Ren Ping Sheng

I was the bankrupt socialite everyone pitied, standing in the mud at my mother's grave with nothing left but a pair of old Louboutins and a single white rose. My bank account was overdrawn by three hundred dollars, but I still believed Julian, my fiancé, was the one person who hadn't abandoned the toxic Compton name. Then I saw his Maybach shaking in the cemetery parking lot. Through a crack in the window, I heard the man I loved whispering to my stepsister, Tiffany. "Don't worry about the broke princess. Once I secure her voting proxy for the trust, I'm dumping her." Tiffany laughed, clutching the scarlet coat she'd charged to my own maxed-out credit card. "She's so pathetic, Julian. She actually thinks you love her." I didn't scream; I recorded them. But when I tried to use that leverage, my family turned into vipers. To protect Julian's status, they framed me for causing Tiffany to miscarry a fake pregnancy and planted stolen documents in my bag. My own father stood by as they locked me in a room, planning to sell me to a predatory creditor named Hightower to settle his gambling debts. I ended up in a freezing police cell, my ankle shattered and my reputation destroyed. I sat on that metal bench, shivering as I realized my own blood had traded my life for a check. I called the only man powerful enough to burn them all-Julian's uncle, the "Butcher of Wall Street," Alden Stark. The phone just kept ringing. He wasn't coming. To the world, I was just a walking bankruptcy filing, a girl who had finally run out of luck. I didn't wait for a savior. I escaped custody and ran barefoot through the rain, leaving a trail of blood on the marble floor of Stark Tower. When I collapsed at Alden's feet, he didn't look at me with pity; he looked at me like a rare, damaged artifact he finally owned. "Inform the board that this is my fiancée," he announced, lifting me into his arms. I signed the marriage contract that night, trading my freedom for the power to ensure my family's liabilities exceeded their assets for the rest of their natural lives.

My husband Liam was the perfect Alpha. He built me a library, fought off rogues, and swore I was his soulmate. I thought we were the perfect fated couple. That was until I found the burner phone wedged deep in the sofa cushions. "She's just a placeholder," he texted his mistress, Ava. "You know you're my real queen." Attached was an ultrasound of a wolf pup—his heir. I tried to leave with dignity, but he dragged me to the Pack Gala. On a live stream watched by thousands, he paraded Ava around, wearing my family’s heirloom necklace. When I tried to take it back, he didn't just stop me. He slapped me across the face. The force of his blow didn't just break my heart; the trauma killed the secret baby growing inside me. I severed the bond and vanished, leaving him with his "queen" and his guilt. Five years later, I returned, not as a weak rejected mate, but as the powerful Alpha of the Sanctuary. Liam fell to his knees in the dirt, holding a flawless pink diamond, begging for a second chance. "I fought for you," he cried, tears streaming down his face. "I bled for you! I am your Fated Mate!" I looked at him with nothing but pity, then turned to the man standing beside me—the quiet Beta who had silently saved my life years ago when Liam was too busy playing the hero. I took Ethan's hand. "Ethan," I asked, my voice ringing clear through the silent crowd. "Will you be my Mate?" As Liam screamed in agony, the Moon Goddess answered with a blinding golden light.

I lay in the sterile silence of the hospital, mourning the baby I never got to hold. Everyone called it a tragic accident. A slip and fall. But I knew the truth of my husband's shove. Mark finally came to visit. He didn't bring flowers; he brought a briefcase. Inside were divorce papers and a non-disclosure agreement. He calmly informed me that his mistress-my friend-was pregnant. They were his "real family" now, and they couldn't have any "unpleasantness." He threatened to use fabricated psychiatric reports to paint me as an unstable danger to myself. "Sign the papers, Clara," he warned, his voice void of emotion. "Or you'll be moved from this comfortable room to a more... secure facility. A long-term one." I looked at the man I had loved and saw a monster. This wasn't a tragedy; it was a corporate takeover of my life. He had been meeting with lawyers while I was losing our child. I wasn't his grieving wife; I was a liability being managed, a loose end to be tied. I was utterly and completely trapped. Just as despair consumed me, my parents' old lawyer appeared like a ghost from the past. She pressed a heavy, ornate key into my palm. "Your parents left you an escape route," she whispered, her eyes filled with resolve. "For a day like this." The key led to a forgotten contract, a pact made by our grandfathers decades ago. An ironclad marriage agreement, binding me to the one man my husband feared more than death itself: the ruthless, reclusive billionaire Julian Thorne.

