Qian Mo Mo

In my past life, I died alone in a sterile hospital bed while my fiancé, Dyllan, comforted his "foster sister" Heather through a fake panic attack. He missed the birth and death of our child because Heather was "too delicate" to be left alone. Even as I took my last breath, he was wiping away her crocodile tears, ignoring my desperate calls. I sacrificed my dreams, my money, and my life for him, only to be a forgotten footnote. But when I opened my eyes, I was back at the City Hall counter, the marriage license waiting. Dyllan tapped his foot impatiently, checking his phone. "Hurry up, Ivy. Heather called. She' s having an episode. She needs me." The old Ivy would have trembled and obeyed, desperate for his approval. But I just smiled, a cold, calculated expression he didn't recognize. "Go to her," I said, pushing him toward the door. "I'll handle the paperwork. Family comes first, right?" He rushed out without a backward glance, relieved to be the hero again. Left alone with the official document, I didn't write my own name on the bride's line. With a steady hand and a heart full of vengeance, I wrote Heather Rosales. Congratulations, Dyllan. You're legally married to the burden you love so much. And I am finally free.

For three years, I was Alpha Kaelen's secret. My touch was the only cure for the silver-poison curse that wracked his body with agony, and he promised that if he hadn't found his fated mate by my twenty-fifth birthday, he would choose me. On my twenty-fifth birthday, he brought home another woman. He demanded the key to his penthouse back and tossed a limitless credit card on the bed. "This is for your service," he said coldly. His new love, Lila, was a master manipulator. When she framed me for kidnapping her, Kaelen nearly drowned my sick mother in a swamp to force a confession out of me. When she framed me again for pushing her grandmother, he slapped me in front of the entire pack and demanded I kneel. I couldn't understand how the man who once protected me could become my greatest tormentor, blinded by a conniving she-wolf. The final straw came when his curse flared up. He tried to force himself on me, only to accuse me of trying to trap him when Lila walked in. That day, I severed our bond and left for a rival pack, where my childhood friend—my fated second-chance mate—had just woken from a six-year coma.

My husband took me to a secluded villa for the weekend to honor the fifth anniversary of his sister's death. But I found her alive, laughing on the patio with him and my parents. They were bouncing a little boy on their laps-a boy with my husband's hair and his "dead" sister's eyes. I heard Mark call me his "dutiful, grieving wife," laughing about how easy I was to fool. My own mother looked at Annelise with a love she had never once shown me. My entire five-year marriage was a performance designed to keep me occupied while they lived their real lives in secret. He didn't just confess; he told me I was nothing but a "convenient solution." Then he revealed their final plan: they had already arranged to have me involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital, using my fabricated "grief" as the reason. I ran. After setting a fire as a diversion, I hid in a ditch by the main road, my life in ashes. With nowhere else to turn, I made a desperate call to the one person I knew my husband feared: his biggest rival.

For two years, I lived a fairy tale with Liam Hayes, the tech mogul. He' d lost his memory in a terrible accident, but he remembered me, or so he said. I, a struggling artist, bought into his relentless passion. We were building a life, a family even. I held a positive pregnancy test, ready to share our news. Then, I heard my college rival, Chloe Jenkins, speak from his office, her voice like sugar-coated poison. "Two whole years. Ninety-nine times. You promised." My blood ran cold as Liam's sharp, cynical laugh filled the room. This wasn't the gentle man I knew. He confirmed it. My entire relationship had been a cruel game, a "prank" designed to make me look like a fool. They mocked my ruined artworks, my canceled shows, every humiliation I' d endured. Liam had been there each time, comforting me with fake sympathy, while secretly logging his "pranks." Chloe purred, "One hundred pranks, one hundred proofs of your love for me." Liam' s reply, dripping with adoration, shattered me: "She was just a means to an end. A pawn." The pregnancy test in my pocket felt like a block of ice. My love, our life, our future baby-all a sick joke. My fairy tale was a cage, my prince a monster. He wanted one hundred pranks, a century of my pain. When I found his hidden sketchbook, full of intimate drawings of me and a receipt for an engagement ring, a dangerous hope flickered. Had he felt something real? But that hope died when I called a women's clinic. This child was conceived in deceit, an extension of his game. I refused to bring a child into this twisted world. At a yacht party, after my procedure, Liam's friends, at Chloe's urging, forced me to eat poisoned oysters, designed to induce a miscarriage. They knew. "He didn't want a child with her tying him down," Chloe hissed. "He was just waiting for the right moment for the problem to go away. I just provided the opportunity." I bled, the pain excruciating, as Liam, seeing me, yelled for a helicopter. Chloe, cold and final, drilled into my fading consciousness: "Don't you dare forget who you're doing all this for. You love me. Remember?" Liam' s strained reply: "I know, Chloe. I... I know." How could he? How could the man who held me at night, whispering endearments, be the same man who orchestrated my destruction? Why him? Why me? Ava Miller died that day. But Elise Vance was born, and she was coming for them.

