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I was still bleeding into the mesh underwear the hospital gave me when the photos hit the internet: my husband, the Don, forcing his tongue down his mistress's throat. Three days ago, that very mistress had shoved me off a yacht. I lost the baby. I lost my uterus. I was left completely barren. Yet, when my husband finally called, it wasn't to ask if I was alive. "The press is eating us alive," Dante barked through the phone. "Send a gift basket to Sofia. Fix this mess." To make matters worse, his grandmother stood at the foot of my bed, holding the hand of the daughter they had stolen from me at birth. "Mommy looks like a ghost," my daughter said, her voice devoid of love. That was the moment the last ember of affection died. I realized I wasn't a wife to them; I was just a broken vessel. So, when they sneered that I was useless, I didn't cry. I pulled a black USB drive from under my pillow and threw it on the bed. "Divorce papers," I said calmly. "And the complete security blueprints of the Moretti Fortress. Every blind spot. Every tunnel I designed." "Sign the papers and let me go, or I sell this drive to your enemies for one dollar." I left the country with nothing but the clothes on my back, vanishing into a freezing attic in Paris. I thought I was finally free. But three weeks later, Dante kicked down my door, looking at my poverty with horror. "Come home," he begged, tossing a box of diamonds onto my drafting table. "We can be a family." I looked at the man who had destroyed me and opened the window. "You're looking for the girl who loved you," I whispered, throwing the diamonds into the trash alley below. "But you killed her."

The heavy steel door of the industrial meat locker slammed shut, sealing me in at four degrees below zero. Ten minutes ago, I was the woman Dante Moretti promised to burn the world for. Now, I was the rat accused of poisoning his heir. Dante didn’t just lock me in. He looked at me with eyes devoid of warmth and said, "Evidence says otherwise." He chose the lie of his arranged wife, Sofia, over my truth. For months, I endured the price of loving the Underboss. I watched him marry Sofia in a grand ceremony to secure a family alliance. I let him force me onto a table to drain my blood to save her life when she was injured. I took twenty lashes from his family’s enforcers, all while he stood by and watched, claiming it was necessary to "protect" me. He told me to wait. He told me the marriage was a sham. But when I finally escaped and he came chasing after me, revealing that Sofia was a fraud and he wanted me back, I didn't feel relief. I felt nothing. Even after he threw his body over mine to save me from a collapsing building, taking a jagged shard of timber through his chest, I couldn't forgive him. In the hospital, his mother handed me his journal. It was filled with entries about his undying love for me, written on the very same days he allowed me to be tortured. "Tell him the debt is paid," I told his mother as I handed the book back. "He saved my life. I saved his child. We are even." I turned my back on the ICU and walked out into the rain. Dante Moretti might have been willing to die for me, but he never knew how to live for me.

My husband ordered me to turn around and face the altar. He unbuckled his heavy leather belt, his eyes cold and devoid of mercy. "You need to learn respect," Dante spat. He whipped me in the family chapel until my back was a bloody mess. All because his mistress, Sofia, had framed me for breaking his grandfather's urn. He didn't ask for the truth. He didn't hesitate. He just wanted to punish the wife he considered a burden. As the belt tore into my skin, I didn't scream. I just counted the memories dying. He didn't know I was the one who dove into the frozen lake to save him in high school. He didn't know I was the one who took a knife for him during the ambush. He believed Sofia's lies that she was his savior. I had loved him for ten years. I had bled for him. And in return, he scarred me permanently for a crime I didn't commit. That night, I didn't tend to my wounds. I packed my bags, signed the divorce papers, and swore on the Code of Omertà to never love him again. Three years later, Dante found my old diary hidden under the floorboards. He read the truth about who really saved him, and realized he had tortured his guardian angel. He found me in Paris, fell to his knees in a crowded hotel lobby, and begged for forgiveness with tears in his eyes. I looked at the man who broke me and smiled. "Lie down and die, Dante," I said softly. "Because I have a life to live."

I thought my arranged marriage to the ruthless tycoon Axel Flynn was a love story when he risked his life to save mine. But when his fragile childhood friend, Alicia, arrived, I saw the truth. He would panic if she got a paper cut, but he didn't bat an eye when I jumped out of planes. With his blessing, she stole my company, my life' s work. At my own birthday party, he announced her as the new director. When I screamed the truth, he had me drugged. He threw me into a dark isolation room in the basement for three days, with no food or water, because Alicia claimed I was "unstable." He dragged me out, weak and broken, and demanded I get on my knees to apologize to the woman who had destroyed me. I finally understood. His "love" was never love. It was apathy. He simply didn't care if I lived or died. So, after he believed her final, vicious lie and left me for dead, I took the divorce papers he'd carelessly signed and walked away. This time, for good.

