Mystic Rose

On my birthday, my mother told me it was time to choose a fiancé from New York's most eligible bachelors. She urged me to pick Alexander Booth, the man I loved with a foolish passion in my previous life. But I remembered how that love story ended. On the eve of our wedding, Alexander faked his death in a private jet crash. I spent years as his grieving fiancée, only to find him alive and well on a beach, laughing with the poor student I had personally sponsored. They even had a child. When I confronted him, our friends-the men who had pretended to comfort me-held me down. They helped Alexander throw me into the ocean and watched from the pier as I drowned. As the water closed over my head, only one person showed any real emotion. My childhood rival, Darrian Golden, screamed my name as they held him back, his face twisted in grief. He was the only one who cried at my funeral. Opening my eyes again, I was back in our penthouse, just a week before the big decision. This time, when my mother asked me to choose Alexander, I gave her a different name. I chose the man who mourned me. I chose Darrian Golden.

After surviving five years of hell in a deep-sea simulation, I finally escaped, battered and broken. I fought my way back for one reason: my fiancé, Derek. But when I found him, he sealed me in a cave and left me to die. "Just three more days, Eva," he pleaded, his hand holding my pregnant former assistant's. "Our wedding is on Saturday." My own parents, who had adopted her as their new daughter, believed her lies that I was a monster. They watched as Derek broke my ankle and hand, and my father shattered my ribs. They left me for dead, trapped and alone, after I had spent five years clinging to their memory. But I didn't die. I was rescued by a mysterious benefactor who gave me a new life and erased my pain. A year later, when a guilt-ridden Derek tracked me down, begging for a second chance, I smiled. It was my turn to play a game.

Eight years into Lynda Bennett's pursuit of Charles Watson, Charles got drunk and slept with Lynda. Only when she became pregnant did he reluctantly agree to marry her. Lynda thought she had finally touched his heart, but on their wedding day, her mother was tragically hit and killed by Charles' niece, Eleanor Watson. The next day, Charles threatened her with her father's life to make her drop the charges. It was then that she realized that the person Charles truly loved was always Eleanor. Eleanor beat Lynda so badly that she ended up in the hospital, and Charles forced Lynda to sign a reconciliation agreement; Eleanor pulled Lynda's father's oxygen tube, and Charles forced Lynda to apologize to Eleanor. If she didn't comply, Charles would threaten with the divorce. He believed that Lynda wouldn't leave him because she was pregnant. But he was wrong. Lynda not only left but took their daughter and married his arch-enemy. Charles was beside himself with regret, the once cool and dignified man now humbly kneeling, "Lynda, please forgive me, I'm willing to die to atone." Lynda turned away with their daughter, without a backward glance. As she walked away, she uttered, "Then go ahead and die."

For seven years, my life was a cold, silent prison. My husband, David Chen, the tech world' s golden boy, saw me only as his sister Emily' s murderer. What happened to Emily that day at the lake was an accident, a tragedy. But to David and my adoptive mother, Olivia, it was my fault, a debt I had to pay every single day. My punishment? The hard, cold floor of a barren guest room was my bed. His cruel words, "A murderer doesn't deserve comfort. This is where you belong," echoed in my ears every night. Every month, I would present him with divorce papers, a desperate plea for freedom. And every month, he would tear them, burn them, a grim ritual reminding me there was no escape. Why did they hate me so much? What had I truly done to deserve this unending torment, this life lived as a ghost in a gilded cage? But the constant humiliation, the silent contempt, the pain-it all fueled a secret fire within me. I meticulously saved every penny, selling sketches online, denying myself even basic necessities to afford a one-way train ticket. Tonight, the charade ends. I' m walking away from this living hell, from a man who promised me a life but delivered only a sentence. I' m reclaiming my name, my future, and the woman I was always meant to be.

A sharp, stabbing pain woke me. 3:17 AM. Alone. I reached for my husband, Mark, but he wasn' t there. My desperate call for help was answered by Lily, his goddaughter, her voice laced with annoyance. "Mark is busy. Eleanor isn' t feeling well, so he's here with me." I tried to explain about the emergency, the searing pain in my abdomen. She dismissed it as drama and hung up. Abandoned, I crawled to the phone and dialed 911, whispering, "I think I'm dying." At the hospital, the doctor' s grim face confirmed my worst fear: a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. I was bleeding internally and needed emergency surgery. Alone, I signed the consent form, my hand trembling, tears blurring Sarah Miller into a solitary figure. When I reached Mark hours later, fresh out of surgery and groggy from anesthesia, his words were cold, clipped. "What is it now, Sarah?" Before I could explain, Lily's frantic voice in the background cut me off. "Mark, come quick! Mom\'s monitor is beeping again!" He hung up, choosing her over me, over our lost baby, over my near-death experience. The love I thought was unbreakable shattered into a million pieces. The next morning, lying in the hospital bed, a cold, hard clarity settled over me. I had to make him understand. I sent him my medical reports, hoping the undeniable proof would cut through his blindness. His reply, however, sealed my fate: "Sarah, this has gone too far. Using a fake medical report to guilt-trip me is a new low." He called me manipulative, a liar. He chose her over me, again. The fight drained out of me. I typed one word: "Okay." It was over. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I was done.

