Wu Li

I knew the charred corpse in the city morgue wasn't my husband, Lorenzo. I knew this because the man standing three feet behind me, playing the role of the grieving twin brother, was actually my husband. He had planted his ring on his murdered twin, swapping their identities so he could escape our marriage and run off with his pregnant mistress, Valentina. In my previous life, I had refused the pen and screamed for an investigation. Lorenzo twisted my hysteria, painting me as an unhinged liar trying to steal his territory. The Family stripped my widow's benefits and cast me and my two young children onto the unforgiving streets. My life seeped out of me in a freezing alleyway, listening to Lorenzo and Valentina laughing in the shadows as my children starved. I died not understanding how a man could sacrifice his own brother and children just to hoard his wealth. Blinking away the foul memory, a sharp breath filled my lungs. I was reborn, right back in the Syndicate safehouse. This time, I didn't shed a single tear or beg for the truth. I picked up the pen and legally declared Lorenzo dead. I was going to inherit his entire empire, and then I was going to burn him to the ground.

I sat alone on a hard wooden bench in the City Clerk's Office, smoothing the white silk of my wedding dress. It was 10:00 AM, the exact moment I was supposed to marry Arland Rhodes. But Arland never showed up. Instead, a breaking news alert flashed on my phone, showing a high-resolution photo of my fiancé at the airport, tenderly cradling his "first love," Emilie Blackburn, in his arms. Seven years of my life were erased in a single paparazzi shot. When I finally saw him, he didn't apologize; he just said Emilie had a panic attack and needed him. My own mother called me a humiliation to the family reputation, and Arland's assistant tried to buy my silence with a pink diamond necklace. That night, Arland moved Emilie into our penthouse, telling me to be "reasonable" because she had security issues. "It's just logistics, Isolde. Don't make this into something it isn't." He thought I was the perfect, drama-free partner who would wait forever. He didn't notice when I began systematically dismantling our life, replacing my priceless antiques with cheap replicas and liquidating my shares in his company. He was too busy playing hero to a woman who faked heart palpitations every time he looked at me. He truly believed he could fix a lifetime of neglect with a "do-over" date and a silver convertible he had actually ordered for her. I realized then that Arland didn't love me; he loved that I was convenient. I had spent seven years building a life on a foundation of sand, and I was done being the silent, understanding fiancée. On the morning he finally showed up at City Hall to "make it up to me," I was nowhere to be found. I had already coerced fifteen million dollars out of him as a "security fee" and signed a marriage contract with his most ruthless rival, Esequiel Stone. As Arland stood at the altar waiting for a bride who would never come, I was boarding a private jet to the Capital. The hunt had officially begun, and this time, I wasn't the prey.

Gisele woke up bleeding and broken in the suffocating heat of the 1970s timber woods, just inches away from the deadly fangs of a black adder. As foreign memories crashed into her modern mind, she realized she had transmigrated into the body of an absolute fool. The only reason she was in this dangerous forest was to fetch wild game for Chauncey Beck, a spoiled city boy who treated her like a pathetic servant. The inherited memories made her stomach churn. She saw herself stealing her mother's emergency cash to buy him expensive gifts, while he offered nothing but fake smiles. She saw her family starving themselves to send him premium rations, which he secretly traded for imported coffee. Worse, she remembered publicly humiliating Ernest Jenkins, the impoverished town outcast—the very same man who had just thrown a machete to save her life from the snake, only to walk away in cold disgust. A visceral wave of shame and anger choked her. How could the original owner be so incredibly blind? She had risked her life for a parasitic leech who refused to get his shoes muddy, while treating her fiercely loyal family and her true savior like absolute garbage. But the old, foolish Gisele died in the dirt of those woods. Carried back to the safety of the farmhouse, she looked dead into her father's eyes and delivered the kill shot. "I will never marry Chauncey Beck. Cut off his food and his desk job today." It was time to starve the leech, repay her debts, and clean house.