In the third year of their marriage, Liam became infatuated with his new secretary, Lindsay Price. She was open and bold. Her personal motto was "Fortune favors the bold." In bed, she knew countless different positions, and outside of it, she accompanied Liam in various thrilling activities. While he went out with Lindsay, he maintained the facade of a devoted husband by fabricating where he had been to Lillian Walsh. "I'm not coming home tonight. I was drunk, so I'm sleeping at the office." Lindsay chuckled beside him. She said with a hint of teasing provocation, "When are you going to divorce that boring old woman?" The call ended abruptly. Unbeknownst to them, Lillian was sitting in the Obstetrics and Gynecology department and staring at the pregnancy report at her fingertips. She had been pregnant for six weeks. After she left the hospital, she called her brother, Ricky Walsh, who was a lawyer. "Ricky, I need you to make a divorce agreement for me." Ricky paused briefly and then asked, "Are you sure about this?" Lillian replied calmly, "Yes. I'm pregnant. I plan to keep the baby myself."

As Dylan Andrews' kept companion, Elaine Willis was the epitome of perfection. To be readily available for her benefactor, she took on work for only three months each year, filming low-budget movies and maintaining a lukewarm career. Fully aware that Dylan saw her merely as a stand-in for his true love, she accepted it calmly, even deliberately mimicking the style of his beloved. Everyone mocked her as a fragile vine, unable to survive without a man, destined to be chained to Dylan's side forever. Yet, behind his back, she got two male escorts.

After a week in a coma caused by a car accident, Grace Miller's boyfriend, Leonard Stone, suddenly regained his memory. He remembered the girl he longed for but could never have. So, the first thing Leonard did upon waking was to break up with Grace. "Anything that happened during my memory loss wasn't really my choice. From today, let's go our separate ways. Our relationship doesn't hold anymore." Grace didn't try to hold him back. Coincidentally, the new drug research in the lab had just succeeded, and Grace volunteered to participate in the trial. "Once you take this pill, these memories will be permanently erased. Grace, are you sure about your decision?"

I stayed with Ethan Hudson for seven years. He grew bored of me. He found a younger werewolf girl in the clan. I didn't plead for him to stay this time. I discarded the mate-bond stone, burned the protection bracelet I crafted, and left the clan that night. His friends ridiculed me, wagering how soon I'd beg for reconciliation. Ethan, arm around his new girl, laughed and said, "Three days tops. She'll come back crying." Three days passed, then another three, and I never returned. Ethan couldn't wait any longer and contacted me first. "Sylvie, enough with the tantrum..." Victor Wilson, his rival, cut in on the phone. "Ethan, you've got to move fast to win someone back. Too late, and a good girl's gone." Ethan's howl nearly broke the receiver. "Get Sylvie on the phone!" Victor kissed me softly and said, "She can't. She's worn out from last night and just fell asleep."

My fated mate, Richard, and I were preparing for our sacred Mating Ceremony, a vow before the Moon Goddess meant to bind our souls for eternity. But a psychic message slammed into my mind—a weaponized memory sent by his adopted sister, Eva. In it, she was wrapped in Richard's arms while his parents, the Alpha and Luna, beamed with approval. For the next two weeks, I was forced to play the part of the adoring Omega bride. He would lie about "pack emergencies" to run to her, leaving me alone in a gown shop while she sent me visions of their trysts. His parents stripped me of the project I had poured my soul into for two years, handing it to Eva as a gift. They called me a weak-blooded Omega, unworthy of their son. Meanwhile, Eva sent me an audio clip of Richard promising her she would be the one to carry his strong heir, not me. They all thought I was a pathetic, disposable pawn in their twisted game. They were waiting for me to break. They had no idea I was secretly the heir to the most powerful pack on the continent. And I had already arranged for our Mating Ceremony to be broadcast globally, turning their sacred day into the stage for their ultimate humiliation.

On the night of her twenty-sixth birthday, Eliana Walker pushed her wheelchair through bar after bar, scouring every club in sight. It wasn't until she received a call from the police station that her search for Lucien Lane came to an end. "Is this Ms. Walker? Mr. Lane got drunk and started a fight. We need you to come down here." After hanging up, Eliana rubbed warmth into her stiff fingers, unsure whether to feel relief or sorrow. Before dawn, she finally reached the police station, just in time to see Lucien erupting in fury, "Who the hell told you to call her? Sure, she saved my life-but those useless crippled legs have shackled me for ten damn years! If she weren't Ethan's sister, I would've thrown a few million at her to be done with it long ago!" Shards from the shattered bottle sprayed through the air, one slashing across Eliana's face. Her face was slick with wetness-she couldn't tell if it was blood or tears. With trembling hands, Eliana dialed a number. She drew in a deep breath, her voice resolute, "Send out the message worldwide, the Anonymous hacker alliance will no longer offer any support to Lucien Lane's company. If any hackers want to test the strength of Lane Corporation's firewall, be my guest."

