Yanchi Jinzhan

I fell in love with Michael, my adoptive uncle, after he took me in following my mother' s death and my father' s arrest. He was my entire world for a decade. Then, at my adoptive grandfather's funeral, paparazzi caught us, fabricating an illicit affair that drove my godmother, Linda, to suicide. To "atone," Michael married me, turning our home into a gilded cage. By day, I copied scriptures; by night, I was a nameless body in darkness. He forced eighteen abortions, the last nearly killing me. His voice, cold as ice, dismissed my dying plea for our baby. He hated me. He blamed me for Linda' s death, and I, in my final moments, believed him. It was all my fault. I woke up. It was the day of my adoptive grandfather' s funeral again. Not this time. This time, I wouldn' t be his hindrance, or the cause of his true love' s demise. I would ensure Linda and Michael had their happy ending, even if it meant my own ruin.

Olivia Clark, an art student, found paint a permanent part of her life, just like her love for Liam Harrison, a charming musician she believed was from modest means. She scrimped and saved every penny from multiple odd jobs, not for herself, but to buy him an expensive artificial cochlear implant for his supposed congenital hearing loss. Their love bloomed in a secret, dusty studio, a world known only to them. But one night, while working a dishwashing shift, Olivia saw Liam flashing a platinum credit card, buying drinks for friends-a bill easily topping six figures. Then, from an adjacent room, she overheard a conversation that shattered her world: Liam was no struggling musician but a billionaire heir, using her as a pawn in a cruel game to make her wealthy friend Chloe jealous. The man she loved, the man for whom she sacrificed everything, was merely playing her. The words, crude and mocking, hit her like a physical blow. They spoke of her as a "cheap piece of trash," a disposable "maid." Liam, silent, let them tear her down. Her hand, cut and bleeding, became a stark reflection of her internal wounds. The truth, once a blinding light, now felt like a draining life force. How could she have been so blind? How could the man who whispered promises of marriage and a good life be so utterly heartless? Had his "love" always been a performance, a twisted game? The realization that he had seen her as nothing more than an insignificant extra, a freebie in his pursuit of Chloe, left her with a chilling emptiness. With a newfound resolve, Olivia pulled out her phone. "I've made up my mind," she told her academic advisor, her voice firm. "I'm going to Europe." She was leaving, not just a place, but a past built on lies, ready to forge a new future, free from his deception.

The elevator jolted, groaned, and then stopped. My breath hitched as the lights flickered and died, plunging me into absolute darkness and the icy grip of claustrophobia. Frantic, I called my husband, David, for help, certain he' d be my rescuer. Instead, his voice, impatient and dismissive, carried the faint sound of music and a woman' s laughter – Ashley, his young assistant. "Look, Sarah, I can' t right now," he said, explaining he was taking Ashley, who was faking a cold, to get medicine. He chose his assistant over his wife, gasping for air and pleading for help. Then he hung up. When I finally escaped the elevator an hour later, something broke inside me, but it wasn't my spirit. That night, I watched him from the doorway, listening as he mocked me to his friends, assuring them I was dependent and would "come around." The next day, a photo of him and Ashley, radiating false happiness, appeared on his social media, captioned, "So grateful for my ray of sunshine." My colleagues whispered, friends called, but there was no anger, only a profound sense of release. He saw me as pathetic and dependent, a puzzle he'd already solved, but he was wrong. I packed my bags, every folded shirt a step away from him, and called the one person who still saw me as Sarah-bug. "Can I come home?" I asked, tears of relief finally falling.

"Let' s get a divorce, Victoria." It was our fifth wedding anniversary, and for the ninety-ninth time, I heard those flat, bored words from my wife, Victoria, as she dismissed me for real estate analytics on her tablet. But then, she lowered the tablet, her beautiful, cold face mocking me: "Besides, I can' t leave you right now. I' ve been poisoned." She claimed a "love charm" from Thailand made her obsessed with her assistant, Ryan, who was the only one who could "cure" her. She then presented me with an absurdly expensive watch for our anniversary, a symbol of "loyalty," before calmly asking me to move out so Ryan could move in for his "treatment." Then, I saw it: my late mother' s cherished cashmere scarf, a symbol of my last tender memory, wrapped smugly around Ryan' s neck. It was the final cut, twisting the knife in a wound I thought was numb. "No," I said, the word startling even myself. I walked into a gleaming skyscraper, ready to resign, only to be told Victoria' s signature was required. She made me kneel in a crowded, high-end restaurant, forcing me to publicly declare I wasn' t good enough for her, just to sign my resignation. I did it. I walked out feeling nothing but a grim sense of victory, clutching the signed paper. Then, the world shattered when news reports surfaced, not from my new life, but of her erratic behavior, even assaulting someone who spoke ill of me. My phone rang, "Northwood Police Department." Victoria had filed a missing person' s report. She had found me. "She' s on her way to your office now, sir," the officer said, "We' re sending a car over as a precaution, just to keep the peace." My new life, so carefully built, was crumbling before my eyes because Victoria couldn' t stand to lose control. What would I do?

