Samuel Gray

I was the "diamond" of the Sargent Foundation, a perfect orphan polished for the cameras and high-society galas. But beneath the glittering chandeliers, I was suffocating. When the pressure finally broke me and I tried to flee the Sargent Gala, I wasn't met with comfort. I was hunted down by security and dragged into a sterile, white-hot spotlight in a room I was never allowed to enter. Adrien Sargent, the cold-blooded CEO who controlled my every move, didn't want to help me. He wanted to devour me. He presented a legal cage: sign over my voting shares for his unethical hostile takeover, or he would have my only friend—the elderly butler who raised me—killed in his nursing home bed. I became a prisoner in the East Wing, stripped of my phone and watched by hidden cameras. During a midnight storm, I tried to steal a security card to escape, but Adrien caught me in his study. Reeking of whiskey and corporate rage, he didn't just stop me. He pinned me to his desk and branded my neck with a bite so deep it bruised, treating me like a thief who deserved to be claimed. The next morning, the house turned into a battlefield of lies. His PR consultant tried to claim she was the one in his bed, but Adrien found a pearl button from my pajamas under his desk. He didn't feel guilt; he felt violated. He accused me of orchestrating the entire encounter to blackmail him, his eyes filled with a terrifying, possessive fury. When his grandmother caught us, she didn't see a victim; she saw a liability. To save the family stock price, she gave us an ultimatum: marriage. "I’ll do it," I said, looking at the massive diamond ring that felt more like a shackle. Adrien thought he had finally broken me, but he didn't know about the encrypted file I just received. The corporate crisis he’s fighting was an inside job, and the trail leads straight to his own front door. I looked at my new husband on our wedding night and let my silk dress hit the floor. He thinks he’s trapped a rabbit, but I’ve just gained total access to his world. I will sleep with the enemy, learn every dark secret he’s hiding, and then I am going to burn his empire to the ground.

I was the moral compass of modern media, a journalist with a flawless record and a penthouse life with my husband, Britton. Then one phone call shattered it all. He blackmailed me, using a dark secret I kept for him, forcing me to retract a story and destroy my own career to protect his intern, Baylee. The fallout was brutal. My reputation was ruined overnight. Fleeing the city, I was in a horrific car accident and woke up in the hospital to learn I'd had a miscarriage. The final blow came when I called him for help, only to hear his intern giggling in the background. The man I loved since we were kids, the one who swore to protect me, had orchestrated my ruin and cost me our child. He left me for dead at the bottom of a cliff. But he made one mistake: he didn't make sure I was dead. Pulled from the ocean by a mysterious stranger, I was reborn. Now, I'm coming back to reclaim everything he took-and make him pay.

After fifteen years of marriage, my husband finally noticed my nail polish. The shade was 'Midnight Iris.' It was also the favorite shade of his new assistant, Cheri. When I confronted him, Brennan called me ridiculous. "Maybe you should get a job," he sneered. "Stop obsessing over meaningless things." But the deepest cut came from my son, Bird. "You don't even do anything all day," he said, his words a mirror of his father's. "And Cheri is picking me up today. She's way more fun than you." Later, he texted, asking me to buy a birthday present for Cheri. My own birthday had been the week before. He hadn't even mentioned it. He hadn't forgotten. He just didn't care. I had been replaced in my own home, in my own son's heart. Before the tears could blind me, I sent a text to my lawyer. "I want to give up custody. Completely. I can't be a mother to a child who doesn't see me."

My boyfriend, Damien, chose a Vegas trip with his toxic best friend, Branden, over our relationship, ignoring my ultimatum that if he walked out, we were over. He walked. A week later, he was back, dangling a designer handbag as a peace offering. But while he was partying, I was in the ER with a severe, stress-induced anxiety attack. The final blow came when I saw Damien had 'liked' Branden' s social media post mocking my pain. He stood outside my apartment, laughing with Branden, calling me "dramatic" and "clingy," completely unaware I had already packed his entire life into boxes. "What... what is all this, Cecil?" he stammered, his face turning from shock to rage as he saw his belongings ready for the movers. "What have you done?" I looked him dead in the eye, my voice cold and steady. "We're over, Damien. So, are these boxes going to your place, or to Branden's?"