The scent of roasted chicken, Liam' s favorite, filled the house on our fifth wedding anniversary. My smile froze as I pushed open our bedroom door, finding Liam in another woman' s arms, her clothes a mess on our floor. He blamed my alleged infertility-a trauma from an old car accident-for his betrayal, as his mother, Katherine Thorne, and his pregnant mistress, Chloe Bell, joined forces to paint me as unhinged and demand I relinquish everything. How could the life I meticulously pieced together shatter so completely, so cruelly, for a lie thrown carelessly as an excuse? But as he grabbed my wrist, a cold calm settled over me, replacing heartbreak with a searing rage. I would not just survive this; I would burn his world to the ground.

I sacrificed everything for love, my very essence, my Nahualtse, rebuilding his family' s empire and bearing him nine children-then I fell into a year-long coma. I awoke expecting to hold my babies, to be reunited with the man who had promised to protect us all. Instead, I found myself in a crumbling mansion, forced by my husband, Ethan, into a macabre game of "Mafia," where the pieces were our nine toddlers, and the penalty for a wrong choice was their death. His manipulative childhood friend, Sabrina, had twisted his mind with dark magic, making him believe I was a witch and our children were abominations. I failed his cruel test, my power too weak to discern my own, and watched in horror as he snapped our daughter' s neck because I made the wrong choice, because I couldn't tell her true nature from the deceit. How could the man I loved, the father of my children, become such a monstrous stranger, and what more horrors awaited me and my remaining children in his twisted game of death?

I was just another volunteer, living and praying alongside my community, unaware my life was about to shatter despite what I thought were normal interactions with our charismatic leader. Then, on the very first day of the harvest festival, a sudden, horrifying accusation rang out: I was charged with seducing Elijah, the revered leader of our tight-knit community. He stood by, silent and impassive, as the elders dragged me to the center of the congregation, allowing them to string me up for a public whipping, pelt me with stones, brand me with a searing iron, and later, imprison me in a filthy, abandoned cabin where he mercilessly scalded my throat with boiling water. My alleged crime was a twisted atonement for a past life I couldn't even remember, a destiny he claimed we shared, yet his actions felt like a personal hell tailor-made just for me. With my spirit broken but not extinguished, I knew I had to escape this nightmare, even if it meant faking my own death and disappearing without a trace, hoping to reclaim a life free from his suffocating delusion.

My phone rang, a too-loud explosion from my brother Kevin, announcing we were rich and a tech giant was buying our block because our family home was "the centerpiece." My mother, Brenda, immediately piled on, her voice sharp with a lifetime of disappointment, reminding me how I was "wasting my life on other people' s kids for pennies" while Kevin hit the jackpot. I felt the old, familiar tightness in my chest, the feeling of being small, of being less-than, as they reveled in their imagined fortune. But then, a text from my daughter Chloe shattered their delusion: Jayden was an idiot. Their house wasn' t in the deal at all; my dilapidated rental property, which Mom had forced on me as "worthless" years ago, was the actual lynchpin. The truth hit me: the astronomical number on the official InterCorp letter was for me, Amelia Carter, not them. Yet, my mother continued to sneer, "You' ll be begging us for scraps soon enough. Have fun with your failing students," before hanging up. How could they be so arrogantly blind, building a future on a lie, completely unaware that I held the keys to their downfall? The injustice of years of belittlement, of constantly being labeled a "losing investment," now churned into something cold and quiet. The pain was gone, replaced by an icy resolve. "You're going to let them do it, aren't you?" my husband Mark asked, a slow grin spreading as he read Chloe's text and saw the letter. "I'm going to let them do it," I confirmed, deciding that for the first time, their cruelty wouldn't hurt. It would be my fuel, and I would watch them dig their own graves.

My father lay dying, his last wish a simple Sunday dinner with all of us. My husband, Mark, already distant, was of course, absent. Then the doorbell rang, and there stood Jessica Evans, Mark’s intern, visibly pregnant, her harsh words declaring Mark needed to face his responsibilities. The shock drained the life from my father, and he passed away that very night. Mark’s voice was flat the next morning, offering only a callous, "That's too bad. I'll try to get away for the funeral." He didn't ask how I was, he didn’t apologize, and then he proposed a horrifying schedule: weekdays with me, weekends with his pregnant mistress and their unborn child, as if it were "fair." The word echoed, twisting the knife of betrayal and grief in my gut. How could the man who once promised me a lifetime of love now offer such a chillingly casual arrangement, prioritizing his image over my shattered heart, forgetting the child we lost supporting his dreams? That night, as he slept beside me, I quietly opened my laptop, choosing not a divorce lawyer, but a path to freedom and purpose through the American Resilience Corps.

For four years, Emily was Kyler Hamilton’s self-proclaimed "human tranquilizer," a breathing sedative bought to soothe his crippling anxiety. To save her family from ruinous debt, she’d accepted the gilded cage of his mansion, enduring his disdain and emotional cruelty, constantly reminded she was nothing more than a paid function. But at a glittering charity gala, Kyler, in a twisted display of power, publicly announced he was "transferring her service contract" to a quiet librarian for a humiliating "one dollar." The casual contempt shattered her composure, reducing her value to a discarded, cheap commodity and leaving her utterly bereft, walking out into a future she hadn't dared to dream of. How could someone take such cruel delight in breaking another, in reducing her existence to an exchange? Would her worth forever be measured by the dollar that bought her freedom, or could an unexpected act of genuine kindness be the turning point that allowed her to reclaim a life, and a love, priceless beyond Kyler’s comprehension?

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

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

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.