Zhu Xiaying

I had been locked in a freezing cellar for three days, starving and waiting for my husband, Marco, to save me. Instead, the iron door opened to reveal his mistress holding a toddler with Marco's exact face. Marco wasn't sterile like he had claimed for years. He just wanted my De Luca family trust funds. With my husband watching coldly, his mistress and a corrupt doctor pinned me to the concrete floor. "We're going to carve you up until you're unrecognizable, then throw you in the lake," she laughed. The most chilling part wasn't the affair. It was the realization that my mother-in-law, the mafia matriarch I had served faithfully for three years, had personally signed my death warrant to save their crumbling empire. The scalpel sliced deep into my cheek, permanently destroying my face as warm blood poured down my neck. I had given them everything. I used my family's money to pay off his secret gambling debts and endured endless insults about being a barren wife, only to realize the entire family viewed me as nothing but a pig to be slaughtered for cash. In the suffocating darkness, I didn't pray for mercy. I swore a blood oath. I didn't die in that cellar. Saved by a legendary rival boss, I stood outside the Falcone estate three weeks later. I pushed open the heavy oak doors to my own memorial service, the jagged red scar on my face silencing the hall. "I'm afraid your plans to inherit my estate will have to be postponed," I smiled at my terrified husband.

For years, I played the role of the fragile, fading wife in the Garrison dynasty, a "little doll" who looked like she’d break if the wind blew too hard. My husband, Augustus, treated me like a piece of inconvenient furniture, while his volatile nephew, Brandon, stalked me like a predator in the shadows. Everything shattered during a family brunch when Augustus’s mistress, Gilda, lounged in his shirt and announced she was pregnant with the Garrison heir. Instead of hiding his shame, my husband beamed with pride and slid a thick manila envelope across the table in front of his gloating parents. "We need to make room for the family, Avery," he said coldly, "and you’re barren." His mother laughed, calling me a "worthless asset" who provided no value to the lineage. They offered me fifty million dollars to disappear—a pathetic pittance for a man worth over four billion. I let a single, perfect tear fall, playing the part of the defeated, broken woman they all expected me to be. They didn't see the cold calculation behind my watery eyes or know that I had spent three years documenting every illegal insider trade and offshore account Augustus owned. I didn't just sign the papers; I walked into the final settlement meeting in a sharp black suit and shredded their offer in front of their faces. I demanded two billion dollars in cash and controlling voting shares, threatening to hand the SEC the evidence that would send Augustus to federal prison for life. As he lunged at me in a blind rage, realization dawning that he had underestimated me, I leaned in and whispered the final blow. I told him about the box of condoms in his nightstand and the silver needle I used to ensure Gilda got pregnant. "I gave you exactly what you wanted, Augustus," I smiled as I walked out with half his empire. "And in exchange, I got my freedom."

I spent three weeks scrubbing carbonized grease off woks at the Jade Garden, hiding my elite tactical training behind raw knuckles and a practiced, submissive stutter. My mission was the only thing keeping me sane: finding my sister, Elena, who vanished into thin air after her phone last pinged near the city’s Restricted Sector. The breakthrough came when my boss, a bully named Uncle Wong, forced me to take a delivery to 101 Blackwood Drive—a high-security fortress where the drivers whispered that people went in and never came back right. It was a geographic match for Elena's last known location, but as I rode my battered scooter toward the massive steel gates, I realized I wasn't just investigating a lead; I was walking into a spider's web. The mansion was a monolith of cold concrete and military-grade surveillance, owned by Hugh Bradford, a billionaire who controlled the city’s elite like puppets. During my delivery, the magnetic locks hissed shut, the lights died, and I was plunged into absolute darkness with a predator who didn't want my money. Bradford pinned me against a stainless steel counter and did something unthinkable: he sank his teeth into my shoulder, using the rhythm of my frantic pulse to anchor his own fractured mind. I escaped with a bruised neck and a thousand-dollar "tip," feeling the crushing weight of his violation and the terrifying realization that my "clumsy immigrant" act hadn't fooled him for a second. I didn't understand why a man of his power would treat a delivery girl like a biological drug, or what he had done to the other girls who had vanished behind those black glass walls. My heart hammered against my ribs as I realized I was being hunted by a man who could buy and sell my life a thousand times over. "You're terrified," he had whispered in the dark, and for the first time in years, I wasn't faking it. Back in my apartment, I found a note tucked inside the cash that confirmed my worst fears: "For the inconvenience. See you Tuesday." He thinks he’s found a new toy to play with, but he just gave me the one thing I needed to find my sister—an invitation to go back inside and finish what I started.