For three years, I've been the wife of Dante Moretti, the head of the Chicago Bratva. My only purpose was to give him an heir. Today, I stared at the second pink line on a pregnancy test—a death sentence. But my husband didn't want a wife. He wanted a vessel. Hiding outside his office door, I heard him talking to his sister, Isabella. They were placing a million-dollar bet on the gender of my unborn child. "But what about her?" Isabella asked. "Once she gives you the heir, she’ll be useless." The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. "She served her purpose," Dante said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "A broodmare is only valuable when it can produce. After that…" He didn't have to finish. In his world, useless things are discarded. Violently. Every touch, every calculated smile had been a lie to secure his dynasty. He saw a legacy, not a child. He saw a vessel, not a wife. The only way to win his game was to knock the whole board over. I pulled out my phone and called the clinic my friend had told me about. "Yes," I said, my voice a stranger’s, hollow and steady. "I'd like to schedule a termination."

I stood at my mating ceremony, about to be joined with my pack's Beta, Brendan, under the watchful eye of the powerful Alpha King. But just as the rites began, Brendan abandoned me at the altar. He ran off into the woods for another woman—a fragile rogue named Marina he had taken in. He left me to face the humiliation alone. Then, a message came through the public leadership channel for all to hear. It was Brendan, announcing that Marina had attempted suicide and he couldn't leave her. He then had the audacity to command me to apologize to the Alpha King on his behalf for the "disruption." The man I had loved for six years, who had promised me forever just the night before, had traded my honor for a lie. He made me a laughingstock in front of the entire continent. That night, drowning my sorrow in a human bar, I ran into the Alpha King himself. Fueled by whiskey and heartbreak, I made a reckless offer. "He doesn't want me anymore," I slurred. "Alpha, do you want me tonight?" To my shock, he accepted. And in his arms, I discovered a stunning truth: the Alpha King, my ex-fiancé's uncle, was my true fated Mate. My revenge had just begun.

I, Selena Grant, was the most cherished daughter of the Grant family in Seaview City, a princess in all but name. Countless men longed to draw near, not for love, but for the status and glory that came with me. But men never interested me. My only passion was my work, and my ambition was to see my empire stretch across the globe. For a long time, I believed I would burn out in my relentless work, destined to grow old alone. Until the day I woke in a bathtub. From the phone came a voice, sharp with impatience, "Why aren't you dead already?" A stranger-a servant-told me I was married, and that I had degraded myself time and again, staging suicide attempts just to win a glance from this man. I didn't believe a word of it. I could be relentless for my work, but never for a man. I picked up the phone and glanced at hundreds of rejected call records and countless unsent messages, all beginning with the same desperate words, "I love you." In that instant, I believed it. A bitter smile tugged at my lips as I stared up at the ceiling. Although I had lost three years of memories from this marriage, anyone who dared to treat me with such contempt would not escape the consequences.

The plane landed, and Ethan Miller, world-renowned chef, felt the thrill of victory – the "Global Culinary Masters" trophy securely in his bag. He envisioned his fiancée, Sophia, and The Alchemist\'s Table, his restaurant that had just earned its third Michelin star. But joy turned to ice as two burly guards blocked his entrance, demanding an invitation to his own restaurant. Laughter and champagne clinked inside, and a video played on a loop, showing "Chef Ethan Miller," holding his trophy, kissing it for the cameras-but it wasn\'t him. The police arrived, called by the imposter, who claimed Ethan's ID was stolen. "The system says this ID was reported stolen two weeks ago. By Mr. Ethan Miller." They dragged him away, a man pleading, swearing he was the true Ethan. He saw the imposter, his doppelgänger, putting an arm around Sophia, who leaned into him with a look of pure love. "Who am I?" he whispered, as his world crumbled, every memory, every achievement, every relationship with his fiancée replaced. Humiliated, abandoned, and facing a life he no longer recognized, Ethan knew one thing: he had to reclaim his identity, no matter the cost.

