Leo Fairchild

Amelia Hopewell was found by her biological father and brought home. That same day, she discovered a bodyguard, Edmund Nash, barely clinging to life after being tormented by the false heiress. She used half her blood to save him. Later, when Amelia's father fell gravely ill, all the family's assets were secretly frozen by a notorious crime lord. In desperation, Amelia sought Edmund's help. Instead, she witnessed the crime lord's second-in-command standing respectfully before him. "Mr. Nash, if Miss Hopewell's father doesn't get surgery within three hours, he won't survive," the man said. "The company's success owes much to the money Miss Hopewell gave you. Are you sure you won't reveal your true identity to her?" he asked. Edmund toyed with an expensive sapphire necklace, his eyes cold and detached. "For the next three hours, ensure Amelia Hopewell doesn't borrow a single penny," he ordered. "Rosalyn said if Amelia's father gets the surgery, she won't let me step foot in her room again. What a vengeful little girl." Amelia realized the crime lord who had been crushing her family's business for three years was none other than her beloved fiancé, Edmund Nash. Upon learning the truth, Amelia dialed the number of her former subordinate, "I want Edmund ruined in three days!"

My marriage ended at a charity gala I organized. One moment, I was the pregnant, happy wife of tech mogul Gabe Sullivan; the next, a reporter' s phone screen announced to the world that he and his childhood sweetheart, Harper, were expecting a child. Across the room, I saw them together, his hand resting on her stomach. This wasn't just an affair; it was a public declaration that erased me and our unborn baby. To protect his company's billion-dollar IPO, Gabe, his mother, and even my own adoptive parents conspired against me. They moved Harper into our home, into my bed, treating her like royalty while I became a prisoner. They painted me as unstable, a threat to the family's image. They accused me of cheating and claimed my child wasn't his. The final command was unthinkable: terminate my pregnancy. They locked me in a room and scheduled the procedure, promising to drag me there if I refused. But they made a mistake. They gave me back my phone to keep me quiet. Feigning surrender, I made one last, desperate call to a number I had kept hidden for years-a number belonging to my biological father, Antony Dean, the head of a family so powerful, they could make my husband's world burn.

The day my husband, a Mafia Underboss, told me I was genetically unfit to carry his heir, he brought home my replacement—a surrogate with my eyes and a working womb. He called her a "vessel" but paraded her as his mistress, abandoning me while I bled on the floor at a party to protect her and planning their secret future in the villa he once promised me. But in our world, wives don't just walk away—they disappear, and I decided to orchestrate my own vanishing act, leaving him to the ruin he so carefully built for himself.

The moment I saw my husband massaging his dead brother’s pregnant mistress’s feet, I knew my marriage was over. He moved her into our home under the guise of “family duty,” forcing me to watch as he prioritized her comfort over our vows. The final betrayal came when she stole and deliberately broke my mother’s priceless necklace. When I slapped her for the desecration, my husband struck me across the face to defend her. He had violated a sacred honor code by putting his hands on the daughter of another Don—an act of war. I looked him in the eye and swore on my mother’s grave that I would bring a bloody revenge upon his entire family. Then I made one phone call to my father, and the demolition of his empire began.

My fiancé of seven years, the heir to a mafia dynasty, claimed amnesia three weeks before our wedding, forgetting only me. Then I overheard him laughing on a video call, calling it the perfect "hall pass" to sleep with an influencer before he was tied down. He flaunted his affair, abandoned me with a broken arm after a staged car crash to save her from a scratch, and planned to leave me homeless. He called me his "property," a doll he could play with and put back on the shelf when he was done. He thought I’d be waiting for his "miraculous recovery." Instead, I disappeared, leaving behind his ring and a simple note: "I remember everything. Me too."

When I was eight, Dante Moretti pulled me from the fire that killed my family. For ten years, the powerful crime boss was my protector and my god. Then, he announced his engagement to another woman to unite two criminal empires. He brought her home and named her the future mistress of the Moretti family. In front of everyone, his fiancée forced a cheap metal collar around my neck, calling me their pet. Dante knew I was allergic. He just watched, his eyes cold, and ordered me to take it. That night, I listened through the walls as he took her to his bed. I finally understood the promise he’d made me as a child was a lie. I wasn't his family. I was his property. After a decade of devotion, my love for him finally turned to ash. So on his birthday, the day he celebrated his new future, I walked out of his gilded cage for good. A private jet was waiting to take me to my real father—his greatest enemy.