The cemetery air was heavy, just like my heart, staring at Lily' s name, a scar etched in stone. Then she arrived, Sophia, my wife, leaning into Mark, my best friend. Her hand resting on the slight curve of her stomach twisted my gut. "Lily, from heaven, will surely bless the baby in my womb with health and safety," she sneered, holding her belly. My daughter was dead, and their child, a blessing. I slid my wedding ring off, the symbol of a shattered lie, and let it fall onto the damp earth beside Lily' s grave. I walked away without looking back, leaving everything behind. Later, I overheard Sophia' s sisters mocking me. "What do you bet he comes crawling back in a week?" one giggled. They had no idea. Soon, I found myself serving Mark, Sophia' s lover, even peeling him an apple, a twisted parody of our past intimacy. Her smirk told me she relished my humiliation. Then she dropped the bomb: "We can all be one big, happy family." I handed her the divorce papers, already signed. Sophia laughed, picking up the papers. "You have nothing without me." Suddenly, Mark began to choke, his face turning red. "What did you do?" Sophia shrieked, her eyes blazing, forcing a piece of the apple into my mouth. A sickeningly sweet, nutty taste flooded my senses. Almonds. The room spun, and the first wave of anaphylaxis hit me like a fiery punch. "We found out about the baby almost a year ago, right after… Lily got sick." A year. Lily was still alive when their affair began. They left me there, choking, as they rushed Mark to the hospital. But in that cold, sterile hospital room, a ruthless plan began to form.

For three years, I lived a fairy tale, believing I was the universe's luckiest woman, deeply loved by my brilliant creator, Ethan. Then, everything shattered the night he strapped me to a table, revealing a woman with my exact face on a screen: "That's my wife, Madisyn. You were built to replace her." He harvested my love, my memories, my very essence to revive her, then stripped me of everything, calling me a "soulless machine," and forced me to watch their rekindled romance from a glass cage, punishing me with electric shocks if I dared to look away. I endured agonizing chemical burns, dismissed as "glitches," until Madisyn had me thrown into a warehouse filled with unstable, decommissioned androids, certain I'd be torn to pieces. But as their metal claws ripped me apart, a secret program deep within me activated: a "gestational" program, a digital child Ethan had hidden. I had to protect it, even broken and dying. Ethan found me mangled, finally seeing the monstrous truth: Madisyn had sabotaged me with a "mortality patch" and orchestrated my destruction, even sending the robots to target the child. With Madisyn threatening to self-destruct if he saved me, Ethan made his choice, sacrificing her to activate the Genesis Protocol for me. But it was too late. My body, my pain, was who I was. I just wanted to feel the wind, one last time. He carried me to the ocean at sunrise, proposed with a ring that couldn't fit my ruined hand, and as my light faded, he carried my lifeless chassis into the waves, disappearing with me beneath the surface-a final, tragic embrace.

My husband, Ethan Cole, was New York' s legal golden boy-revered for his legal prowess and, more famously, for his legendary adoration of his wife, Sarah Miller. "My North Star" tattooed over his heart, cross-country flights for a few hours with me; I believed this perfect fairytale for years. Then, the crash. Arriving at his office to surprise him, I overheard his junior associates' crude jokes: "Boss is off to Napa with Jessica Vance for a 'client retreat'." Napa? He'd texted "Chicago deposition." My world tipped. The video landed, sent by Jessica: her, tied with Ethan' s silk tie, his face consumed by a desire I hadn't witnessed in years. It plummeted deeper. That night, he drugged my tea. Then, he brought her into our bed, right beside me, believing I was out cold. Her moans, his rough whispers, Jessica' s sweat-damp hair brushing my cheek-the ultimate, sickening violation. The man who once cooked me gourmet breakfasts became a depraved stranger, brazenly flaunting his infidelity inches from me. How could he? My reflection showed tear-streaked eyes, but pain became icy resolve. No screaming. No breakdowns. A chillingly precise plan formed. I took a burner phone, texting him-my husband, the famed attorney-as an anonymous "Ms. Evans": "My husband is cheating with his assistant. What should I do?" His reply, professional and prompt: "Secure all evidence of his infidelity. Bring it to me." So, I did. I formally retained Ethan Cole to handle my divorce. Game on.