I poured everything into him. As a struggling artist, I lived for Julian, my charming musician. I paid his bills, cooked his food, convinced myself our love was worth more than money. Then the black Escalades came. My Julian, the man I loved, was Julian Vance, a billionaire heir. He didn' t even look at me as his fixer handed me a check for $500,000, calling it a "thank you for your time." My world shattered. I tore the check, screamed my love wasn't for sale. I was a romantic idiot. To keep him, I leaked our story to the tabloids, forcing his family to make him marry me for appearances. The marriage was hell. Julian treated me with open disgust. His monstrous grandfather systematically dismantled my life, isolating me, sabotaging my art, whispering poisons until I questioned my sanity. The final blow: Julian on Page Six, laughing on a yacht with "his longtime companion," Serena. My "love story" was a brutal nightmare, my grand romance a calculated humiliation. The pain of betrayal, the sheer injustice, choked me. How could something so pure turn so monstrously toxic? I was a pawn. That night, in our cold, empty penthouse, I ended my life. But then, I woke up. Back in my tiny Brooklyn apartment. The day before I met Julian for the "first" time. This time, I knew the script. And this time, I wasn't here for love. I was here to collect.

I was eight months pregnant, heading to my parents' home for their "big news." I expected typical parental updates, maybe about retirement or a new hobby. Instead, my 55-year-old mother was significantly pregnant, too, chirping "Surprise!" My childhood bedroom was gone, replaced by a lavish nursery for my "miracle" baby brother, Jacob. Then came the demands: financial support for Jacob, and even my condo-the only real security I owned. They wanted me to fund their late-life child, whose existence they used as a weapon against me and my future firstborn son. I refused, reeling from their blatant greed and emotional blackmail. My mother's sweet tone turned to venom, threatening my husband Michael's successful career. She warned she'd accuse him of elder abuse at his tech firm if I didn't comply, claiming "family helps family." This was a new low, but it didn' t compare to what came next. My half-brother Jacob, whom they forced upon me, fell critically ill with leukemia. When I wasn't a match for a bone marrow donation, their demands turned monstrous. They tried to force my then three-year-old son, Leo, my own fragile child, to be tested. They spread lies online, publicly shaming me for "letting my brother die" by protecting my son. I exposed their wicked scheme, posting signed agreements that showed their manipulative nature. They retaliated with the unthinkable: they kidnapped my son, Leo, from preschool. They intended to force a marrow extraction from my toddler, claiming it was a "life-saving diagnostic procedure." That day, terror consumed me. My own parents had crossed an unforgivable line, sacrificing my child for their selfish, desperate obsession. I called the police, determined to rescue Leo and break free from their toxic grasp forever.

Sarah Miller had one shot: Northwood Academy, a world away from her cramped apartment and her dad' s pain-ridden reality. As a scholarship kid, navigating the gilded halls felt like walking a tightrope, especially with queen bee Tiffany Vanderbilt and her "Legacy Crew" constantly reminding her she didn' t belong. One evening, sweeping the school theater, I froze, hearing voices from the green room. Tiffany' s voice cut through the silence: "Chad and Brittany are useless… Ethan, it has to be you." My blood ran cold as I listened to them plot the "Charity Case Dare" -a twisted game where golden boy Ethan Hayes would wine and dine me, make me fall for him, then publicly break my heart right before graduation. It wasn't just bullying; it was a calculated psychological operation, a sport for their amusement. They wanted to see me weep, utterly destroyed. Their words, "charity case," echoed like a brand. Every petty cruelty, every snicker, now made sickening sense. How could people born with every privilege, every advantage, be so casually, viciously cruel? Didn' t they have souls? Was I just a disposable pawn in their endless pursuit of twisted entertainment? The injustice burned, a bitter bile rising in my throat. They thought they had me trapped, a helpless animal in their cruel game. But they were wrong. I wasn' t going to be their victim. I would play along, I would weaponize their arrogance, their resources, and their monstrous scheme. And when the final curtain fell, they wouldn' t know what hit them.

