Meng Xinyu

After a terrifying rock-climbing fall, I woke up in a hospital, my past a blank slate thanks to selective amnesia. My best friend, Chloe, gently informed me I’d lost all memory of my long-term, now ex-boyfriend, Ethan Cole. Though I felt nothing for this forgotten man, he and his glamorous, vindictive girlfriend, Bella Rossi, swiftly re-entered my life, each encounter proving more unsettling than the last. Their malicious disdain for me was palpable. From Bella staging a fall and Ethan’s shocking physical assault that broke my hand, to his public humiliation of me and Bella’s brazen plagiarism of my baking designs—which Ethan shockingly validated as a judge—it felt like a relentless campaign to destroy me. Bella even tried to burn me alive at his parents' house, and Ethan left me in the flames. How could this man, whom I supposedly loved, be so utterly cruel, even after my amnesia wiped him from my mind? His continuous betrayal, culminating in the public destruction of my career and Bella's desperate attempt to run me over, deepened my bewilderment and pain, leaving me questioning everything. But in the chaos, a kind, genuine baker named Noah Evans emerged, shielding me, showing me what true love felt like. And when a final, devastating trauma jolted my memories back, I faced a choice: succumb to the past or embrace the peaceful, loving future Noah offered, cementing my new life far from Ethan's toxic shadow.

I gave up my tech career for my professor boyfriend, Donovan. For ten years, I was his perfect, supportive partner, but he repaid me by cheating with his student, Brie. On our anniversary, he brought her favorite peanut butter into our home-forgetting my deadly allergy-and then left me to be with her. I finally escaped to Europe, but he hunted me down. Consumed by a possessive rage, he found me with my new partner, Kevin, and brutally attacked him. I had to smash a wine bottle over Donovan's head just to make him stop. As he stood there bleeding, he actually tried to propose, swearing she meant nothing to him. But then my phone rang. A frantic woman on the other end sobbed, "Brie is at his mother's house! She's pregnant with his baby!" That's when I decided leaving wasn't enough. I would use the very skills I sacrificed for him to expose every single one of his lies and burn his entire world to the ground.

I was Anderson Mathews' sugar baby, his pretty little thing. But when I saw him kiss his sister-in-law, Hope-his one true love-I knew I had to escape. I planned my exit meticulously, aiming to disappear the second my contract ended. I would become a scientist, find a kind, ordinary man, and build a life of my own. But Anderson wouldn't let go. He sabotaged the career of Caleb, the good man I' d fallen for, and used my estranged mother to publicly humiliate me, all to force me back into his gilded cage. "Marry me, Ayla," he proposed, a lifetime contract to replace the old one. "You'll be truly free. With me." My mother' s screams echoed in my ears: "She's a whore! Your whore! Dirty goods!" And Caleb, my Caleb, heard every word. I looked at Anderson's cold, possessive eyes, then at Caleb's, filled with a pain that shattered my heart. I had to make a choice. This time, I wouldn't just run. I would end this, once and for all.

Tonight was supposed to be the greatest night of my career. I was the frontrunner for the Pinnacle Prize, the highest honor in architecture. But the award went to a complete unknown—my fiancé’s first love, the widow of his older brother. My fiancé, Kason, the man who was supposed to build my winning design, had given my life's work away to her. He said she needed it more. He then forced me to mentor her, letting her take credit for my projects. During a promotional shoot, he stood by and watched as she slapped me again and again under the guise of "getting the shot right." When I finally slapped her back, he had me fired and blacklisted from the entire industry. He didn't stop there. He pushed me to the ground in a hospital hallway, causing me to bleed, and then abandoned me. He did all this while I was carrying his child. Lying on that cold hospital floor, I made a decision. I took my unborn baby and disappeared. I flew to a new country, changed my name, and cut off all ties. For five years, we were ghosts.