I was eight months pregnant, waiting on the sofa for my billionaire husband to come home. But when the heavy oak doors opened, Cayden threw a fake DNA test on the glass table, showing a zero percent probability of paternity. He accused me of carrying another man's bastard. I cried and begged, swearing I was framed by his childhood friend, Carmella. He didn't listen. Instead, he ordered his massive bodyguards to pin me down while a private doctor forced an abortion pill down my throat. "The Merritt family does not raise bastards. Get rid of it." He forced me to sign divorce papers and ordered his men to throw me out into the freezing storm. Before I was dragged away, I desperately told him the truth: I was the anonymous donor who gave him a kidney to save his life three years ago. He just sneered, saying Carmella had the surgical scar to prove she was the donor, and kicked me out to die. Lying in the freezing rain, vomiting up the half-dissolved poison to save my baby, I didn't understand how the man I loved could be so completely blind. How could he let that woman steal my kidney, my marriage, and murder his own flesh and blood? Five years later, I returned to New York not as his pathetic discarded wife, but as a top-tier medical fixer for the global elite. And my genius five-year-old son has already infiltrated his mansion, ready to tear his empire apart from the inside.

My father was dying in the ICU, and our family company, the Martin Group, was on the verge of total collapse. While I was desperately trying to sign the consent form for his life-saving surgery, my fiancé, Eston, sent me a text. "I told you not to be stubborn. The company is mine by Friday. Beg me, and I might pay for the funeral." He had been secretly looting my family's assets from the inside, waiting for me to break so he could steal everything. He thought I would crawl back to him in absolute despair, surrendering my father's legacy just to survive. The sheer weight of my helplessness crushed my chest as the heart monitor next to my father's bed let out a frantic, high-pitched scream. The betrayal tore through me, but the despair quickly hardened into a cold, sharp stone. Why should I let the man who ruined me dance on my family's grave? Why should I let him walk away with everything while I lost the only family I had left? I wiped away my tears and blocked his number permanently. Then, I stepped out into the freezing Manhattan rain and went straight to the top floor of the Maxwell building. I threw my remaining shares onto the desk of Ellwood Maxwell—the apex predator of Wall Street, and Eston's untouchable, ruthless uncle. "I want you to marry me," Ellwood said, pushing a marriage contract toward me. "That is the only way your company survives." I picked up the pen. If Eston wanted to destroy my life, I would become his aunt and make him bow.

On the night of the pack celebration, I waited for my fated mate, Alpha Zane, hoping he would save me from my miserable life as a pitied Omega. Instead, he publicly humiliated me, pointing at my facial scar, and formally rejected me for a beautiful warrior. The severed bond nearly killed my inner wolf. Banished as a Rogue, I dragged my broken body to my birth pack. But my own father refused to even look at me, letting my stepmother and sister throw me back into the wilderness to die. Lost in a lawless town, a terrifyingly powerful stranger named Alaric found me. He triggered a rare second-chance mate bond. He kissed my scar, called it a "sacred mark," and promised to protect me forever. But when I woke up the next morning, he was gone. He left a cold rejection letter on the nightstand, with a handwritten line at the bottom. "A king cannot be bound by a cursed omen." I didn't understand. If I was just a cursed omen, why did his wolf claim me so fiercely? Why did he worship my scar in the dark, only to brutally abandon me at dawn? What kind of sick game was this, and what was he hiding? Clutching the piece of paper that shattered my heart for the second time, my despair completely vanished, replaced by an ice-cold hatred. I wiped my tears and walked out of the room. I was going to find this "king" and make them all pay.

Isolde Mitchell knew her wealthy husband was cheating on her, but the true nightmare began when her mother-in-law summoned her. The older woman coldly announced that the mistress was pregnant with a boy and would be moving into their estate. Because Isolde's family had gone bankrupt and she had only given birth to a frail daughter, she was deemed completely worthless. When Isolde packed her bags and demanded a divorce, her husband Clark just laughed. He threatened to use their ironclad prenup to leave her penniless and take full custody of her daughter just to torture her. To make matters worse, he forced Isolde to secure a failing business deal with the ruthless billionaire Jacques Valdez, essentially ordering her to sell her body to get the signature. "If you fail, you will never see Bria again." He even sent his goons to snatch the little girl from her preschool to prove his point. Isolde was completely cornered, trembling with a mix of rage and absolute despair. How could the man she married be such a monster? She would rather die than let them destroy her daughter, but how could a bankrupt mother fight a powerful dynasty with absolutely nothing? Out of options, she looked at the private business card the terrifying billionaire Jacques had unexpectedly given her daughter. Swallowing her pride, she decided to make a deal with the devil himself, ready to use his power to tear her husband's family apart.

