Lily' s smile, David' s ruthless ambition, Ethan' s moral rot. Crippled, isolated, but not helpless. I was heading to that theater, not to watch the show, but to stop it.

The rain hammered against the window, mirroring the frantic beat of my heart as my mother clutched her chest, her breathing shallow. I called 911, but the streets were flooded, and the ambulance was delayed. Desperate, I called my wife, Sarah. Her voice, bright and cheerful over the noisy clatter of plates and loud music, promised to hurry, to be right there. She never came. An hour later, the paramedics arrived, their grim faces confirming what I already knew. She was gone. Hours later, an unfamiliar text buzzed my phone. It was from my friend, Dave. Below his bewildered message was a screenshot that froze my blood: my wife, Sarah, laughing, head thrown back, a wine glass in hand, seated opposite her ex-boyfriend, Mark Wilson, his arm possessively draped around her chair. The timestamp screamed betrayal: an hour after I' d called her, while my mother lay dying, Sarah was at a lavish restaurant with her past. The caption, "Some things are just meant to be," shattered my world. The distracted voice, the turned-off phone, the broken promise-it wasn' t an accident. It was a choice. My grief for my mother, a raw, open wound, was now burning from this fresh betrayal. With trembling hands, I typed two sentences, fueled by pure, distilled pain: "It's over. Don't come home."

For seven long years, I, Ethan Vanderbilt, the heir to a vast real estate empire, played the part of a humble city planner. I sacrificed my ambitions, poured my family's wealth into funding my fiancée Chloe's "struggling artist" career, all for her, all for love. Tonight, at her prestigious art preview, my world shattered when she unveiled her centerpiece: a "wedding photo" of her and her best friend, Leo, eyes locked in an intimate smile that screamed betrayal. Leo, her "tragic muse," whose "degenerative heart condition" I suddenly realized was nothing but a manipulative lie designed to trap her. My entire seven-year relationship, our engagement, felt like a cruel, expensive joke. Chloe dismissed my shock, telling me I was "unsupportive" and that this public display of infidelity was merely "art" and a "powerful statement." How could she casually toss away years of my devotion, my secret identity, the life I' d put on hold for her, for this preposterous charade? But in that moment of profound clarity, a cold resolve settled over me. My bohemian charade was finally over. I pulled out my phone and texted my mother a single, decisive message: "Mom, I'm ready. I'll marry Sophia Sterling."

My eighth wedding anniversary. The house felt as cold as the lilies Michael' s assistant sent, a bouquet chosen by the woman he spent more time with than me. He was on another "business trip" with Chloe. When I finally reached him, his voice was dismissive, distant. "I want a divorce, Michael. " He just hung up. What truly broke me wasn't the flowers, but his chilling indifference when I confessed my miscarriage, alone, the night he' d chosen Chloe' s manufactured crisis over me. He simply dismissed my grief, then refused to sign the papers. He then tried to lure me back by faking our son Leo' s illness, trapping me at his family's Hamptons estate. There, his ice-blooded mother, sneering sister, and Chloe ganged up, publicly questioning my stability. "If you can't behave, you can eat in the kitchen," Michael snarled, treating me like hired help. Years of quiet endurance, of shrinking myself to fit his world, shattered. How could the man who once swore "forever" become this stranger, this monster who actively conspired to humiliate me? My disgust was absolute. But the old Sarah was gone. I snatched my wine glass, looked his smug sister straight on, and slowly, deliberately, poured the entire contents over her pristine dress. "You disgust me," I declared, tossing the divorce papers at Michael. I walked out, finally free.

My life was a gilded cage, a loveless arrangement with the powerful Hamilton heir, Mark, designed to save my father' s legacy. Battling postpartum depression, my only solace was my precious daughter, Lily. Then, Mark weaponized my vulnerability, declaring me unfit and sending Lily to his ex-girlfriend, Tiffany, her glamour hiding a sharp, cruel edge. When I finally managed to reach Lily, she was neglected, trapped on a sun-drenched balcony, bearing the faint, angry marks of abuse. My desperate phone call to Mark for help was met with gaslighting and dismissal: "Are you having another episode?" Then, the world stopped: a small cry, a sickening thud. Lily was gone, a silent victim of Tiffany' s malice and Mark' s chilling indifference. As I knelt over my daughter's lifeless body, Mark, standing with Tiffany, utterly dismissed my agony, suggesting only: "We can try again. Tiffany could even carry it for you." That horrific moment, his callous offer to replace my dead child, burned away the last remnants of my naive hope and illuminated the brutal truth. My entire marriage, my very being, had been transaction; Lily' s innocent life had paid our family' s debt in full. Fueled by a grief that transformed into an unyielding resolve, I looked the Hamiltons in the eye and declared my divorce, severing every tie to their toxic world. I walked away with nothing but Lily's memory, choosing to rebuild my life from the absolute devastation, far from their shadow.