My husband, Alec Craig, was Chicago' s star prosecutor, the man who saved me from a dark past. Or so I thought. He was the man who sent me to prison, framing me for a crime I didn't commit to protect his ex-girlfriend, Catalina. My three years in Joliet Correctional Center were a blur of concrete and gray uniforms. The woman who went in, a successful graphic designer who loved her husband, died in there. When I was finally released, I expected to see him, but he sent an assistant to "cleanse my bad energy." Then I saw them: Alec and Catalina, hosting a "welcome home" party for me, the woman they put behind bars. They paraded me around, forcing me to drink champagne until I bled internally from a perforated ulcer. Alec, ever the devoted protector, rushed to Catalina's side, leaving me bleeding on the floor. He even falsified my medical report, blaming my condition on alcohol. I lay in that hospital bed, the last remnants of hope withering and dying. I couldn't cry. The feeling was too deep for tears. I just laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. I wanted to destroy him. Not jail. I wanted him to lose everything. His career. His reputation. His precious Catalina. I wanted him to feel what I felt.

My husband, Easton, dragged me to a party for his ex-girlfriend, Kelly Holland. Our five-year marriage was a sham, a contract he'd signed to spite her after she left him. I was just the placeholder wife. During a game of "Seven Minutes in Heaven," he chose Kelly. When they emerged from the powder room, her lipstick was smeared, and a fresh hickey stained her neck. Later that night, Easton and Kelly stormed into our home. He accused me of stealing her multi-million dollar diamond necklace. He didn't believe me, even when I swore I was innocent. He called the police, who conveniently found the necklace in my handbag. He looked at me with disgust. "I never should have married you," he spat. "You're nothing but trash from the slums." I was arrested based on the word of the woman who set me up. My five years of quiet love and devotion meant nothing. The man I had secretly fallen for saw me as nothing more than a common thief. I spent the night in a cold holding cell. The next morning, after being bailed out, I took the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in two, and dropped it in the trash. It was over. I would make them pay. I would burn their entire world to the ground.

It was my 30th birthday, and I was all set to propose to Sarah, my girlfriend of five years, at the fanciest restaurant in the city. I had the ring, the perfect table, and a future all planned out. But as I waited, she walked in, not alone, but with another man – her colleague. And then, in a devastating twist, she got down on one knee and proposed to him, right there in front of everyone, as my world shattered. My mother called, wishing me a happy birthday, and confused when I could only whisper about the arranged marriage she' d mentioned. Sarah' s excited shouts of "She said yes!" echoed in the background as the entire restaurant applauded their engagement. Moments later, her text popped up: "Happy Birthday, Ethan! Sorry, got held up at work. On my way home now. I got you a cake!"-the lie a final stab. When she came home that night, full of excuses about how it was just a "career play" and a "fake engagement," I smelled his cologne on her. The lie was too much. I packed a single suitcase, leaving behind five years of a life that was nothing but a pretense. The next morning, at the office, the humiliation continued. Sarah and her fiancé, Mark, announced their engagement, and Mark took the promotion that should have been mine. Sarah told me I was fired, then orchestrated a cruel setup, framing me for stealing Mark' s Rolex. She publicly shamed me, slapped me across the face, and accused me of being a lowlife. Why had I given up everything for her? Why was she so intent on destroying me? With my world crumbling, I accepted an arranged marriage with Olivia Sterling, a woman whose calm, sharp eyes suggested a powerful intelligence, and who just might be my unexpected salvation.

Three years ago, Liam Hayes, the tech titan and my husband, promised to protect me. Now, I sat in the front row of his grand auction, expecting a product launch. Instead, the massive screen behind him flickered to life, not with an innovation, but with intimate photos of my deceased parents. The crowd' s murmurs turned to horrified whispers, their pity a suffocating blanket of shame. He was crucifying their memory, and I, his perfect, supportive wife, trembled with silent agony. When I pleaded with him to take the photos down, his eyes, once so full of warmth, were chillingly empty. "Everything has a price, Ava," he said, holding out a kidney donation consent form. "Donate a kidney to Skylar Vance, and I' ll end this. Their honor for her life. A fair trade." My breath hitched. He was using my dead parents, my most precious memory, to blackmail me, and I had no choice. As I signed, I remembered a secret vow we' d made-a desperate promise to defy a "plot" that dictated he'd leave me for Skylar. He' d sworn he' d fight it, that his heart was always mine. But now, as I was wheeled into surgery, I saw him kiss Skylar' s hand, a look of sacred devotion in his eyes-the same look he used to give me. The mask came down, and I knew: the plot had won. When I woke, alone and empty, the first call I heard was not from him, but from my heartbroken housekeeper. My parents, humiliated by Liam's stunt, had taken their own lives. The man I loved, the man who was supposed to be my protector, had destroyed everything. Now, standing at their desecrated graves, watching him cuddle Skylar, I knew my only path was to disappear forever.