For five years, I paid for his art, his life, and his striking resemblance to a ghost. Karson Willis was my carefully curated substitute, a warm body to fill the space left by the man I' d lost. Then, my world shattered. My adoptive family found their biological daughter, and my inheritance vanished overnight. I was cut off, exiled. That' s when I overheard him laughing. "She's broke," he scoffed. "What's the point? She was useful, but that's over now." He called our five years a "convenience" and mocked the wedding board I' d secretly made. At a company dinner, he kissed another woman in front of everyone, then left me stranded when I fell ill, accusing me of being cruel. He even brought her into my home, letting her wear my clothes. I endured it all, a cold clarity settling over me. So when he finally got down on one knee, ring in hand, begging for a second chance, I didn't even hesitate. "I never loved you," I said, pulling my hand away. "You were just a placeholder."

I was the secret lover of billionaire Brooks Fields, a living substitute for the woman he truly loved, Candice. My rare heart condition, the very thing that made me fragile, was the only miracle that could save her. But one night, her jealousy turned deadly. She shoved me into the icy Hudson River, then staged her own fall, screaming for help. When the rescue crew yelled they could only save one of us from the churning water, Brooks didn't hesitate. "Her," he roared, pointing a shaking finger at Candice. "Get Candice first." He watched me go under, choosing to save the woman he adored while leaving me to die. The man who had once saved me from the streets had just condemned me to a watery grave without a second glance. But I survived. And as I recovered alone in a hospital, I finalized my plan. I would donate the unique tissue from my heart to save his precious Candice. In return, I would fake my own death and finally buy my freedom.

Adriana Cotton lived a life of perfect order, a flawless extension of her husband Gifford Stanton' s brand. Her dresses were tailored, her posture straight, her smile measured. She was the epitome of a Stanton wife. But on her birthday, she found him at a food truck, silk tie loosened, peeling a hot dog for a young woman giggling across from him. It was Jovita Griffith, the daughter of their former housekeeper, whose education Gifford had been funding for years under the guise of charity. Adriana' s carefully constructed composure shattered. She confronted them, only to be met with Gifford' s dismissive excuses and Jovita' s feigned innocence. She posted a scathing selfie, but Gifford, blind to the truth, accused her of being overly emotional and announced Jovita would be staying with them. Later that night, she returned home to find her surprise birthday party in full swing, hosted by Jovita, who was wearing Adriana' s vintage Chanel dress. Jovita, smug and victorious, whispered venomous words, claiming Gifford found Adriana "cold in bed. Like a fish." The insult, a brutal blow, pushed Adriana past her breaking point. Her hand flew up, connecting with Jovita' s cheek, the slap echoing through the silent room. Gifford, enraged, cradled Jovita, glaring at Adriana as if she were a monster. He roared, "Have you lost your mind?" He accused her of humiliating him, of being out of control, and ordered her banished to the countryside. Adriana, however, was done playing by his rules. She called Alexzander Wilson, her childhood friend, who arrived by helicopter to whisk her away. "Not anymore," she told Gifford, her voice clear and strong. "We are not a family." She threw divorce papers in his face, leaving him and Jovita to their chaos.

Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding day. But a cold feeling spread through my chest as I stood outside the bathroom door of my fiancé, Liam Harrison, the man I' d known since foster care. Inside, I heard his desperate moan: "Ashley..." Ashley Peterson. My high school tormentor. The one who called him a "freak" and poured scalding coffee on him. My heart shattered as he moaned her name again, pure pleasure. His phone buzzed, the name Ashley Peterson lit up the screen. He answered, his voice instantly soft, almost pleading. "You better be. Don' t think for a second that just because you' re marrying that pathetic little charity case, you can forget about me," she spat. He lied about checking work email, grabbed his keys, and left. I followed. He drove not to his office, but to an expensive bakery. I watched as he bought her a ridiculous cake. He' d hired her as his personal assistant, saying it was revenge. But I' d found his old journals. They weren't about revenge. They were filled with her name, detailing a twisted obsession. At the bakery, Ashley took the cake. "It' s my birthday tomorrow, Liam. I have a wish. Ditch the wedding. Don' t marry her." He stiffened, but she purred, "You don't love her. You love me." I watched as he slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded. My heart turned to ice. I cancelled the wedding, packed my bags, and started the process to move to Europe. But Ashley wasn't done. She showed up at my home, treating our staff like servants. "This is my house now." The confrontation escalated, and she deliberately threw scalding soup on me. "Now you have a scar to match your pathetic life." Liam walked in, and she shrieked, "She attacked me!" He didn' t even look at my burns. He cradled her. "Chloe, what the hell is wrong with you?" Even with witnesses, he chose to believe her. He carried her out to the hospital, leaving me behind-alone, shattered, and betrayed. He tried to buy my forgiveness with designer gifts, but I saw him for what he was: a weak man controlled by toxic obsession. Then, at a charity gala, Ashley, desperate, bid a ridiculous amount on a bracelet. Liam publicly rejected her, and she flew into a rage, smashing the bracelet and fleeing. He followed her into the garden. I watched as he gently comforted her for losing a childhood memento. She gave him a deep, demanding kiss, and he returned it passionately. The world tilted. It wasn' t just sick obsession. It was love. I finally understood my place. He loved me like a sister he was indebted to, like a pet he felt responsible for. But he desired Ashley. Her cruelty was affection, my devotion a burden. I was the safe harbor, she the storm. I didn' t want his pity, his candy, his hollow promises. I wanted to be free. The morning of the wedding, I abandoned my dress, shattered my phone, and threw away my ring. I was finally, truly, gone.