I tried to breathe, trapped in the gilded cage of 1900s New York, a silent observer overshadowed by my brilliant sister Bea. My marriage to Arthur Pendleton, the influential industrialist, was supposed to be a safe harbor, a quiet escape from the era' s suffocating expectations. But then, an anonymous letter slipped under my door, revealing his carefully hidden life: a mistress, Daisy Miller, and a secret son residing in Greenwich Village. When I confronted him, Arthur didn't flinch; he simply suggested I, his wife, discreetly "manage" his affair and illegitimate child, appealing to my "renowned compassion." The audacity, the utter disgust of becoming the caretaker for his betrayal, stole my breath and shattered every illusion of our life. My humiliation was complete as Daisy Miller herself appeared, heavily pregnant again, desperate and blaming me for Arthur' s sudden abandonment. His pleas for me to accommodate his expanding secret brood, his appeal to my "compassion," were the final insult to my intelligence. How could the man who pledged lifelong fidelity demand such a monstrous thing, expecting me to legitimize his lies? But then, Bea, my whirlwind sister, uttered a single word – "Google" – and the silent understanding between us, our shared 21st-century secret, finally broke through. In that earth-shattering moment, the quiet engineer in me awakened; I would no longer be a doormat or a tragic victim of this strange, old world. I crushed the diamond necklace he gave me, a symbol of his worthless promises, and vowed to use every bit of my future knowledge to not just leave Arthur, but to utterly destroy him.

The music throbbed at my sister Claire' s engagement party. Ethan Prescott, the man I was supposed to marry, stood beside her, glowing. I watched from the sidelines, a polite smile glued to my face, my family' s legendary Aegis Locket cool against my skin. Then Claire screamed. Stumbling into the ballroom, her dress torn, a bruise blooming on her cheek, she pointed directly at me, her voice cracking. "She did this! Rory attacked me! She said I stole Ethan, that I' d pay!" My fiancé, my brother Sam, and even my own mother, instantly believed her lies. They called me a monster. Without a second thought, Ethan ripped the Aegis Locket from my neck, banishing me to "The Hollows," a desolate commune in Maine, for "rehabilitation." Five years I endured there: systematic torture, starvation, brutal beatings, and the ultimate degradation – a searing brand announcing "Property of The Hollows." My once-sharp mind shattered, my identity erased. I became a feral, cowering creature, unable to comprehend the monstrous injustice. How could my family, my beloved Ethan, mistake my horrific abuse for madness, my broken pleas for manipulative acts? Why did they choose to believe the twisted narrative of my venomous sister? When Ethan and Sam finally came to retrieve me, repulsed by the shattered woman before them, my raw, branded body was exposed during a cruel "penance" ritual. With nothing left but shame and despair, I lunged towards the cliff's edge, escaping their judgment, escaping everything, by throwing myself into the raging abyss below.

It was the day my grandfather would announce the man I’d choose to lead Reddington Global, our corporate empire. My “Keystone”—the family’s immense capital and crucial knowledge—was meant to ensure his success. In my first life, I poured everything into Jamie Vance, my childhood sweetheart, making him CEO. But his cruel sneer still echoes: "If it weren't for needing your Keystone to help Candace build her own empire, I would never have pretended to care for you!" He paraded his true love, Candace Dubois, using all the power I gave him to elevate her. He shredded my reputation, seized every asset for Candace, then left me with nothing. “This CEO position,” he’d spat, “even without you, I could have eventually grasped!” It wasn’t just betrayal; it was annihilation. I died utterly broken, wondering how I could have been so blind, so foolish, to hand over my very essence to a monster. But then, I woke up. I was back. The same day, the same announcement, but this time, things would be different. Jamie Vance would not ruin me again. I’m ready to rewrite my destiny.

Sarah Miller had it all: a successful tech career she traded for family, investing millions into her husband Ethan's architectural empire. Their seven-year-old twins, Leo and Luna, were her world, buzzing with excitement for their promised Fourth of July trip to Universal Studios. But Ethan had other plans – a yacht trip with his "pregnant" personal assistant, Tiff. Then, a chilling note: he'd taken the kids to the desolate Nevada wilderness for "character-building," leaving them with minimal water, one tent. Panic turned to horror when Sarah found them. Days later, search and rescue called: Leo and Luna, gone, victims of heatstroke and dehydration. While Sarah identified their ravaged bodies, Ethan threw a lavish pre-baby shower with Tiff, dismissing Sarah's call about their dead children as a "dramatic stunt." He returned only to smash their photos, allow Tiff to spill their ashes, and brutalize Sarah for trying to mourn. How could a father abandon his children to such a horrific fate? How could he deny their deaths, celebrate with his lover, and then violently silence their grieving mother? The cold, calculated cruelty was unfathomable. But a desperate, heartbreaking voicemail from Leo’s last moments and a shocking truth about Tiff would shatter Ethan’s narcissistic world, setting off a chain of events that would force him to confront the monstrous consequences of his actions, and leave Sarah to pick up the pieces of a life utterly destroyed.