Tonight was supposed to be our third anniversary, a celebration of three blissful years with Gabrielle, the woman who saved me after my first wife, Molly, destroyed my family. I was heading to the master bedroom for her gift when I overheard voices: Gabrielle and Molly. "You actually pulled it off, Gabi. You married him," Molly said, dripping envy. Gabrielle laughed, a sound that now sent a chill down my spine. "Of course I did. It was the only way. I had to make him pay for what he did to Ryan, for what he did to our family." The online scandal, my parents' accident-all of it, her idea. The woman I loved, the one I thought was my angel, was the architect of my destruction, plotting revenge for a past I didn' t even understand. My parents? I was the one who anonymously paid off their debts, saving them from ruin. Ryan? He was the bully who tormented me through high school. My savior was my tormentor, and I had unknowingly invited her into my life for three years of calculated torture. I forced a brittle smile, pretending not to have heard the sickening truth. I would make them pay.

My world shattered in the sterile hallway of the city hospital. Director Anderson told me the permanent nursing position, my dream job, went to Nicole Chavez. Why? Because my husband, Matthew, had advocated for Nicole, a "struggling single mother," on compassionate grounds. The cold dread that settled in my stomach was utterly familiar; it was the same feeling I had in my last life. In that life, I had gone home, cried, got pregnant, and was later laid off, only to watch my husband hold Nicole' s hand at my funeral and my child call her "mom." A physical rage burned through me, fueled by the memory of utter betrayal. But this time, I wasn' t going home to cry; I was reborn at the exact moment the betrayal began.

My name is Elena. Or it was. Now, I am just a cold memory clinging to our lake house in the Adirondacks. For three years, I' ve watched the garden turn wild, a monument to my forgotten life. Then, an expensive black SUV crunched up the gravel driveway, instantly recognizable as Liam' s. Liam, my husband, stepped out, a stranger in a tailored suit, here for one twisted reason. He was here to force me to give Chloe, his mistress, a kidney. He strutted around, assuming I had simply run away, hiding out of spite. He didn' t know Chloe had already put me in the ground, just feet from our home. He muttered insults about me, calling me lazy, unfocused, nothing like "Chloe." He stormed the house, yelling for me to end my "stupid game," oblivious to my spectral presence. Even when Marcus, our kind handyman, told him I was dead, Liam laughed it off. He dismissed it as another one of my "dramatic tricks," then kicked over the crude wooden cross marking my unmarked grave. His final threat, shouted at empty air, was against our son, Leo, if I didn't appear. I, a helpless ghost bound by love and rage, could only watch this desecration, unable to scream or stop him. It was then, as the cross splintered, that the blinding memory of my death returned, sharp and clear. Chloe, the woman Liam believed, the one he openly preferred, was the architect of my end. She pushed me from the balcony, watched me fall, then paid two local thugs to finish the job. They dragged my broken body into the woods and buried me alive, right here, next to the house. Now, Liam is here, digging with a shovel, convinced he's exposing a charade. But what he's about to unearth isn' t a trick; it' s the brutal, physical proof of a murder he was too blind to see. And the dark truth of his perfect Chloe.

My half-sister, Claire, stood in the town square, her dramatically broken engagement a public spectacle. Her tears flowed freely, a performance of distraught innocence she'd perfected. I watched, a familiar chill settling in my chest. This was exactly how it started last time. Shortly after, my fiancé, Ethan Prescott, found me. His handsome face was etched with practiced concern. He declared he had to marry Claire to save her reputation, then coolly promised I'd still be his—his mistress in the shadows. In my past life, my refusal led to Claire's staged suicide, public shaming, isolation, and years of abuse under Ethan's roof, ending in his violent plot that killed me and my unborn child. This time, the rumors branding me cruel spread like wildfire. Ethan even threatened to send Mrs. Gable, my past tormentor, to "train" me into submission. He explicitly told me to wear dove-grey for his wedding, befitting a mistress. The echoes of my worst nightmare were deafening. How could he repeat such calculated cruelty, and why was I doomed to this cycle of torment? The injustice, the sheer audacity of their manipulation, burned within me. But this time, I wouldn't scream or refuse. Armed with grim foresight, I calmly accepted his proposal. My audacious secret was already in motion: I would marry Captain Jack Sullivan, Ethan's bitter rival, and reclaim my life.