The cold rain mirrored the desolation inside me that day, three years ago, when the company I built from nothing was declared bankrupt. The final, crushing blow wasn't a market crash, but sabotage orchestrated by the three people I trusted most: my sister, Sarah Miller; my fiancée, Emily Davis; and my "best friend," Kevin Chen. I remembered standing in that same rain as a luxury car pulled up, their triumphant smiles confirming my ruin. "You're like a dog!" Kevin had sneered. Sarah's pitying gaze felt colder than the winter rain, and Emily merely looked away. Their laughter echoed, drowning me in despair until everything went black. Why them? How could this happen? Then, I opened my eyes again. The rain was gone. The cold was gone. I was sitting in an auditorium, back in time on the very day it all began, ready to pitch the revolutionary software they stole. This time, things would be different.

Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. My husband, Mark, walked in with a woman who was young, Chinese, and very pregnant. He introduced her as his assistant, Mei, as she surveyed our home with an air of ownership, her eyes pointedly avoiding mine. Mei' s gaze finally landed on me, laced with cold condescension. "Sarah, right?" she purred. "Hand-wash my lingerie. And later, when Mark and I are together, you can kneel and serve us." My heart turned to ice as Mark just smiled, seeing nothing wrong. I saw the tech-neck, the calculated cruelty in her eyes - this wasn' t just an affair; it was a deliberate humiliation. Then, Mark scoffed, "Oh, here we go again. This tired act. Honestly, Sarah, I' m more bored of this than I am of sleeping with you." Their cruel laughter echoed, and I knew: something inside me had finally snapped. I walked forward, took their hands, forced them together. "For people from such a 'cultured' background," I said, my voice low and clear, "you both sure act like animals." "Since the 'Mrs. Miller' title is so great, you can have it. You two enjoy your happily ever after. Just leave the rest of us out of your mess." I turned my back, walking out, remembering my father' s forgotten warning: Men change, Sarah. Be careful who you give your heart to. I barely stepped onto the cold pavement when Mark' s voice cut through the air. "Come back here and sign the divorce papers." He thrust them at me, demanding I sign for Mei' s peace of mind, promising to remarry me later. His words were hollow, a broken record of lies. Then, his eyes landed on my jade pendant, a gift from our first anniversary. "Mei has been having nightmares," he said, demanding it. "She needs it." I hesitated, clutching the last symbol of the man I thought I married. "What, you can' t even pretend to be composed now? It' s just a necklace." With a sharp movement, I tore it off. Mei snatched it, her triumphant glint turning to feigned clumsiness as she let it shatter at her feet. "Oh, dear," she cooed, then gasped, pressing her leg. "Ouch! A shard… it cut me." Mark panicked, fumbling for his phone. Mei looked up at me, her voice just loud enough, "Sarah… I know you' re upset. But you didn' t have to do that. I know you weren' t trying to curse my baby on purpose… right?" Mark' s head snapped up, his fury now blazing at me. "What did you say?" he snarled. "It' s nothing, Mark," Mei sobbed, clinging to him. "Sarah didn' t mean it." His hand swung through the air. SLAP. I stumbled, falling onto the shattered jade. A sharp pain shot through my hand as green shards embedded themselves in my palm. Blood welled. Mark stood over me, chest heaving. "Apologize! What the hell is wrong with you, Sarah? You were never like this!" He roared for an apology, for a crime I didn' t commit. The man who once defended me was now a stranger, consumed by hate. I laughed, a bitter, broken sound. Slowly, I pushed myself up, ignoring the intense pain. "I can' t do it," I said, my voice steady. "I can' t apologize." His face turned a dangerous red. He grabbed my other arm, fingers digging in. "Fine! If you won' t apologize, then you' ll compensate her. Give me that bracelet." It was my mother' s, my last connection to her. "No! You can' t have this!" I clutched my wrist, pulling back. Just as he lunged, a terrifying grinding sound came from above. The huge chandelier swayed, then plummeted towards me. There was no time to think. So this is how it ends. Mark yanked Mei away, shielding her, not even glancing at me. "Sarah!" he screamed, but it was too late. The world exploded in a crash of shattering glass. I was alive, somehow. Mark, seeing Mei was safe, scrambled over, his