I was dying in a rusted warehouse, paralyzed in a wheelchair while the man I loved and my own stepsister watched with smiles on their faces. The air smelled of old oil and damp concrete, and my vision was fading into a milky haze. Dillon, the man I’d sacrificed everything for, smoothed his custom suit and pulled out a syringe filled with a clear, lethal neurotoxin. Beside him, my stepsister Bianca toyed with my mother’s sapphire ring—the one they’d just pried off my hand while I was too weak to even make a fist. She leaned in and whispered that my father’s trust fund was already offshore and that they’d sent my husband, Kade, to the wrong coordinates to ensure he’d only find my corpse. Dillon slid the needle into my vein with the chilling efficiency of a man who had done this before. "This will stop your heart in thirty seconds," he said, sounding as bored as if he were explaining a tax form. Ice flooded my chest, and my lungs seized, fighting for oxygen that wasn't there. As the warehouse lights blurred into white streaks, an explosion echoed in the distance. Kade had come for me, but he was too late. I died staring at the ceiling, my heart giving one last violent kick of pure, unadulterated hatred. I had been such a fool, believing Dillon’s lies and running away from the only man who actually cared for me. I died with a single thought: if I ever get another chance, I will drag you both to hell with me. Then, there was nothing. And then, there was air. I sat up gasping, my silk pajamas drenched in cold sweat. The rusted beams were gone, replaced by a vaulted ceiling and the glittering Manhattan skyline. I grabbed the digital clock on the nightstand—it was five years ago, the exact night I first tried to run away with Dillon. The bedroom door slammed against the wall, and Kade Mullen stood in the doorway, looking dangerous, furious, and very much alive. I looked at my shaking hands, then at the man I had once hated. This time, I wasn't going to run. I was going to make sure Dillon and Bianca lost everything.

I gave up my architectural career and used my family's fortune to build my husband Jace's empire. I thought we were a power couple, but I came home to find him intimately comforting another woman-Brenna, the pregnant fiancée of his late partner, who he'd moved into our home without my consent. When I confronted them, Brenna deliberately smashed my priceless, century-old family heirloom watch. In a blind rage, I slapped her. But instead of defending me, his wife, Jace violently shoved me to the floor. My head hit the hard marble, the physical pain nothing compared to the shock of his betrayal. He stood over me, his face twisted with fury, protecting her. "Don't you ever lay a hand on her!" he roared. He had put his hands on me. For her. In that moment, all the love I had for him died, replaced by a cold, burning rage. He had taken my dreams, my family's money, and now my dignity. I picked up my phone and made a single call. "Father," I whispered, my voice shaking. "It's over. And I want him ruined."