I woke up with a scream stuck in my throat. It was Chloe's eighteenth birthday – a day that should have been filled with joy, but instead, it felt like a chilling replay. My daughter, my sweet girl, was supposed to celebrate her coming of age. The nightmare wasn’t just a dream; it was a terrifying premonition of my past life, a future about to unfold. My own husband, Richard, methodically stripped us of everything: our fortune, our home, our very lives. He was poised to hand my family's legacy, down to Chloe's custom gown and heirloom jewels, to his fake orphaned relative, Amber, with his housekeeper Linda by his side. I remembered it all: Richard's icy declaration that I was "mentally unstable," Chloe's brave defense, the brutal scuffle that left her gravely injured, and finally, the staged car accident that stole our lives. Now, the phone rang, confirming the exact chilling details: Richard's assistant, demanding I present Amber with *the* Hayes family necklace. I saw the bruises on Chloe’s arm, forced to polish Amber’s shoes. How could this be happening again? The betrayal, the theft, the violence – it was too much. But this time, a fierce, cold rage ignited inside me. I was no longer the broken woman they had destroyed. As the assistant chirped about the necklace, I walked to the display case holding the fake pieces meant to placate me. With a heavy bronze statuette, I shattered the glass, then smashed the trinkets. "Tell Mr. Thorne," I commanded, "the original plan stands for Chloe's birthday." This time, history wouldn’t repeat. This time, I’d reclaim everything.

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.

I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector. That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world. The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor. The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist. Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch—a titan of industry and my best friend’s father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared. "Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb. Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen. "Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back." I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

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.

I woke up on silk sheets that smelled of expensive cedar and cold sandalwood, a world away from my cramped apartment in Brooklyn. Beside me lay Ezra Gardner—my boss, the billionaire CEO of Gardner Holdings, and the man who could end my career with a snap of his fingers. He didn’t offer an apology for the night before; instead, he looked at me with terrifying clarity and proposed a cold, calculated business arrangement. "Marriage. It stabilizes the board and solves the PR crisis before it begins." He dressed me in archival Chanel and sent me home in his Maybach, but my life was already falling apart. My boyfriend, Irving, claimed he had passed out early, yet his location data placed him at my best friend’s apartment until three in the morning. When I tried to run, I realized Ezra was already ten steps ahead, tracking my movements and uncovering the secret I’d spent twenty years hiding: my connection to the powerful Senator Grimes. I was trapped between a CEO who treated me like a line item on a quarterly report and a boyfriend who had been using me while sleeping with my closest friend. I felt like a pawn in a game I didn't understand, wondering why a man like Ezra would walk up forty flights of stairs on a broken leg just to make sure I was safe. "Showtime, Mrs. Gardner." Standing on the red carpet in a gown that cost more than my life, I watched my cheating ex-boyfriend’s face turn pale as Ezra claimed me in front of the world. I wasn't just an assistant anymore; I was a weapon, and it was time to burn their world down.

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

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

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."

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.

My husband promised me forever, but gave me endless lies. On our anniversary, I found his secrets on social media, exposed by his mistress. He didn't just break my heart; he broke my entire world. Seraphina sat alone in her opulent mansion, preparing their anniversary dinner, feeling the suffocating weight of her cold, hollow marriage. An Instagram post from Tiffany Sloan then brazenly revealed Harrison's hand at a romantic dinner, shattering his flimsy excuses and exposing his blatant infidelity. The betrayal turned Seraphina's despair into cold resolve. He gaslighted her, dismissed her pain, and reminded her she was "nothing." He chose his mistress over her dying brother, caused her to break an ankle, and finally abandoned her on a desolate street corner, stripped of dignity. How could she have sacrificed her entire violin career for a man who so casually discarded her? Under that bridge, her foolish love died, leaving only a fierce desire for reclamation. Shivering and alone, a faded flyer for a violin teacher caught her eye. It was a defiant whisper of her old self, a promise: Seraphina Vanderbilt was gone, and a new Seraphina was finally free.