The official notification arrived on a Monday morning: Chloe Davis, my son David's fiancée, was confirmed dead in a car accident. I dropped the document in the trash without a change in expression, because I already knew. I had lived this life once before. And in that life, I had died. In my first life, Chloe's death destroyed David. My adopted son, Mark, along with Chloe's sisters, Olivia and Sophia, exploited his grief with ruthless precision. They drugged him, siphoned off his inheritance, and bled my company dry. When I finally saw the truth, it was too late. I confronted them, but they came for me that night. Mark, the boy I raised, ended my life with a tire iron. Then, darkness. And then, light. I woke up three months before my own murder, given a second chance. The doting father was dead, replaced by a man forged in betrayal. This time, I wouldn't just protect my son; I would dismantle their schemes piece by piece. When Chloe's fake death notice arrived, I felt only cold resolve. The game had just begun. And this time, I knew all the rules.

For six years, I was the loyal, grateful boyfriend, constantly working to keep Nicole, the "it girl" every guy wanted, by my side. I tolerated her college ex, Ryan, a trust-fund musician who always lingered, a constant source of anxiety and a recurring fight. Tonight, at a packed Super Bowl party, the simmering tension exploded. As I watched from across the room, Ryan, his arm draped casually over her, leaned in and kissed her-a deep, dramatic, movie-style kiss-right in front of everyone. The room fell silent. Every single person turned to stare at me, their faces a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity, waiting for my usual explosion. But the expected rage, the desperate plea, the furious fight? None of it came. I felt nothing but a strange, hollow calm. How could the woman I' d spent six years trying to keep, the love that defined my adult life, betray me so openly without a flicker of remorse? How could I have been so utterly blind? Instead of screaming, I raised my beer bottle in a mock toast, a deadpan smile on my face. "Encore!" My love for her, which had fueled my world for so long, had just died. The tank was finally, completely empty. Now, it was time to reclaim my life.

Eight months pregnant, I cradled my swollen belly, anticipating the miracle baby conceived after years of grueling IVF treatments and countless tear-soaked nights. But the scent of barbecue smoke suddenly morphed into burning truth when I overheard my husband Mark' s chilling confession from the patio. He' d feigned my infertility, using me as a mere vessel to carry his mistress Jessica' s child, planning to discard me once his "perfect" blueprint was complete. My world shattered as I understood: my baby was Jessica' s, my love a lie, my body a grotesque incubator in his twisted scheme. That night, Mark drugged me, then, with Jessica and his friends, they violated my unconscious form, gleefully filming my humiliation and sharing it online. As I hemorrhaged and lost the pregnancy, they casually dismissed my pleas, leaving me bleeding and broken, just another inconvenient piece of furniture in their sick game. The dehumanizing assault, the profound betrayal, and the agonizing loss of the child that had only ever been a pawn, ignited a cold, clear rage inside me. How could the man who promised me a family inflict such calculated, monstrous cruelty, turning my deepest desires into instruments of my degradation? Lying naked, covered in my own blood, as their mockery echoed, I realized they hadn' t just broken me; they had inadvertently forged me into an unyielding weapon. They thought they had stripped me of everything, but they had just given me a very specific, unbreakable purpose: to systematically dismantle their lives, piece by excruciating piece.