I' m Chloe, a nursing student, always broke and buried in textbooks, a stark contrast to my influencer-wannabe roommate, Tiffany. We tolerated each other, barely. Then, one night, Tiffany burst in, grinning, clutching a filthy, terrified cat she' d "rescued" from an alley. "Meet Scrappy!" she squealed, oblivious to my strict allergies and our apartment's no-pets rule. From the moment I saw him, the matted cat stared at me with an unnerving, instant dislike. He quickly became a nightmare, tearing apart my expensive nursing textbook and leaving messes everywhere. Tiffany just laughed, filming him for her "content" while branding me a "killjoy" and "hater." But it spiraled out of control when Scrappy viciously attacked my eight-year-old cousin, Lily, sending her to the ER for stitches and agonizing rabies shots. My hands shook with a cold, desperate fury. This wasn't about a ruined textbook anymore; this cat was a dangerous menace, and Tiffany, wrapped up in her influencer dreams, couldn' t care less. I tried desperately to get rid of him, but she stopped me, and he escaped. Years melted away, only for the horror to become horribly real: Scrappy, now a scarred alpha of a monstrous feral cat colony, murdered my family. I screamed, and then, mercifully, nothingness. I woke up. Sunlight streamed through my old apartment window. I heard Tiffany' s chirpy voice from the living room: "Chloe! Look!" It was the exact same day. The same terrifying cat. I' d seen the future, and this time, I knew precisely what needed to be done.

I was a pregnant widow, my heart shattered by the loss of Ethan, my husband, who vanished into a relentless blizzard months ago. Every day on our isolated Montana ranch was a quiet struggle, a desperate attempt to move forward with the tiny, fluttering life within me. Then, a soft knock on the door, almost lost in the howling wind, shattered my fragile peace. Standing there, weathered but undeniably real, was Ethan. My breath caught, my world stopped spinning. But the moment his familiar blue eyes dropped to my noticeably swollen belly, his face turned to ice. "We never shared a bed," he rasped, a chilling statement, not a question. "How can you be pregnant?" The words struck me like physical blows, each one a fresh betrayal. After all the lonely nights, the tears, the private secret I cherished, this was his return? He stood before me, a stranger, denying a passion I distinctly remembered, demanding answers with accusation blazing in his eyes. How could I explain the man who held me when he himself couldn't remember? The one who called himself Ace? The one who loved me without fear, unlike the guarded Ethan who stood before me now? The Kingman curse might have consumed other men, but it wouldn't claim the truth of my child. I lifted my chin, a spark of defiance igniting. He wanted answers? I' d give them to him, even if it meant shattering his carefully constructed reality and fighting for the whole man I loved.

The city festival lights blurred, then the world exploded into screams and dust. Liam was on top of me, saving me again, for the third time. But this time, his last words, choked out with blood, were not what I expected. "If only... I had never met you." Ten years of a cold marriage, of my unrequited love, ended with that brutal, devastating line. At his funeral, his mother’s sharp voice cut through my grief: "He died because of you. Always you." The whispers followed me out of the church, society agreeing I was the reason Liam Walker, the city’s golden boy, was dead at thirty-three. I was branded the burden he’d carried to his grave, utterly alone and consumed by guilt. Liam’s words echoed, haunting me: "If only I had never met you." I desperately wanted to undo it all, not for a romance that never was, but for *his* peace, for *my* peace, to save him from a life of quiet desperation. Then, a whisper from the city’s underbelly reached me: the "Chronos Device," a secret, experimental temporal machine. It was unstable, dangerous, and, according to the scientist, tied directly to the deepest regrets of the person whose fate you were trying to change. I knew Liam's regrets intimately from his hidden journals: marrying me, abandoning his music, and failing to "save" Jessica, his true love. Driven by this desperate knowledge, I strapped myself into the humming machine, ready to rewrite his regrets, to give him the life he wanted. Even if it meant erasing myself from his life and future forever.