This was the ninety-ninth time I caught my husband, Chase Vargas, with another woman in our five-year marriage. I stood in the hotel doorway, numb, tired of the cheap perfume and his cold, familiar eyes. But this time, his mistress, a blonde woman, hissed, "He told me all about you. The pathetic wife he's stuck with because of some business deal. He said he can't stand the sight of you." Her words, meant to hurt, were things I already knew, things Chase had made sure I understood. Still, hearing them from a stranger felt like a new humiliation. She lunged, scratching my face, drawing blood. The sting was a surprising jolt in my numb world. I wrote her a check, a routine part of this pathetic scene. Then my phone rang. It was Chase, calling from across the room. "What are you doing? Are you making a scene? Clean it up and get out. You're embarrassing." He thought I had orchestrated this, that I was the embarrassing one. The betrayal was casual, complete. "I'm tired, Chase," I said, the words finally coming from a place I thought had died. "I want a divorce." He laughed, a cruel sound. "A divorce? Elena, don't be ridiculous. You love me too much to ever leave me." I hung up. He then handed me a signed divorce agreement, telling me his true love, June, my adopted sister, was back. He wanted me to play the dutiful wife for her welcome-home concert. My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, felt a final, crushing blow. He wasn't divorcing me because I wanted it. He was divorcing me for her. I signed the papers. The ninety-ninth time was the last time he would do this to me.

I stood frozen in my doorway, staring at the live security feed. It showed my fiancée, Clara, in the secret room she called her "sensitive PR work" space. She was straddling a man, wearing the nightgown I' d bought her. The man was Ryan Hayes, my childhood friend, supposedly dead for three years, now reduced to a vegetative state, hooked up to humming medical machines. My mind reeled. She was having sex with his body. This couldn' t be happening. We were getting married in ten days. She was perfect. Then it all clicked: the "accident" where Ryan attacked me, my mother' s death, Clara nursing me back to health, and my sister Sophia's comforting words, all became a twisted façade. I remembered overhearing Clara and Sophia talking about a "host," a "target," and something called "the system." They needed my signature on the pre-nup, which had a voluntary organ donation clause. My money and my organs were to be used to revive Ryan. My own sister, who had mourned my mother with me, was helping Clara execute this horrifying plan. The women I trusted most had orchestrated this elaborate lie, turning me into a walking bank account and a collection of spare parts for the man who killed my mother. When Sophia texted Clara, "He's home," Clara's passionate façade vanished, replaced by cold calculation, as she adjusted herself before emerging from the room. Later, Clara tried to manipulate me with an expensive watch, dismissing my suggestion to postpone the wedding on the anniversary of my mom's death. Her tone was dismissive, blaming my mother's "weak heart" for her death. Then Sophia, my own sister, threatened me when I expressed my anger at Ryan. I realized I was merely a pawn in their twisted game, destined for sacrifice once my utility ran out. My world shattered. I was nothing but a placeholder, a donor. The casual way they plotted my death, discussing staging an "accident," turning my heart, kidneys, and liver into a "miracle" for Ryan, filled me with a cold, clear rage. A text from my private investigator, "Flight confirmed. You have seven days," finalized my growing resolve. I would turn their perfect plan into their worst nightmare.

As the campus radio station manager, my life was a comfortable, soundproofed bubble of classes and curated playlists, far from the chaotic drama of campus life. I liked it that way. That afternoon, a guy from the drama club borrowed our equipment for a "big, romantic event" on the quad. I thought nothing of it until my phone buzzed with Sarah's frantic shriek: "It's Liam Hayes! He's proposing to Chloe Miller!" The world stopped. Liam. My secret, pathetic daydream. Proposing to Chloe, the confident English major everyone knew was determined to make him hers. And I had handed him the very tools for my own heartbreak. "No!" I whispered, but Sarah' s voice chirped, "Yes! He's got a microphone and everything!" Our microphone. A terrible, insane idea formed as I sprinted to the quad, lungs burning, heart hammering. I had to stop it. Not for him to magically choose me, but because I couldn't let my station' s gear broadcast the end of my foolish hopes. Pushing through the crowd, I zeroed in on our speaker, the master volume. My hand trembled, but then my traitorous heart screamed, "I like him so much it hurts." A horrific screech of feedback erupted, followed by my amplified confession, booming across the entire quad. Silence. A thousand eyes swiveled to me, still outstretched, my fingers accidentally on the talkback button. I had just confessed my deepest crush to the entire campus. To Liam Hayes. My blood ran cold; my life, as I knew it, was over.