panic replaced by cold suspicion. I woke in a sterile hospital room, Mark by my bed, his face stone. "You' re awake? Stop pretending. It didn' t even hit you." "The chandelier…" My voice was hoarse. "Don' t bother," he cut me off. "The servants confessed. You paid them to loosen the screws. You wanted to hurt Mei." It was a complete, fabricated lie. Mei was wheeled in, dabbing her eyes. "Oh, Mark," she trembled. "Don' t be so hard on her. I' m sure she didn' t mean for it to be so… dramatic. I forgive her." Her flawless performance painted me as the crazy, jealous wife. I wanted to scream, but what was the point? The truth didn' t matter. It was whatever Mei said it was. I just laughed, a dry, bitter sound. Exhaustion washed over me. It was hopeless. Mark took my silence as admission. "Since you refuse to apologize," he said, chillingly matter-of-fact, "we' ll have to find another way for you to compensate Mei." He gestured to Mei. "Her leg was scratched. The doctor said it might leave a scar. We' ve arranged a small skin graft surgery. We' ll use some of your skin to repair the damage." Skin graft? From me? "You… what?" I stammered. "It' s just a small patch," he soothed, "from your inner arm. A doctor will be here soon." He was serious. My body, to punish me. A primal scream tore from my throat. "NO!" I thrashed wildly. The IV needle ripped out, blood trickling. "You can' t do this! What did I do wrong? Why are you bullying me?!" He grabbed my shoulders. "Sarah, stop it! Mei is all alone here. She' s been crying nonstop!" His pathetic excuses blurred. He knew I had no one, having rebelled against my family for him. He was using it to destroy me. "Sarah, just calm down," he pleaded. "After the baby is born, I' ll divorce Mei. I' ll remarry you, I swear it!" The same old promise. The same meaningless lie. This lie, finally, gave me clarity. My screaming stopped. My thrashing ceased. "Get out," I said, my voice eerily calm. I reached for my phone, hands shaking, and scrolled to a single entry untouched for seven years: "A." I pressed call. He answered on the first ring. "Come and get me," I whispered, then hung up. My life was about to change forever, but first, I had to survive.

The phone rang, an unrecognized number, pulling me away from a routine check-up on a golden retriever. My life, for a moment, felt normal, calm. "Sarah… it' s me." Mary Johnson, my former mother-in-law. We hadn't spoken in three years, not since the funeral. My heart pounded as her strained voice stumbled: "Tomorrow… it' s Ethan' s..." I cut her off, the name a raw wound. Then she dropped the bomb: Mark, my ex-husband, wanted to visit the grave of the son he had killed. The calm shattered. I hung up. I blocked her number. The past, which I had so carefully buried, clawed its way back, a monstrous memory that began with a white leather handbag. Mark' s assistant, Chloe, obsessed with her new Celine, watched as my five-year-old son, Ethan, tripped and spilled juice all over it. Instead of comforting his sobbing child, Mark glared at Ethan, his voice cold: "You need to be punished. You need to learn a lesson about respecting other people's things." That was the excuse. The next day, he took Ethan to his office for a "father-son day." I kissed my boy goodbye, told him to be good for his daddy. It was the last time I saw him alive. The call came when I was thousands of miles away: "Ma'am, there's been an incident involving your son, Ethan. You need to come home immediately." At the hospital, Mark was nowhere to be found. Only his parents, Mary and David, stood by the operating room, their faces pale. The doctor emerged, his face grim. "We did everything we could… We couldn't save him." My world imploded. Then came the police officer, his voice low, detailing the horror: Ethan was found locked in a soundproofed server room at Mark' s office, dead from severe heat stroke. And Mark? He and Chloe left the office for an impromptu trip to Napa. My brain refused to process it. Mark locked our son in a hot room and just left him to die? With her? I fumbled for my phone, needing to hear him deny this monstrous story. His voice, annoyed, answered: "What? I'm busy, Sarah." I choked back tears: "Ethan… Mark, Ethan is dead." Just "Oh." Then Chloe's syrupy voice in the background: "Mark, honey, who is it? Come back to bed." My blood ran cold. "Are you with her?" I asked, my voice a dangerous whisper. He hung up. He blocked me. Our son was dead, and he had blocked my number to avoid ruining his trip with his mistress. The phone clattered to the floor. The world went black.