My family's beloved Majestic movie theater was facing foreclosure, a legacy crumbling after my father's passing. I, Amelia Hayes, an aspiring screenwriter, had one desperate shot: get my script noticed. Then, a powerful Hollywood producer, Marcus Thorne, offered a lifeline: "Be my companion, and your theater is saved." I fell for his charm, mistaking grand gestures for genuine affection. But his A-list ex-fiancée, Victoria Sinclair, reappeared, instantly making it clear I was nothing but a temporary distraction, a pawn in Marcus’s desperate game to win Victoria back. Victoria orchestrated cruel tests, and Marcus consistently chose her, culminating in him publicly abandoning me at a gala. She moved into his home, humiliating me, then framed me for an attack, leading Marcus to lock me in his wine cellar without question. Later, at a public university event, he looked straight at me and coldly denied knowing me. The humiliation, the betrayal, the objectification—how could I have been so foolish, so disposable? Every "affectionate" moment had been a calculated lie, designed to make Victoria jealous. The man I thought I loved had used me, broken me, then discarded me. Enough was enough. I wouldn't be his pawn any longer. I sent him a final, defiant message, severed all ties, and left for Paris, determined to reclaim my dignity, heal my heart, and write my own story, far from the gilded cage of Hollywood.

Only when Yena was about to lose her life did she learned her sister's true color and the fact that the one she truly loved was that arrogant man, who died with her. Her life took another round and she had already learned the lesson from her previous life. This time, she would try her best to love the man better, who always took her in the first place no matter what. He was hers and nobody could take him away from her.

I didn't mean to call my boss. I definitely didn't mean to leave a seven-minute voicemail of dirty secrets about him. Working for Ruslan Oryolov is the job from hell. The man is impossible-demanding, arrogant, and way too gorgeous for his own good. After eighteen months of fetching his coffee and swallowing my pride, all I wanted was one night of stress relief. But the billionaire CEO of Bane Corporation isn't just a boss from hell. He's the head of the Oryolov Bratva-and now that he's heard every secret I never meant to share, he's decided to claim me. His contract. His rules. His protection for my three orphaned nieces and nephews-the only reason I'm signing my life away to a man I should fear. He owns my signature. He owns my safety. Now he wants my soul.

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

"You've been in denial for so long, Addison." His voice was husky and heavy with lust. "Do you really want me to stop?" I could not bring myself to say no. My best friend's stepdad was like the devil, making me find so much pleasure in sin. "You can't even say no," he chuckled, letting go of my hand finally. They moved to my face and he stared into my eyes, while his other hand still worked wonders between my legs. "Don't make me do this," I finally said, moaning the words out. "Please." "Tell me to stop one more time and I will," he mumbled. "Please, st-" I didn't complete my words because he captured my lips with his. *+*+*+*+*+*+* Addison Rodriguez never expected to feel any sexual tension or fall in love with her best friend's stepdad. As she surrenders to the sexual tension, her loyalty to her best friend wavers, especially when she finds out that he is secretly a Mafia Lord trying to hide in plain sight and that her best friend's life is in danger, her loyalty is tested even further. Would she reveal his secret to protect her best friend, or keep it to protect her love?

I was the perfect Mafia wife, my dowry the foundation of my husband's ambition. I paid for his Yale degree, his tailored suits, and the very mansion he called his own. My reward? He paraded his mistress into my bedroom and declared her his second wife, expecting me to silently finance their affair. They thought they had broken a merchant's daughter. They forgot I was raised by wolves. Armed with a blood chit—a life debt owed to my family by the most feared man in Chicago—I walked into the lion's den. I went to Damien 'The Wraith' Falcone, the Dark Don who rules the Outfit with an iron fist, to demand a simple annulment. But the King of Chicago isn't interested in simple transactions. He saw the steel beneath my silk, the vendetta burning in my eyes. He granted me my freedom, but at a price: my allegiance. Now, I'm a pawn in his lethal game of thrones, caught between a treacherous husband I swore to destroy and a ruthless Don who looks at me with a terrifying, possessive hunger. In a city built on loyalty and betrayal, I'm about to teach them all that a queen's wrath is the deadliest weapon of all.