My role as Ethan Stone' s fiancée was over the moment his childhood sweetheart, Scarlett Hayes, returned. He didn't just break off our engagement; he publicly humiliated me, declaring I was never his fiancée, but merely a "helper." At a party held to welcome Scarlett back, he pointed at me, accusing me of owing him a "karma debt." He forced me to crawl and retrieve a rose with my teeth, like a dog, for his new love. The next day, he made me sing children' s songs on a pedestal in his company lobby for an hour. I didn't understand why he was so cruel, or why I felt a searing pain in my chest with each public humiliation. But amidst the shame and growing physical agony, I had a secret. I was no ordinary woman, and my purpose wasn't to be his plaything. My only goal was to fulfill a "Causal Agreement" -a hundred favors for him, to balance a debt owed not to him, but to the universe. Only then could I finally go home.

I' ve loved Liam O' Connell since I was sixteen, a secret crush that deepened into an all-consuming love for my deceased brother Jake' s best friend. For eight long years, he saw me as nothing more than Jake' s kid sister, a responsibility he honored by keeping me at arm' s length, even when my heart ached for more. He gave me his "blessing" when I, heartbroken and exhausted, agreed to marry Ethan-a kind, safe man I hoped would help me finally move on. But then Jake' s hidden journal surfaced, revealing the truth: my brother hadn' t wanted Liam to push me away; he' d wanted us together. Liam' s noble sacrifice was a lie he' d told himself, and me, for a decade. Just as I tried to build a new life, Liam came back, sweeping in with desperate confessions and grand gestures, pulling me back into the chaos I' d tried so hard to escape. Then Olivia, his conniving business partner, arrived, flaunting their "relationship" like a weapon and brutally sabotaging everything I built. I watched as my dreams, my carefully constructed peace, and my deepest desires were twisted into a public scandal, fueled by the very man I couldn' t stop loving. The betrayal, the public humiliation, and the sheer audacity of it all left me fuming, trapped in a nightmare of his making. But I refused to be a victim any longer. This wasn't just about my broken heart; it was about reclaiming my life, my passion, and proving to him-and to myself-that I was no longer a girl to be protected, but a force to be reckoned with.

The first sign something was wrong wasn't a fight, but a cheerful Chime-Chime-Pop from my sister Lily' s phone, a sound I' d never heard before, buzzing with secrets during family dinner. Later, while I painstakingly helped Lily with her biology homework-a subject I'd aced, she struggled with-that same chime rang out again, punctuated by her casual lie: "Just Mom." But Mom's text tone was different, and the metallic taste of a familiar coldness spread through me as my suspicion grew. Then, Lily giggled, phone in hand: "Dad just sent that meme of the cat freaking out. He said it' s you trying to explain biology to me." My blood ran cold as I watched her oblivious smile; the pieces clicked with sickening finality. A secret group chat – "Family Trio" – Mom, Dad, and Lily-bug. Not me. The next morning, armed with a lie and an opportune request for a bakery address, I unlocked my mother's phone with Lily's birthday, and there it was: "Family Trio", pinned at the top. Hundreds of messages, photos of trips I knew nothing about, jokes about my "seriousness," complaints about my work schedule, and coordinating their financial demands: "Had to give Chloe another hundred bucks for her books. When does she start paying us back?" "Don' t forget, Chloe, we need you to chip in for the property tax bill next month. It' s a big one." The betrayal was absolute; I was their ATM, used and discarded. My hands trembling, but with chilling clarity, I screenshot every piece of their casual cruelty, a digital archive of their deceit, then wiped every trace. The confrontation shattered the illusion of family, the truth pouring out like acid, exposing years of neglect and manipulation. My father' s icy threat, "If you' re so unhappy here, Chloe, maybe you should think about finding somewhere else to live," was the undeniable proof. This wasn' t a misunderstanding; it was their nature. I felt a devastating clarity: I was utterly and completely alone in that house, a burden to be cast off. Then came the final demand: two thousand dollars for Lily' s car, almost my entire escape fund. I transferred the money, a piece of my soul, but this was the last time, the last dollar. I was getting out and no one was going to stop me.

