Renan Gedorio

"Love, let's go to the park." I went down the stairs, filled with hope, and approached Cloud, hoping for a softer response. "Please, Luna, can you stop this? And don't call me 'love'-I don't love you. Ours is just an arranged marriage, and maybe you've forgotten that you're the reason Stella and I broke up." "Is it my fault, Cloud? I'm a victim too. Do you think I wanted to be tied to a man I don't even love? I'm struggling just as much as you are, Cloud." My voice trembled, pleading for his understanding. "Why don't you just leave me? Oh, right, because you won't have anyone to leech off of if you leave me." He laughed, but his every sneer was filled with anger, especially when our eyes met. "You have no right to say that, Cloud! I've never asked you for money!" I shouted back, holding onto what little dignity I had left. "I'm getting the divorce papers finalized today, and you need to sign them as soon as possible. I can't stand seeing your face every day." But the truth was, every word he said felt like a knife cutting into my heart. "C-Cloud, maybe we can still talk about this." I reached for his hand, still hoping there was a chance, but he pulled it away. "What's there to talk about? Isn't it clear that I don't want you and that I don't love you?" His voice thundered through the mansion, his words like a storm shattering my world. "Right, you don't love me." I laughed, but it was filled with bitterness. I looked at him, trying to hide my tears. "You know, Cloud, I wanted to stay by your side until you learned to love me. But I can't, because you've already given up on us. Yes, you don't love me because I'm the reason you and Stella broke up." "Cloud, I studied how to love you. I admit, at first, I didn't want to be with you. But I couldn't help it. Slowly, I started falling for you, and I foolishly thought that maybe one day, you'd learn to love me too. But no, I was wrong. I just wanted to be loved by you, Cloud, but you denied me even that. My chest felt heavy, and trembling, I stepped back." "You know, I dreamed of you loving me the way you loved Stella. But I guess that's impossible." I laughed again, but this time, it was empty, filled only with sadness and pain. "There's no point in forcing myself on you anymore. Maybe I've suffocated you so much that you're begging for your freedom. I'm sorry for being the reason you and Stella broke up. Don't worry, I'll talk to her." I forced a smile, even as I felt myself breaking inside. "Since your birthday is coming up, my gift to you is my signature on the divorce papers. Just call me when they're ready. I'll start packing." Once inside my room, I collapsed to my knees, letting the tears I'd been holding back flow freely. "Why does it always have to be like this? I just wanted to feel his love..." After I finished packing, I went down the stairs. I found Cloud in the living room, standing with his back to me. "Ah, Cloud, I'm leaving now. Just call me when the divorce papers are ready. Thank you for everything, Cloud." I forced a smile and walked out of the mansion, carrying the feelings I wanted to bury but couldn't let go of. "You're free now, Cloud. You can be with Stella. Even though it hurts, I'll endure it. I took a deep breath. This time, I won't beg for your love."

In my world, if you're weak, you're done for. I refused to be one of the weak, so I committed myself to intense training to become stronger. I pushed my limits, sharpened my skills, and believed that I could overcome any challenge. But in the end, I died... trying to help someone weak. Or at least, that's what I thought. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in an unfamiliar place. And soon, the truth hit me: I had been reincarnated.

"P-please d-don't," I said to him fearfully. "Uh huh, let me enjoy tonight, baby," he whispered in my ear. Tears streamed down my face as my body trembled from his presence. I never wanted to wear this to our prom. I didn't choose this. I should have refused back then so none of this would have happened. I knew he'd be angry seeing me in this outfit, but we ran out of time, so I couldn't argue anymore. "Please, Kairus, d-don't, s-stop, please," I begged him. "Shhh, don't test my patience, baby. You know what I can do, right?" he grinned. "N-no, p-please," I cried. "The more you beg, the more I want you," he smirked. He's Kairus Jei Styles, the son of the owner of my school, and he's the bad boy everyone fears. He has friends who are also feared at Styles University. He's the man who raped me and turned my four years in their school into a living hell. I'm Allysiah Quin De Villa, and I was 17 years old when Kairus took control of my life. He was 20 at the time, and I later discovered that he was a terrifying psycho bad boy.