Eighteen days after giving up on Brendan Maynard, Jayde Rosario cut off her waist-length hair and called her father, announcing her decision to move to California and attend UC Berkeley. Her father, surprised, asked about the sudden change, reminding her how she' d always insisted on staying with Brendan. Jayde forced a laugh, revealing the painful truth: Brendan was getting married, and she, his stepsister, could no longer cling to him. That night, she tried to tell Brendan about her college acceptance, but his fiancée, Chloie Ellis, interrupted with a bubbly call, and Brendan' s tender words to Chloie twisted a knife in Jayde' s heart. She remembered how his tenderness used to be hers alone, how he had protected her, and how she had poured out her heart to him in a diary and a love letter, only for him to explode, tearing the letter and yelling, "I'm your brother!" He had stormed out, leaving her to painstakingly tape the shredded pieces back together. Her love, however, didn't die, not even when he brought Chloie home and told her to call her "sister-in-law." Now, she understood. She had to put that fire out herself. She had to dig Brendan out of her heart.

Three days before the wedding, Eliana discovered that her boyfriend of three years had been secretly planning a wedding with his childhood sweetheart. "Erin has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Her greatest wish is to be my wife while she can still remember. We'll cancel our wedding. Once she forgets me completely, I'll come back and marry you." Upon learning the truth, Eliana remained composed, refusing to shed tears or cause a commotion. She dialed a number she hadn't contacted in three years. "Brother, I agree to the arranged marriage with the Barton family, to wed that emotionally distant heir. In three days, make sure he appear in the wedding."

The day I saw Jared Stanley's interview, I filed for divorce and moved out of the perfectly maintained home I'd shared with him for three years. In that interview, Jared said his biggest regret in life was that, in a life-or-death situation, he instinctively protected what he called his most "precious national asset." The "asset" he protected wasn't me, his wife. It was his "fragile" colleague, Bailee Brooks. Two days later, at the global press conference for the G20 summit. The same renowned war correspondent asked me the same question. "Ms. Quinn, as a top-tier simultaneous interpreter, what would you say is the professional principle you are most proud of?" I looked directly at Jared sitting in the front row. "True professionalism is knowing that my husband risked his life to protect his mistress, and still being able to calmly, as the lead interpreter, accurately convey the commands that would ultimately save him."

For three months, I was the perfect wife to tech billionaire Axel Delacruz. I thought our marriage was a fairy tale, and the welcome dinner for my new internship at his company was supposed to be a celebration of our perfect life. That illusion shattered when his beautiful, unhinged ex, Diana, crashed the party and stabbed him in the arm with a steak knife. But the real horror wasn't the blood. It was the look in my husband's eyes. He cradled his attacker, whispering a single, tender word meant only for her: "Always." He stood by as she held a knife to my face to carve off a beauty mark she claimed I'd copied from her. He watched as she threw me into a kennel with starving dogs, knowing it was my deepest fear. He let her have me beaten, let her shove gravel down my throat to ruin my voice, and let her men break my hand in a door. When I called him one last time, begging for help as a group of men closed in, he hung up on me. Trapped and left for dead, I threw myself out of a second-story window. As I ran, bleeding and broken, I made a call I hadn't made in years. "Uncle Francisco," I sobbed into the phone. "I want a divorce. And I want you to help me destroy him." They thought they married a nobody. They had no idea they'd just declared war on the Wallace family.

Josie Watson asked for a divorce for the ninety-ninth time, but Laurence Andrews took a call from his first love and told her to get out of the car. "Go home and think it over. I hope this is the last time you make a fuss," he said. For Rosalie Harris, he abandoned Josie repeatedly, humiliating her. Laurence believed Josie couldn't survive without him. He didn't know Rosalie's brother was secretly encouraging Josie to divorce and leave the country.