I had everything planned for the Starlight Foundation Gala. A new suit for me, a tiny dress for our daughter, Lily, and a stunning gown for my wife, Scarlett Hayes. Lily was buzzing, clutching her dress. "Daddy, is Mommy coming with us?" she asked, her eyes wide with hope. Then the call. Scarlett' s voice, cold and distant: "Promises can be broken when a career is on the line." She hung up, leaving Lily's hopeful gaze to dim into familiar sadness. My heart sank, but I vowed she wouldn' t ruin another night for our daughter. Later, at the glittering gala, the host introduced a woman who represented "family, success, and pure talent." My blood froze. Scarlett She emerged, radiant, on stage. But not alone. Jake Peterson, her ex, held her hand. And a boy, Lily' s age, held his. The host gushed, "Scarlett, you and your partner Jake are an inspiration! How do you balance such a successful career with being such a devoted mother and partner?" Scarlett laughed, looking at Jake. "It's all about priorities. They are my world." My world. The words echoed, a punch to my gut. Lily whispered, "Daddy, why is Mommy with them? Who is that little boy?" Rage, cold and sharp, cut through my shock. This wasn' t a last-minute shoot. This was a calculated, public betrayal. I stood up, ready to confront her, my daughter clutching my jacket. "Scarlett." I demanded, "Who are these people? What is this?" Her brief panic vanished. "I have no idea who you are," she said, dripping with false sympathy. "Security, please escort this man and the child out. He's scaring my son." The crowd erupted, jeering at me. My wife had erased us. As guards moved in, her lips formed two silent words: "The clause." Then my phone buzzed. A text from Scarlett: "This is for the show. Play along." A bitter laugh escaped me. Play along? No. She had chosen fame over family, a lie over love. She had crossed a line. And I was no longer heartbroken. I was resolved. She wanted a scene? I would give her a war. I would burn her fake world to the ground.

My third wedding anniversary. Three years of a dead bedroom, feeling like the king-sized bed was an ocean between us. I tried, again. "Tori, honey?" Her eyes, usually cool blue, turned to ice. "What do you want, Ethan? If you're that desperate, there are apps for that." Her words cut deep. Pathetic. Desperate. That night, I found her moaning another man's name – my "brother" Blake Hudson. Then, on her unlocked phone, I saw the truth: a group chat where she gloated about using me for a major real estate deal, planning to dump me for Blake after securing the "Hudson-Sterling alliance." My world shattered. But their betrayal had only just begun. The next day, I was dragged to a fertility clinic. "We need to ensure the bloodlines continue, efficiently," Tori sneered, her voice dripping with disgust at the thought of truly mixing her DNA with mine. They forced me into a chair, injected me with a sedative, treating me like a breeding animal. When I woke, they showed me five viable embryos, created against my will. Five lives, forged in deceit. How could someone I loved, someone I thought was my wife, do this? Why was I the pawn in their sick game? The humiliation burned, the questions screamed in my head. But they had underestimated me. The moment I gained consciousness, I smashed those vials, ending their twisted plan. Then, I picked up the phone. I wasn't just Ethan Carter, the "charity case." I was Ethan Carter Hayes, and they were about to learn what it meant to cross someone connected to Northern Holdings. This wasn't just about divorce; it was about tearing down their empire brick by brick.