"You're leaving," Lorenzo said softly. Ivy straightened her spine and raised her chin. "I am. I'm getting out of this place even if it means climbing over the front gates. I can't stay here anymore. I'm leaving!" "You can't," Lorenzo said flatly. "Not now." "Watch me," Ivy hissed, brushing past him. Lorenzo stepped in her way and grabbed her by the arms-not roughly, but firmly. "I mean it, Ivy. You can't leave," he said tightly. She struggled against his grip, her bag falling to the floor with a thud. "Let me go, Lorenzo! I don't belong here. This place is insane. Your family is insane!" "You belong to me," he said sharply, eyes burning into hers. "And it's my job to protect what's mine." "I don't want to be yours," Ivy cried. "I want to be free! I want to live!" Something shifted in Lorenzo's face. He looked at her then, not as an obligation, not as a pawn, but as a person. A frightened, strong, beautiful woman who had been caught in a storm she never asked for. And something in him cracked. Lorenzo reached down and cupped her face with both hands. Ivy flinched at first but didn't pull away. His thumbs wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks. "I never wanted to hurt you," he said quietly. Her lower lip trembled. "Then let me go..." "I can't," he whispered. And then, without thinking, he leaned in and kissed her. *************** Ivy Wesley believed that marrying a wealthy stranger would be her golden escape from a life of struggle. Lorenzo Martinelli was supposed to be her way out: her fresh start, her answer to every prayer whispered in the dark. But the moment the mansion doors shut behind her, Ivy understood the truth. She hadn't stepped into a fairy tale. She had walked straight into the lion's den. The whispers about the Martinelli family's ties to the Mafia aren't just rumors; they're real, and now Ivy is bound to them by a ring on her finger and secrets she can never unlearn. There is no undoing this choice. No clean exit. Not after what she's seen. Not after what she knows. Surrounded by dangerous alliances, ruthless power plays, and truths sharp enough to draw blood, Ivy finds herself caught in a world where trust is a luxury and loyalty can be lethal. Yet in the middle of the chaos, something even more unexpected takes root: a love she never planned for, never prepared for, and may not survive. Now Ivy faces an impossible choice: run while she still can, or stand her ground beside the man who could destroy her as easily as he protects her. In a world where betrayal lurks behind every polished smile and devotion can cost a life, can their love endure... or will it be the very thing that brings everything crashing down?

I made my living playing background piano in underground speakeasies to pay off my fugitive father’s blood debt. Tonight, I had exactly ten seconds to make sure my floor-length velvet gown completely concealed the fact that I no longer had legs. The VIP doors swung open, and the most ruthless mafia Don in the city walked in—Killian Vitiello, the boy I loved a decade ago. He didn't know my legs were crushed by rival soldiers on the very night he took his blood oath. Instead of a reunion, he pulled a beautiful woman in a red silk dress to his side and coldly introduced her as his fiancée. "The rumors of you being a desperate opportunist at least explain why you vanished without a word," he sneered, looking at my threadbare clothes. He publicly disavowed my existence to the entire underworld, leaving me to be hunted by rival factions. While he built his empire, I was crawling in the freezing rain to reattach my heavy metal prosthetic, watching my mother descend into fatal madness from our crushing poverty. I swallowed the bitter ash of my ruined life and let him believe I was a traitorous gold digger. I would rather he hate me forever than let my mutilated body become a fatal weakness to his throne. So, after my mother died, I packed a single bag and fled the country to disappear for good. But I didn't know that on the very day I left, Killian kicked down the door of an illicit underground clinic and finally opened my ten-year-old medical file.

For three months, I thought I was the only woman who knew Fabiano’s soul. Then he saw my face — and decided I was worth less than the check he slid across the table. But it was all a clerical error. When we finally met and he saw my plain face, he realized I wasn't the glamorous mafia princess he thought he was talking to. He immediately severed our connection and forced me to help him court her instead, promising a blank check to save my dying grandmother from loan sharks in return. I swallowed my pride and did everything he asked. When my grandmother suddenly needed immediate brain surgery to survive the night, I crashed his VIP party to cash in his promise. Fabiano wrote the check, but his new princess snatched it, poured red wine all over the paper, and threw it in the trash. "You are a jealous, pathetic leech. You are nothing," she spat, laughing in my face. I stood there with my hand frozen in the empty air, looking at Fabiano. The man who once swore he would burn down the city for me just sat there on the leather sofa, watching in complete silence as my grandmother's only lifeline was destroyed. The foolish warmth I carried for him instantly died. I turned around, walked out into the freezing rain, and got into the armored SUV of his biggest rival. This time, I wouldn't beg for scraps; I was going to build my own empire.

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up. As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress. The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me. The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one. With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered. I chose the one man they never expected. I chose his father, the Don himself.