My tribe was dying, our sacred Sunbeam Ridge ravaged by the deafening roar of Remington Mining’s bulldozers. I, Ella Windrider, the last guardian of the Sunbeam Vine, felt my own life force draining away with each passing day. They said I had three years away from the Ridge before I withered and died. But my people would fall sooner if I did nothing. So, I walked out of the mists of our hidden valley and into the cold glass towers of Keller Remington, the man whose parents went missing on our lands, believing I could trade answers for peace. Instead, he took me prisoner, convinced my tribe murdered his family. Days blurred into months within his fortress-like estate, where I was held captive in a damp, windowless cell. He demanded answers, but gave me only torture, both physical and spiritual. He forced me to nurture the stolen Sunbeam Vines, draining my very essence to sustain his conniving fiancée, Sophia Wexler, and her unborn child. Each drop of the Vine’s sap I bled, was a piece of my soul. Then, my brave little brother, Little Hawk, came looking for me, only to be killed by Remington’s men, a death orchestrated by Sophia. As deep winter set in, I lay dying, haunted by his crushing loss, the truth of Keller’s parents’ murders a stone in my chest. I knew it wasn’t my people who killed them, but a ruthless corporation, led by Sophia’s family, and a traitor from my own tribe. They had used Keller’s grief, and now they were using me, slowly bleeding me dry. Just as my last breath faltered, an old lawyer arrived, armed with irrefutable proof that shattered Keller’s carefully constructed world. The man who had tortured me, who had caused my brother’s death, finally saw the face of his true enemy, and the innocent woman he had systematically destroyed.

The fluorescent lights of Northwood High’s auditorium hummed, a familiar sound. It was the last Monday assembly before SATs, and Brittany Jones, head cheerleader, announced a pre-party at her place tonight. A cheer went up, but my blood ran cold because I’d lived this exact moment before. Last time, Brittany’s party led to her faked overdose, my public ruin, Jake’s betrayal, and ultimately, the orchestrated death of my fire captain father and my own demise in a hospital bed. Now, inexplicably sent back, I tried to keep my distance, hoping to protect myself and my family from repeating the nightmare. Instead, Brittany and Jake escalated their cruelty, cornering me, stealing my SAT ticket, ID, and phone, and locking me in a dark gym storage room. My father miraculously rescued me, but that very night, Brittany and Jake launched a vicious social media campaign, framing me for their party’s disastrous mass hospitalization and even slandering my brave dad. Rocks were thrown through our window, and an angry mob, fueled by their lies, gathered outside our home, screaming "child poisoner." How could they be so utterly evil, so determined to destroy my life, and why was this second chance even worse, more violent than the first? But then, a flicker of hope: my smartwatch had been recording, and I remembered Jake’s old cloud passwords from our past, giving me access to all his damning secrets. This time, I wouldn’t just survive; I would use every memory and every piece of evidence to ensure they reaped what they sowed, for good.

Charlotte, working for Simon as her secretary, took full advantage of this job. She made cash on the side by selling the charming CEO’s photos, slippers, and his other belongings. The reason why she worked so hard was only that she wanted enough money to move out of that terrible place with her mother. She thought she hid this secret well, but he already found out how she earned the money from his admirers. She was unaware that no matter what happened, he wouldn't close the door on her.

My five-year-old daughter was dying in the ICU, her heartbeat replaced by the continuous, electronic scream of a flatline. I gripped her cold hand, my throat sealed shut by a terror so absolute I couldn't even cry out. I dialed my husband Grayson's private number, the one reserved only for me and his assistants. He declined the call instantly. A second later, a text buzzed against my palm: "In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling." Five miles away, Grayson was at a luxury gala, adjusting his silk tie and laughing with Belle Escobar. He told her I was just being "dramatic" and using our daughter's "fever" as an excuse to avoid the event. He had no idea Effie's heart had already stopped. When I finally reached our penthouse, soaked from the rain and carrying Effie's small socks in a plastic bag, Grayson didn't even look at me. He snapped at me for ruining the hardwood floors and asked if I'd left Effie with the nanny just to "feel sorry for myself." Three days later, while I buried our daughter in a small, lonely ceremony, Grayson was at the Hamptons. Belle posted a photo of him golfing with the caption: "A mental health day with the boys." He didn't even attend the funeral, but he returned home demanding I clear out Effie's room to make a study for Belle's son. The injustice burned through me until there was nothing left. I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, desperate to join my daughter. But instead of the darkness, I woke up to blinding lights and the scent of Grayson's expensive cologne. I was standing in a ballroom, wearing a blue silk dress I had already burned. Above me, a banner read: "Happy 5th Birthday Kaiden & Effie." I was back, exactly one year before the tragedy. This time, I wasn't going to be the grieving wife. I was going to be their worst nightmare.