The air in our house was thick with unspoken rules, but for me, it was cold dread. SATs and college applications felt trivial with a second chance at life unfolding before my eyes. My fiancé, Ethan Vanderbilt, and his "spiritual guru" Mia Sanchez, were once again planning their fateful trip to the Amazon. Only I knew this journey wasn't about enlightenment; it was about a deadly parasitic infection, Mia's horrific death, and ultimately, my own murder in a past life. This time, I wouldn't warn them. I had a map, and I knew exactly where their path led. They systematically destroyed my academic future and publicly branded me as jealous and vindictive. I watched as Ethan ripped my meticulously crafted thesis to shreds, while Mia's smirk promised worse to come. But nothing prepared me for their final, audacious play. They cornered me, a sealed vial of murky liquid in Ethan's hand. "Arrange the Chen family jet," he whispered venomously, "or get a taste of the Amazon right here. Authorities might just believe you're a bioterrorist." Mia's cruel giggle echoed his threat. They thought they'd seen fear in my eyes. They saw obedience, but I saw opportunity. How could my parents, my family, not see the monster I was yoked to, the insidious manipulation of Mia? The injustice burned, but it also sharpened my resolve. This was no longer just about survival; it was about turning the tables. As I feigned a shaky breath and agreed to their demands, a silent promise formed: the Amazon wouldn't be their spiritual cleansing. It would be their quarantine zone, their prison, and I was holding the keys. Their triumph was merely the first step into my meticulous trap.

She did not marry him for love, but only to pay off her family's debts, and when the woman he had always loved returned, she made up her mind to divorce him. But she had been fooled. She had thought he was a jobless hobo, but in truth, he was a powerful CEO, the inheritor of more than one hundred billion. When they were reunited, he rushed to get a marriage certificate and take her home. Every woman in the city was now jealous of her. From then on, she was the apple of his eye and he would make anyone who dared bully her suffer ten times more.

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.

My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine. Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family. To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset. They both thought I was a broken doll they could control. I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice. She sang it, and now her career is over. Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground.

Three days after my fiancé publicly dumped me for my stepsister, the Supreme Don issued a command that silenced the entire estate. I wasn't being cast aside. I was being sold to Damien Russo. The "Broken Don." A crippled, scarred monster rumored to have murdered his last two wives. My adoptive mother, Elena, didn't cry for me. She smirked. To her, I was finally being disposed of. She was so confident I was walking to my death that she decided to loot my corpse before I even left. She forged documents to steal my entire inheritance—my biological mother’s trust fund—to pay for my stepsister’s lavish wedding to my ex. "She won't need money where she's going," my stepsister laughed, wearing a dress bought with my stolen funds. They thought they were sending a lamb to the slaughter. They thought I was too weak, too stupid, and too afraid of the monster to fight back. But they made a fatal mistake. With my aunt’s help, I didn't just find the proof of their embezzlement; I found a weapon. I’m not running from the monster. I’m going to marry him. And when I hand him the evidence that the Herrera family stole from his bride, he won't be my executioner. He will be my vengeance.

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.

Standing at the altar of St. Patrick's Cathedral, I waited to marry my wealthy fiancé in front of three hundred of New York's elite. But right before the vows, my phone vibrated in my bouquet. It was a text from my groom: he was backing out because my maid of honor—my supposed best friend—was pregnant with his child. Before the shock of this double betrayal could even settle, his mother dug her manicured claws into my arm and publicly humiliated me. "A woman who can't even attract her own man, how is she worthy of the Doyle name?" She mocked my background, calling me a worthless orphan who only knew how to draw blueprints, turning my broken heart into a public execution of my dignity. The terrified girl inside me vanished, replaced by a dark, burning rage. I didn't understand why I had to let this arrogant family step all over me while they played the innocent victims. I yanked my arm free, tore off my expensive lace veil, and walked straight to the podium to grab the microphone. "The wedding is canceled. The groom is currently busy with my maid of honor." I walked out of the church, leaving them in absolute shock. But as I stumbled onto the street, I fell right into the arms of Damiano Moretti—the exiled, dangerous mafia boss known as the Ghost, who sat in a custom wheelchair. Looking into his cold, storm-gray eyes, I made a reckless, desperate deal. "Marry me."

At my boyfriend's poorest moment, I suddenly broke up with him. Later, he became a Don in the Mafia and married me by any means necessary. Everyone said he loved me to the bone. But every night, he brought different women home, deliberately trying to provoke me. I asked no questions, shed no tears, and never disturbed his trysts with his mistresses. He went crazy with rage instead, kissing me fiercely and demanding, "Why aren't you jealous?" He didn't know I was sick. Dying. While he was furiously taking his revenge on me, I was slowly walking toward death.