My fiancé, tech mogul Ethan Reed, and I were the epitome of New York City's fairytale romance. For ten years, our "perfect love story" graced billboards and magazine covers, culminating in the highly anticipated "wedding of the decade." But my world shattered when I saw him. Through a discreet one-way observation window, I watched Ethan-my Ethan-in his penthouse office, engaged in graphic acts with his executive assistant, Chloe Vance. Her triumphant smirk, directed straight at me, made it clear: this wasn't an accident. The humiliation escalated into a relentless campaign of psychological torture. Chloe sent vile texts, explicit photos of them, even a horrific "penthouse tally" of used condoms she boasted they'd amassed while I lay sick. Meanwhile, Ethan played the doting fiancé, planning our wedding with sickening enthusiasm. I watched my Parisian bridal gown, custom-made for me, defiled as Chloe wore it, preening before Ethan, who then engaged in sordid acts with her in the fitting room. The ultimate affront came at my beloved mentor's funeral, where I caught them engaging in despicable acts, steps away from her casket. The city adored our love story, oblivious to the monstrous lies. My life, my integrity, everything felt like a grand, public fraud. How could anyone live such a public lie for so long? Why did everyone believe him, even as my world crumbled around me? But their cruelty didn't break me; it forged an icy resolve. I accepted a Federal Identity Relocation Service offer to disappear, to become Alex Parker. But before vanishing, I intended to ensure Ethan Reed's perfect world, and his public image, collapsed just as spectacularly as mine had. I meticulously collected every piece of evidence, every message, every video. The wedding of the decade would still happen. It just wouldn't be the one anyone expected.

I' d died eight times already, each a brutal end, all thanks to Caroline Hawthorne. Now, I was on my ninth life, cold in a dusty attic room, a flat digital voice repeating its impossible command inside my head: "Secure Caroline Hawthorne's genuine, exclusive romantic devotion." But this wasn' t just about winning her love; it was about survival itself. This time, the System' s chilling ultimatum echoed with no emotion: "Failure in this iteration will result in permanent dissolution." No more chances. My tormentor, Caroline, then entered, pregnant with her fiancé Derek' s child, and immediately imposed her latest cruelty: I was demoted to the gardener' s shed, while Derek' s prize-winning show dog got my warm room. She kicked me. Memories of my past deaths, stark and agonizing, flooded me: freezing in a wine cellar, drowning after being pushed overboard, a shank in prison, botched medical procedures where she watched me bleed out. I' d endured skin grafts from my own thigh because Derek faked an injury, been forced into life-threatening blood transfusions for his "recovery," and suffered public humiliation at her hands. Her blind devotion to Derek was absolute, her cruelty towards me boundless. I was broken, tired of the endless loop of torture and failure. Why did I have to suffer endless agony for a devotion she clearly didn't deserve, a woman who treated me as less than human? I just wanted it all to end, for oblivion to claim me. My silence became defiance against her rage. That yearning for freedom, once a desperate wish for death, hardened into something cold and resolute: revenge. If the System demanded her "devotion," or her "permanent removal from the equation," then I would choose freedom. After her last threat-to harm the only person who cared for me-I knew what I had to do. This time, I wouldn't just survive; I would ensure her downfall, and finally, truly break free.