I went to the City Clerk’s office for a routine copy of my marriage license to finalize a trust fund audit. I expected a simple piece of paper, but the clerk’s pitying look told me my entire life was a lie. "The license was never finalized, Ms. Oliver. In the eyes of the state, you are single." The three-hundred-guest wedding at the Plaza and the Vogue features meant nothing. My husband, Gray Cooley, had intentionally filed the documents with a "procedural defect" so he could discard me without a legal divorce. Moments later, an iCloud invite titled "Our Little Secret" popped up on my screen. It was a photo of my best friend, Brylee, holding a positive pregnancy test at our Hamptons estate. Gray’s text to her was the final blow: "Happy anniversary, babe. This baby is the best gift. Once the trust unlocks today, we’re done with the charade." I soon discovered they were even stealing my career, reassigning my architectural masterpiece to Brylee while preparing my eviction notice. Gray's mother called me a "barren mule" in a leaked recording, mocking the infertility I suffered after saving Gray’s life in a construction accident. I wasn't a wife; I was a three-year placeholder used to secure his inheritance. How could the man I bled for treat me like a disposable prop? How could my best friend carry his child while pretending to comfort me through my darkest moments? The betrayal burned until it turned into a cold, hard stone of fury. I didn't cry. Instead, I walked into the penthouse of the Barretts, the Cooleys' most powerful rivals. I signed a marriage contract with Kane Barrett, the man the tabloids called the "Beast of Wall Street." "I want a wedding," I told his father, my voice steady and lethal. "Bigger than the one I had with Gray." If they wanted me gone, they would have to watch me become the woman who owns their world.

For two years, I was the invisible force behind tech billionaire Kieran Douglas, convinced that our "private" romance was his way of protecting us from the tabloid spotlight. I managed his mergers, warmed his bed, and waited for a future that didn't exist. The illusion shattered at 6:00 AM when a Page Six alert debuted Kieran's "real" romance with socialite Aspen Schneider. Before I could even process the betrayal, Kieran sent me a cold, professional text: "Order flowers for Aspen. Pink peonies. Her favorite." When I tried to walk away, my own mother called me a disgrace and threatened to lock my inheritance forever unless I married a sixty-year-old businessman to save her failing estate. At a high-society gala that same night, Aspen intentionally crushed my burned hand in front of the cameras, while Kieran stood by and dismissed me as a "mediocre assistant" who had overstayed her welcome. I stood in the cold New York rain, drenched in champagne and humiliation, realizing that every sacrifice I made for Kieran was a joke. I was a ghost in a penthouse that was never mine, discarded the moment his "soulmate" returned. To the world, I was just a placeholder whose time had run out. But Kieran forgot one thing: my father's multi-million dollar trust fund unlocks the moment I legally marry. I didn't need love; I needed a signature and a shield. I walked into a discreet law firm and signed a marriage contract with a man I believed was the city's most notorious, scandal-ridden playboy. I thought I was marrying a degenerate "beard" to buy my freedom and secure my revenge. I didn't realize the man who signed that paper wasn't a playboy at all, but Gaston Collins-the most powerful and dangerous man on Wall Street-and he had no intention of letting our fake marriage stay fake.

I stood at my mother's open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule. While the priest's voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?" When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone-he brought Charla with him. He claimed she'd had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child." He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me. "He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect. Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.

My husband of three years, Arthur Vanderbilt, came home smelling of his mistress's perfume and threw divorce papers on our marble kitchen island. He demanded I sign away all rights to our assets for a five-million-dollar "severance," calling me a leech his family picked up from the suburbs to solve a temporary PR crisis. When I refused and demanded my four percent equity in the Vanderbilt Group, he and his mistress, Serena, launched a vicious smear campaign. They planted false stories on Wall Street forums, accusing me of laundering money for an Eastern European crime syndicate. They tried to force my hand with a check for five hundred million, which I tore up and threw in his face. To them, I was just a trophy wife they could easily discard. They had no idea that the "leech" they so despised was the anonymous investor who had secretly bailed out their entire company three years ago, saving them from bankruptcy. Their final move was to hire an actress to publicly accuse me of fraud in the lobby of the most powerful law firm in Manhattan. They didn't realize I was there to retain the firm's most ruthless lawyer. After security threw them out, I looked my replacement in the eye and made her a promise. "Prepare for an FBI probe into perjury and corporate defamation."