My husband, Hudson Higgins, used my dowry to buy his way into the Chicago underworld while his family treated me like a servant in my own home. I endured their insults for the sake of my five-year-old daughter, Josie. But then, the unthinkable happened. I found Josie's small, lifeless body by the garden fountain, while my sister-in-law Karly and mother-in-law Eleanor stood by, complaining about their party plans. "She was just too naughty," Karly sneered, adjusting her pearls over my dead child. When I turned to Hudson for help, he looked at me with dead eyes and told me it was just her fate. In that moment of absolute grief, I remembered the words of the ruthless Don Damien Falcone: "Your husband is a man who knows how to close a deal." The truth sliced through me like a blade. Hudson hadn't just ignored the Don's interest in me; he had actively sold me to the Devil of Chicago to buy his seat at the table. He let his family punish me for the very sin he committed. I had lost everything-my dignity, my mother, and now my baby-all sacrificed for a man who traded his wife's body for power. The sorrow in my chest evaporated, replaced by a scorching, blinding thirst for a blood vendetta. After lunging at Hudson and feeling the world explode into white, I opened my eyes to find myself back in the winter of 1928. It was the exact night the nightmare began, and Don Damien Falcone was walking toward me in his penthouse. This time, I won't be the broken bird in his gilded cage. If Hudson wants to use me to climb the ranks, I will use the Don's dark obsession to burn the Higgins family to the ground.

"Happy Anniversary," my husband said, sliding the separation agreement across the mahogany desk. It was the eighteenth time in five years I had signed these papers. Matteo De Luca, the most ruthless Capo in New York, checked his Rolex with cold impatience. "Sign it, Sera. Bianca is on the ledge again. She needs to see we're over, or she jumps." Bianca. The ward. The broken bird. The woman whose fragile psyche dictated every moment of my marriage. I signed my name, and he left me alone on our anniversary to save her. Again. But saving her wasn't enough. When Bianca pushed me down a flight of marble stairs in a fit of jealous rage, shattering my spine and leaving me paralyzed, I thought Matteo would finally choose me. I was wrong. I woke up in the hospital to find him holding her hand, not mine. "The security footage has been wiped," he told me, his voice void of emotion. "We cannot have a scandal. You fell, Sera. That is the story." He erased the truth. He erased my pain. He protected the woman who crippled me over his own wife. Two months later, he wheeled me into a gala, playing the doting husband while I sat in the chair that was my prison. He didn't know I had a burner phone hidden in my velvet dress. He didn't know that tonight, the obedient wife was going to die on the pavement, and a ghost would rise in her place. I looked at him one last time and dropped the phone in his lap. "I hope she's worth it."

I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?

Tomorrow was my wedding day to Jason Brennan, the heir to a powerful Mafia family. My family, the Falcones, had even taken in an orphaned girl, Elena, treating her like my own sister. But in my nightmare of a past life, I choked on my own blood, poisoned by the arsenic Elena slipped into my food every day. As I lay agonizingly close to death, Jason stood over me with a cold laugh, holding Elena in his arms. "We just needed the Falcone wealth, Bella. And the docks." Then came the gunfire. I was forced to watch them slaughter my father and my brother, tearing my family out by the roots. After my death, Elena even spread vicious rumors that I was a barren spinster, twisting their foul betrayal into a tragic tale of noble sacrifice to completely destroy my legacy. The metallic tang of my own blood was so real I could still taste the ash. I didn't understand why the girl my family sheltered for eight years would repay our charity with such venom. And I understood even less how the man who swore to love me could orchestrate my brutal murder without a shred of hesitation. Bolting upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat, I realized I had returned to the night before my wedding. This time, I wouldn't just cancel the engagement. I would hand their treason directly to the Mafia's most terrifying Enforcer, and watch them burn.