The sharp sound of a key in my own front door jolted me awake on Thanksgiving night. It wasn't my key, and it certainly wasn't my hand. My boyfriend Matthew' s mother burst in, unleashing a tirade about me not cooking Thanksgiving dinner, followed by Matthew himself, reeking of alcohol. Instead of intervening, Matthew demanded an apology from me, then shockingly slapped me across the face. He proceeded to violently drag me by my hair, throwing me out of my own apartment and deadbolting the door. When the police arrived, Matthew and his mother effortlessly played the victims, painting me as an unstable, dramatic girlfriend. He then cornered me, his face inches from mine, threatening to ruin my career if I dared to show the security footage of his abuse. The officers, buying their act hook, line, and sinker, dismissed it as a "family dispute," leaving me alone, violated, and trapped with my abusers while they smirked in victory. Bruised, humiliated, and utterly betrayed, trapped in my apartment with the very man who just assaulted me, I knew I had to escape this nightmare. That' s when I decided, the moment I get out, I would call the only person who could truly help me: my father, Harrison Johns.

Sarah Miller, a struggling widow in a dying Rust Belt town, clung to one fragile hope: her brilliant daughter Lily's full-ride STEM scholarship to Caltech. It was their ticket out, a future her late war hero husband, David, would have wanted. Then, David' s seemingly helpful brother, Rich-a man Sarah always mistrusted-offered to "streamline" Lily' s scholarship application process. But instead of the acceptance Lily deserved, a thin rejection letter arrived, quickly followed by a public announcement: Rich' s academically mediocre stepson, Chad, had won the exact same prestigious scholarship. When Sarah confronted Rich at his lavish party, he sneered, publicly shaming Lily and accusing Sarah of seeking handouts. In a vile display, he snatched David's revered Distinguished Service Cross, flinging it to the ground where it shattered, scattering the emblems of her husband's ultimate sacrifice like garbage. As Chad mocked Lily with his acceptance letter, Sarah' s grief turned to a cold, burning rage. This wasn't just about a stolen scholarship; it was a desecration, a profound insult to David' s honor and Lily' s future. How could family betray them so cruelly? Then, a forgotten memory resurfaced: David' s words, "If you ever face an injustice so great, contact General Peterson. He' ll remember me. He' ll help." Clutching David's broken medals, Sarah told Lily, "Pack a bag. We' re going to Washington." Their fight for justice had just begun.

A minor car crash on the way home, just a fender bender, and that's when a wild idea sparked in my mind. I decided to prank my boyfriend, Michael, by feigning amnesia. "And who are you?" I asked, feigning confusion, waiting for him to play along. Instead, his charming smile faltered, replaced by a calculating glint I'd never seen. He pulled out his phone, dialed his friend Alex, and whispered, "Sarah hit her head. She' s got amnesia. You're Liam, her boyfriend. I'm Mark, your best friend." My breath hitched. Then, I overheard him lower his voice, "Tiffany's already texting me. She' s so much less drama than Sarah, so high-maintenance." My heart hammered with a sickening lurch. I was just a discarded game piece, a convenient escape for him to run off with my own sorority sister. His betrayal was swift and brutal, a public humiliation he orchestrated with chilling ease. But as I played along, Michael' s supposed "pawn," Alex, treated me with an unexpected, gentle kindness that completely contradicted everything Michael had said. He didn't act like someone who found me boring. He saw me, defended me, and his eyes held a depth Michael' s never had. Was this simply a cruel charade, or was there an unexpected truth hidden within this deception? They thought I was a puppet, easily manipulated and rendered clueless. They had no idea. If Michael wanted to play a game, I decided then and there, I would play too – but by my rules, and I would expose every single one of their lies.

The music was too loud, the crowd too thick. Then came the screams, the smell of smoke, the fire. My body moved to save Chloe, a reflex from a past life I shouldn't remember, a life where her disgust and obsession with her childhood crush, Ethan, had led to my suicide. But then the cruel memories flooded back: Chloe, my girlfriend, reaching for Ethan Hayes amidst the chaos, screaming his name. I tried to pull her away, but she shrieked, yanking free, choosing him. I let her go. Her mother publicly shamed me. Chloe and Ethan, now campus heroes, revelled in their 'tragic romance,' while my life became a living hell. Then came the bombshell: Ethan was my estranged father's illegitimate son, and they both waltzed into my exclusive robotics lab, orchestrated by him. They framed me, painted me as the jealous ex, leading to my suspension. Why was history repeating, yet so much worse? I was the villain, they the victims, but I knew their twisted truth. Chloe's calculated manipulation, Ethan's cruel games, my father's puppetry – this wasn't just heartbreak; it was a setup designed to ruin me. My past life's pain was a shield now, a brutal teacher. But they underestimated me. I'd been here before. This time, my eyes were wide open. A discreet security camera, a digital recorder-their every lie, their every malicious move, would be exposed. My life would be different. It had to be. I wouldn't be their fool again.

Kate, a top coroner from the twenty-second century, had landed the exciting opportunity of time traveling. She went back in time as a sexy cheerleader, a completely different persona than her original one. In all the books that she had read, the heroine would meet all kinds of charming, handsome men, who would fall in love with her and try to sweep her off her feet. But what kind of guys did she meet? The impassive Alexander. The effeminate Justin. The aloof Mike. The cold Lucas... With such unfavorable choices, would she ever find her Mr. Right? Find out in Live Twice, Love Once

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.

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.

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.