I died at eighty-nine. Not in peace, but after decades trapped in my own paralyzed body. A car accident had turned me into a "vegetable," or so my husband, Mark, conveniently told everyone. He then reaped a massive disability settlement from my "condition"-enough to fund his entire lifetime. My lifetime, however, was spent trapped, agonizingly aware of every whispered conversation, every stolen dollar, every moment they thought I was gone. Mark, his kids Jessica and Kevin, even his ex-wife Brenda-they all saw me as nothing more than a lucrative shell. They feasted on my money. He'd fabricated a marriage certificate and coerced his doctor cousin to lie about my infertility and exaggerate my paralysis for a bigger payout. I watched, helpless, as Jessica manipulated my "care" to ensure the cash flow, and Kevin blamed me for all his failures. For decades, I endured this living hell, a silent scream trapped within. The sheer injustice of their monstrous betrayal festered, turning my soul into a crucible of rage. Why was I forced to endure such vile exploitation, unable to fight back? Then, darkness. And then, light. I was back. Younger, whole, sitting in a vibrant garden, enveloped by party noise. Every agonizing memory of their avarice and the hell they put me through was crystal clear. This time, their greed wouldn't just be their undoing-I would ensure it.

My husband, Ethan, a New York tech mogul, was having a blatant affair with Tiffany, his "assistant." Tired of the humiliation, I cancelled her company credit cards and booked her a one-way ticket to a remote Bali wellness retreat. His retaliation was swift and brutal. He had my parents, John and Mary, kidnapped from their Montana home. He sent me a video: them tied up in a dilapidated barn, a digital timer ominously counting down. "Tell me where Tiffany is, Sarah, or your parents' retirement ends now." Terrified, I confessed. He then coldly directed me to an abandoned lodge upstate where he claimed they were. Rushing there, the structure collapsed as I reached them – a trap. My father was severely injured shielding us. At the hospital, Dad reminded me of our ironclad prenup: Ethan's infidelity meant immediate divorce and a massive settlement, including properties. My parents had insisted on it. I’d been naive, thinking I could reclaim my dignity with a small act of defiance. Instead, I’d endangered my family. But Ethan had underestimated me, and the foresight of my small-town parents. The game was about to change. My escape, and his downfall, began now.

A planned car accident turned Sherri's life upside down. Jackson, the son of her foster father, thought that she was the one who had gotten his sister into that accident, and was determined to make her life a living hell. He mercilessly threw her onto the bed and scowled at the confusion in her eyes. The desire for revenge gradually left him. Falling into his tenderness, Sherri lost her heart to him, but the secret he was hiding finally broke her down. She gave up and tried to run away from him, but he would never let her go.

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

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

Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun. Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos. As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage. The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice. Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her.

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

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.

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

Yelena discovered that she wasn't her parents' biological child. After seeing through their ploy to trade her as a pawn in a business deal, she was sent away to her barren birthplace. There, she stumbled upon her true origins-a lineage of historic opulence. Her real family showered her with love and adoration. In the face of her so-called sister's envy, Yelena conquered every adversity and took her revenge, all while showcasing her talents. She soon caught the attention of the city's most eligible bachelor. He cornered Yelena and pinned her against the wall. "It's time to reveal your true identity, darling."

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.

Betrayed by her fiancé and stepsister a day before her wedding shattered all Lina's dreams about love. She was heartbroken and in pain. Being drugged and unknowingly loosing her virginity to a stranger is not as painful as being betrayed by her loved ones. She promised to make her pretentious step sister and her unfaithful fiancé pay back hundredfold for what they did to her. On her journey to seek revenge, the stranger she had a one night stand with, came knocking at her door with a marriage contract in hand. Without her knowing he was the one she has that blissful one night stand with, she agreed on the marriage contract for some reasons. Will she find out he was the one she had that blissful one night stand with? Will she fall in love with him after being betrayed? Will she be able to get her revenge on those that betrayed her? Find out in this amazing book "Contracted After Being Betrayed"

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.