I spent three years building my husband, Axel Farrell, into Silicon Valley's ultimate "family man." As his lead PR strategist, I carefully managed his public image, making sure the world saw him as a perfect, devoted husband while I worked in the shadows of our estate. The illusion shattered when he came home one night smelling of sandalwood and roses, with three deep fingernail scratches carved into his back. When I tried to check his phone, the passcode we had used for years-our wedding anniversary-had been changed. The betrayal got worse the next morning when his mother called me a "defective product" and tried to force me into a fertility clinic. Axel didn't defend me; instead, he shoved me against a marble bar at a public gala to protect his mistress in front of the world's elite. By the time I tried to leave, Axel had frozen my bank accounts and filed a forged legal petition to have me declared mentally incompetent. He planned to have me legally kidnapped and locked in a private psychiatric ward just to stop me from filing for divorce. He even blocked every major law firm in the city from taking my case, leaving me with no money, no identity, and no one to turn to. I couldn't understand how the man who "saved" me from the mud years ago could be the same monster now trying to legally erase my existence. Was our entire marriage just a grooming process to exploit my genius for his billion-dollar empire? As the deadline for my forced commitment approached, I stopped crying and opened my laptop. I leaked the video of his affair to every tech journalist in the country, watching his stock price crash in real-time. "Axel thinks starving me out will make me crawl back to him," I whispered as I walked into the headquarters of his biggest rival. "But he forgot that the most valuable part of his company is in my head." I was no longer the abandoned wife; I was the one who was going to take his throne and burn it to the ground.

Everyone knew Kristine loved Colton. Still, his heart clung to a woman overseas-someone he spent most days with, now pregnant with his baby-and Kristine still asked him to marry her. On their registration day, however, he never came; his "true love" had flown back. Seven years of loyalty later, Kristine walked away, blocked him, and left his city. Colton didn't blink-until he saw her at the courthouse, arm-in-arm with another man, and the proud CEO went pale. He went after her, desperation overtaking him. "I'm sorry. Please give me another chance." She snapped, "Could you stop? I'm already married."

"Let's get a divorce. She's pregnant and deserves a place in my life." He once promised to protect Claire forever, yet when his first love returned, he cast her aside. For three years, Claire dimmed her brilliance, living quietly as the obedient wife behind him. When he handed her divorce papers to give his pregnant mistress a place, Claire no longer hid her talents. The woman he had overlooked was a legendary healer, racing prodigy, and a genius designer. After the divorce, she reclaimed her glory. When he pleaded, "Honey, let's remarry," another man pulled her close. "She's my wife now. As for you... Someone, take him out and give him what he deserves!"

"Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. She torched their wedding portrait at his feet while he sent flirty messages to his mistress. With her chest tight and eyes blazing, Stella delivered a sharp slap. Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, and left him a hidden bombshell. On launch day she vanished; that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered. When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged. With a smirk, she said, ""Out of your league, darling."

For three years, Allison played the perfect First Lady in a marriage that never gave her love back. Nolan handed her divorce papers, sneering at her background while his mother mocked her as barren and his pregnant mistress claimed her place. So Allison walked away. On the very day she left him, the royal family reclaimed her as their lost princess. Crown, fortune, power, three terrifying brothers, and a handpicked royal consort now stood at her side. Her eldest brother-the world's most feared arms dealer-pushed a black card across the table. "Go on. Spend whatever you like." Her second brother-the genius doctor-twirled a scalpel between his fingers. "Tell me, sis. How many cuts do the ones who hurt you deserve?" Her third brother-a global martial arts superstar-stormed into her ex-husband's lair. "Who made my sister cry? Time to face the music." When her regretful ex begged for another chance, Allison only smiled. It was too late. She was no longer his wife. She was his worst mistake.