"You are not my child. "You don't belong in this family! "trash!" "Gross!" "What a disappointment!" "Ugly and trash!" "You're disgusting!" "You don't belong in this school, b*tch!" I let out a deep sigh as I recalled the hurtful words they hurled at me. Whether at home or school, it was the same—nothing but pain was brought upon me. "Why is the world so unfair to me?" This was the question I always asked God. Why was I born into this world only to suffer? All I wanted was to be loved—to be happy—so why does it seem like everything is denied to me? I don't understand why it feels like the world is playing a cruel trick on me, intentionally keeping me from getting what I desire. I sighed again. "I hope in my next life, I will be happy." I forced a smile, hiding the deep pain that lingered within me. I could never have imagined that everyone would be so cruel to me, that I would experience such hardship. I placed my hands on the concrete while gazing at the vast surroundings and the students scattered around. I had been sitting here on the railing of our school building's rooftop for some time. This is where I come whenever I'm sad or when everyone bullies me. I sighed once more and looked up at the sky. "Lord, was I a bad person in my past life? Because the world is so cruel to me." Was I truly bad? Or is it just the people around me who are? No one treated me well. Everyone hates me. I have no friends or even anyone I can call 'family.' Do I deserve to live in this world? I placed my hands on the concrete again to support myself as I stood up. "I'm tired of everything. I want this to end." I looked down. My knees trembled as I realized how high up I was. If I fall from here, I will surely leave this world forever. "Maybe if I die, they will be happy," I whispered sadly as I closed my eyes, recalling the faces of all those who caused me so much pain. Tears streamed from my eyes. I felt trapped in a never-ending cycle of torment, reliving the painful experiences over and over again. I've had enough. I'm tired. Maybe it's time to rest... forever. "To end this pain is to finish everything," I whispered again, opening my eyes and slowly stepping onto the edge of the railing. "Goodby—" I was about to fall when suddenly someone forcefully grabbed my hand, causing me to land on top of someone's body. I recognized the familiar scent of his perfume. I quickly stood up as I realized who it was. It's him again... The guy who became my tormentor, making my life even more miserable. "You should have just let me go. Isn't that what you—and everyone—want? For me to disappear from this world," I said lifelessly. His face remained blank, showing no emotion as he looked at me. "Tsk!" I was startled when he suddenly closed the distance between us and spoke coldly into my ear, "If you want to die, wait for me to be the one... to end your life." Then, he immediately turned his back on me. I don't know why, but a surge of intense anger suddenly welled up in my heart because of what he said. The sadness I felt moments ago was instantly replaced with rage. My face suddenly became devoid of emotion. "Oh, is that so?" I said, colder than ice, which made him stop walking. "Alright," I continued, quickly removing my heeled shoe and throwing it at him with all my might, hitting him squarely on the head. I quickly walked toward him and confronted his shocked face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to," I said, cold as ice, but dripping with sarcasm. After saying that, I picked up my shoe and swiftly turned my back on him.

In a dark and cold room, someone was sitting in a corner, trembling intensely from the chilly breeze, accompanied by soft sobs and the quiet fall of tears. The door opened, revealing the person who had locked them in that room, though they didn't know why. Their face lifted, and their eyes immediately met, causing them to shrink further into the corner, continuing to cry. "Please, don't hurt me," they pleaded, their voice trembling with each word. Their body trembled even more as the person they feared slowly approached. The person lifted their face with a gentle left hand. Their face was pitiful, with slightly flushed cheeks and nose. Their innocent, delicate face, more beautiful than a woman's, was flushed from the cold, as they had developed a fever. The man could no longer bear it and immediately lifted them up. They were slightly startled but lacked the strength to resist, their body too weak from the fever. "Supremo..." they softly whispered before losing consciousness. Supremo quickly brought them to his room, immediately changing and treating them, laying them on his soft bed. He gazed at the innocent face of the young one, and only one thought crossed his mind: "I will mark you as mine."

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.

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.

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."

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 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.