My high school hunger was a secret I carried, a constant, gnawing emptiness in my gut. My mother's decree echoed daily: "You're smart enough for honors classes, you’re smart enough to figure out food," leaving me to navigate lunchtimes with only a sloshing stomach and burning cheeks as friends clattered trays and devoured greasy pizza. But the true test came the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break. My mother, her face cold and impassive, delivered an ultimatum that slashed through my fragile existence: drop out and work, or forever lose the right to call her house home. I chose school, my voice barely a whisper, and seconds later, the front door clicked shut, severing ties, leaving me to the brutal, biting November night. With nothing but a backpack, I ended up huddled in a forgotten corner of a community center gym, the chill piercing through my thin clothes, my dreams feeling colder still. Each shiver was a reminder of her harsh rejection. How could a parent abandon their child, especially one striving for a better future? Was my entire life a misguided 'fantasy' in her eyes, a burden she could simply cast aside? The injustice burned, leaving me utterly adrift and alone. Then, through the flickering lights of the gym, I saw him again – Jake Peterson, the golden boy, unexpectedly volunteering. His laughter died when his gaze landed on me, a travel-worn vagrant in his world. Instantly, his kindness, the same compassion that had once offered me half a sandwich and pulled me back from hunger, resurfaced. "Sarah? What are you doing here?" he whispered, and then, without hesitation, extended his hand: "You're not staying here. Come on. My place."

Charlotte's ex-boyfriend not only cheated on her, but he also sent her to another man’s bed. Such betrayal threw her into a kind of hell, nobody knew existed. Oliver, the man she was forced to sleep with, was her destined enemy even before fate brought them together. She tried everything she could to run away, only to be caught and even locked up by the same monster who only took her as another player in his love games. Little did he know, that day by day, he would become addicted to her and want more from her. Not only her presence but also her love.

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

On our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table. Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen. "Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over." I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward. Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant. She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest. As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me. He hugged her. "It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you." The betrayal didn't stop there. When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police. When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations. He declined the call. He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife. That was the moment the chain broke. As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come. I opened the door and jumped into the dark. Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement. Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one.

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me. But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest. The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me. They didn't. Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her. They let me burn to keep her warm. When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages. That was the moment Elena Vitiello died. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York. By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring. "You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them. "Burn for it."

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

I was staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick, trembling with the terrifying joy of carrying the heir to the New York underworld’s most ruthless faction. Then the intercom buzzed, and a voice splintered my world. "The little art student actually thinks I'm going to marry her? It was just a game to pass the time while you were in Europe, Estella." I froze. My boyfriend, Holden, was in the next room, laughing with the daughter of his rival. He explained that I was just a "clean civilian image" he needed to secure a business deal. Now that the deal was signed, he was dumping the "stray" to marry the "Queen." I tried to run, but freedom only lasted forty-eight hours. Holden didn't just break my heart; he turned my terror into content. He kidnapped me, tied me to a chair at the edge of a cliff, and forced me to choose between my life and his new fiancée's. Then, he pushed me off the edge. As gravity snatched me, I heard him laughing. I landed on a stunt airbag. It was just a "social experiment." A sick prank for his amusement. "Don't be so dramatic, Kenia," he called down. "It's just a game." He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a prop in his life. But he forgot that I knew his secrets. I dragged my injured body to a payphone and dialed the one number Holden told me to fear—the rival Don, Gael Simpson. "It's Kenia," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt."

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York. I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him. But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash. In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress. He forced me to watch him court her. At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her. He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain. He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life. I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god. I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole. He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps. So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother. I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars. I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia. By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost.

I was the "Caged Canary" of the underworld, a biological asset designed to merge two crime families. My fiancé, Bryant Barnes, didn't love me. He loved the power I brought, and he loved his mistress, Kalia. The night Kalia broke into my penthouse and stomped on my hand, crushing the bones and my fashion career, Bryant didn't help me. He told the police she was my guest and warned me not to embarrass him with a cast. That was just the beginning. When Kalia lied about feeling unsafe, Bryant dangled me off a balcony. When she faked a kidnapping, he locked me in an industrial freezer for six hours until I turned blue. And when I fell into the marina, he swam right past me to save her, leaving me to drown in the freezing water. He destroyed my body and my dignity for a woman who was stealing my designs and faking a pregnancy. He thought I was just a broken obligation he could discard. But he made a fatal mistake. He didn't make sure I was dead. I dragged myself out of the water and made a call to his greatest rival. On the night of our grand merger, I walked onto the stage wearing royal blue instead of white. I rolled up my sleeve to reveal the scars he gave me, looked him dead in the eye, and grabbed the microphone. "I hereby terminate my engagement to Bryant Barnes. And I am proud to announce my betrothal to the true King of this city."