The searing pain slammed into me, horrifyingly familiar, as I gasped awake in the birthing suite of my sprawling Texas estate. This was it: the day my first child was due, the very day my entire world spiraled into a nightmare in my last life. I remembered every agonizing detail: my mother, Eleanor, abandoning me in labor, leaving for my stepsister Brittany's lavish birthday party, then her monstrous rage, blaming me for Brittany's death. I remembered the poisoned christening, my husband Ethan collapsing, our baby lifeless, then Eleanor dragging me to Brittany's grave, her hands tightening around my throat, murdering me. Now, reborn, I realized the chilling truth: Eleanor was reborn too, and already, her creature, Nurse Gretchen, stood over me, determined to repeat history, actively trying to force my crowning baby back inside me. The pain was unbearable, the betrayal absolute, as I screamed, knowing she meant to murder my child before its first breath, just like before, all for a twisted obsession with her adopted daughter. How could my own mother be so utterly, undeniably evil, to repeat such a heinous act against her own flesh and blood, attempting to erase my family once more? Just as despair threatened to consume me, a familiar, powerful presence erupted into the room: Ethan, my husband, his eyes blazing with a fierce, knowing protectiveness that mirrored my own reborn memories. He remembered too. With him by my side, we would no longer be victims; we would confront the depths of Eleanor's cruelty, unravel her darkest secrets, and wage a battle not just for our baby's life, but for the justice denied in a past life.

Two years. My spirit has been tethered to the rotting wood and peeling paint of the Starlight Motel. They told everyone I died here—a self-inflicted wound, the 'problem child' finally snapping. All I felt was a hollow ache, a desperate longing for them to finally see me, to see the truth. Then, a chilling shift. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, their voices tight with feigned distress, and my 'perfect' brother Mark, his tone smooth with false concern, were making plans. They'd invited Leo Maxwell, the host of "Legend Trippers," a ghost hunter, to the Starlight. Their aim: to livestream "proof" that I'm a malevolent, vengeful spirit haunting them. The livestream started, and I watched, helpless, as Mark orchestrated his performance. He painted me as a drug-addled, violent monster, choking back fake sobs as he claimed I "turned the weapon on myself." Leo found "evidence"—a rusty hunting knife and a photo with a chilling message in "my handwriting," clearly planted. The online comments flooded with sympathy for my 'poor' family, condemning me. My spirit burned with a silent, furious injustice. I wanted to scream, to expose the lies piling up, a suffocating wall I couldn't push through. They wanted to paint me as a monster, again, and I was voiceless. If only they knew what really happened that night. If only they knew who the real monster was. But then, away from the staged theatrics, Leo's curiosity led him to a dusty old Wurlitzer jukebox in the forgotten diner. Inside, nestled among the wires, he discovered a small, battery-operated cassette recorder. He pressed play, and from the static, my voice, my real voice, hesitantly began to speak.

Our wedding night. The acrid smell of smoke choked me as roaring flames consumed the beautiful new home I’d bought for Chloe. A heavy vase smashed against my skull. Through the blinding pain, I heard her voice, sharp and cold: "You and Mom and Dad ruined my love. I’ve given everything to Ryan. You destroyed my life. Now you can die with me.” The searing heat enveloped me, then, nothing. I gasped, sitting bolt upright in my own bed, not the master suite, entirely free of smoke or the ominous red decorations. My heart hammered against my ribs; disbelief warred with the dizzying joy of being alive. But then my eyes landed on the digital clock: 11:03 PM. June 12th. This was *the* night. The night Chloe was drugged, the horrifying prelude to my murder. A chilling whisper snaked down my spine as Chloe’s strained voice drifted from next door: “Ethan… I don’t feel good…” The phantom pain of shattered ceramic returned, a stark reminder of her betrayal. My first instinct screamed for me to flee, to escape her, to get out while I still could. But a cold, sharp thought pierced through my fear: Chloe was reborn too, and she was still entangled with Ryan. This time, I wouldn't just run. I would expose their schemes, break free from her toxic grip, and ensure my family’s actual tragedy never happened.

Elli had no choice. She had to leave the love of her life to be with someone else. She married a rich man to save her family from doom, but she learned later that the groom disappeared after the wedding. Her face turned ghastly pale when she realized that the man she slept with that night was her husband's brother! The man whispered in her ear like a demon, "Elli, you can't get rid of me. I'll be with you forever!" She looked him in the eye and forced herself to smile. "But I married your brother..." He pinched her chin delicately, a wicked smile on his face. "Then get a divorce!"

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.

My husband, Ethan Vance, made me his trophy wife. My best friend, Susanna Thorne, helped me pick out my wedding dress. Together, they made me a fool. For three years, I was Mrs. Ethan Vance, a decorative silence in his billion-dollar world, living a quiet routine until a forgotten phone charger led me to his office. The low, feminine laugh from behind his door was a gut-punch; inside, I found Ethan and Susanna, my "best friend" and his CMO, tangled on his sofa, his only reaction irritation. My divorce declaration brought immediate scorn and threats. I was fired, my accounts frozen, and publicly smeared as an unstable gold-digger. Even my own family disowned me for my last cent, only for me to be framed for assault and served a restraining order. Broke, injured, and utterly demonized, they believed I was broken, too ashamed to fight. But their audacious betrayal and relentless cruelty only forged a cold, unyielding resolve. Slumped alone, a restraining order in hand, I remembered my hidden journal: a log of Ethan's insider trading secrets. They wanted a monster? I would show them one.

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.

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.

The rain assaulted the glass, mirroring the storm inside me. For three years, I, Vivian Sterling, played the perfect wife to Julian Kensington, draining my life. The antique clock ticked, a reminder of time lost. Then, I found it: a blonde hair on Julian's suit, reeking of Midnight Rose, and a text, ""Candy: You left your cufflinks on my nightstand. I'm already missing you."" My world shattered, revealing his betrayal. This was just the beginning. I exposed Julian's fraud and his family's violent plots, surviving assassination. But their malice stole my past. Then Alexander Vance, my protector, uncovered a terrifying truth: my birth mother was alive, held captive by a shadowy order. My life was a lie, built to shield me from my dangerous bloodline. I found strength and love with Alexander, the man who walked into fire for me. Yet, as I prepared to rescue my mother, a new life stirred within me, a secret threatening to complicate the impending war.

Zane and I were together for ten years. When he had no one, I stayed by his side, supporting his hockey career while believing at the end of all our struggles, I'll be his wife and the only one at his side. But after six years of dating, and four years of being his fiancée, not only did he leave me, but seven months later I receive an invitation... to his wedding! If that isn't bad enough, the month long wedding cruise is for couples only and requires a plus one. If Zane thinks breaking my heart left me too miserable to move on, he thought wrong! Not only did it make me stronger.. it made me strong enough to move on with his favourite bad boy hockey player, Liam Calloway.

Vivian clutched her Hermès bag, her doctor's words echoing: "Extremely high-risk pregnancy." She hoped the baby would save her cold marriage, but Julian wasn't in London as his schedule claimed. Instead, a paparazzi photo revealed his early return-with a blonde woman, not his wife, at the private airport exit. The next morning, Julian served divorce papers, callously ending their "duty" marriage for his ex, Serena. A horrifying contract clause gave him the right to terminate her pregnancy or seize their child. Humiliated, demoted, and forced to fake an ulcer, Vivian watched him parade his affair, openly discarding her while celebrating Serena. This was a calculated erasure, not heartbreak. He cared only for his image, confirming he would "handle" the baby himself. A primal rage ignited her. "Just us," she whispered to her stomach, vowing to sign the divorce on her terms, keep her secret safe, and walk away from Sterling Corp for good, ready to protect her child alone.

Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered. Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak. She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her. Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears. Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home."