Kylee Brooks knelt between Kenney Walsh's legs as she had done countless times before and awkwardly tried to satisfy him. At the moment of passion, Kenney abruptly pushed her away and wheeled himself into the bathroom. He murmured, "Ruth..." Kylee was long used to this and turned to fetch his medicine. She had pursued Kenney for nine years and knew well that he was aloof. When she went to deliver the medicine, she found the bedroom door slightly ajar. Kenney's wheelchair was parked at the door, empty. Kenney pinned Ruth in front of him, and his eyes were blurred as he whispered in her ear, "Ruth, you are mine. You should have been my woman long ago. We depend on each other to become who we are today. I've stayed in a wheelchair to avoid having sex with Kylee. Can't you see how much I love you?" Kylee was stunned and then suddenly realized something. Ruth was Kenney's sister-in-law. She was two years older than Kenney, with a voluptuous figure, yet he never touched her.

The call came on a sunny Tuesday, a day promising peace, as I reviewed blueprints in my home office. Then, my phone vibrated with his name: Ethan Carter, my husband. "Chloe," he said, his voice cold and distant, "We need to get a divorce." He wanted to give "her" legitimate status; he' d met someone. I simply leaned back, my voice flat, "Okay. Then we should do that." He hung up, without a proper goodbye, after arranging for his lawyer to draft the generous settlement papers. My best friend, Maya, on the other hand, exploded, "That son of a bitch! After everything you' ve done for him!" Her fury was a storm I couldn't feel, my own emotions a placid lake. "He wants to give 'the other woman' legitimate status," I recited, the words foreign on my tongue. Maya vowed to burn his suits and sue him for every penny, insisting I was in shock. "It' s okay," I told her, a tired smile touching my lips. "I also had an affair." A different kind of silence fell. "And another thing," I added, looking at my perfect blueprints, "His affair? I arranged it."

The acrid smell of burning plastic filled my lungs, a scent that brought back chilling memories. I was trapped, a massive server rack crushing my leg, as sparks flew and a hellish glow illuminated the terrified face of Tiffany, my boyfriend Liam's "friend." This was it, the moment everything went wrong. Again. Just like in my last life, Liam burst in, scanned the chaotic scene, and without hesitation, rushed to Tiffany, who was barely coughing, leaving me shattered and bleeding under the rack. He looked back, his eyes cold, muttering that Tiffany's family were key investors, and saving her was "for the greater good." He dismissed my crushed leg, promising to come back, then turned his back and vanished with Tiffany, leaving me for dead in a room about to explode. I stared at the man who had murdered me in my previous life, making the exact same choice, offering the exact same excuse. But this time, I wouldn't beg. This time, I was alive, miraculously saved by my brave friend, Maya. And this time, I was done. Dead bodies don' t get a second chance at revenge-but I did.

I poured my life, my inheritance, and my soul into Redwood Creek Brewery. As a gesture of love and trust, I made Olivia, my fiancée of seven years, CEO, gifting her 51% of the shares. Or so I thought. Then the news hit: Olivia was pregnant. With Mark' s baby. Mark, her college ex, who I'd just hired as COO. Suddenly, my fiancée was marrying my COO, and I was just the guy who made the beer. They turned my office into a humiliating nursery. Olivia demoted me to Mark' s assistant. They gleefully watched as Mark 'accidentally' ruined a crucial hops contract I' d just secured. Olivia's condescending calls about me "keeping the money flowing for them" felt like a constant knife twist. They even used company funds-my company' s funds!-to buy my childhood home, only to trash it immediately. Every humiliation, every snide remark, fueled a cold, silent rage within me. They thought I was shattered, easy to discard. They believed I was just the pathetic founder no one remembered, too weak to fight back. But they had no idea. Absolutely no idea what was coming. For months, I' d held a secret: a notarized share transfer agreement, signed by Olivia herself, making me the 91% owner. They thought it was a formality for a phony loan. I called it their eviction notice. Next Monday, I walked in, not as the loyal Head Brewer, but as the indisputable owner. Their nightmare began.

I hovered, a restless spirit, above the opulent ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza. This grand wedding, shimmering with laughter and clinking champagne flutes, celebrated Ethan Astor and Olivia Miller. It should have been my wedding to Ethan. But I was dead, reduced to a convenient scandal weeks ago, my tragic "overdose" a footnote in their perfect lives. Below, society whispered, calling me "difficult" and "ungrateful," while my adoptive parents, the Millers, who once tossed my few possessions like trash, warmly embraced their "true" daughter. They believed Ethan' s carefully doctored photos and the lies that framed my fall from grace. No one among these glittering guests knew about the Lupus eating me alive, the relentless pain, or the crushing exhaustion that ultimately consumed me. They simply saw Sarah, the troubled heiress, a messy problem conveniently gone. The injustice, the quiet suffering they willfully ignored, burned colder than my ghostly form. Then, during what should have been Ethan' s charming speech, Olivia, the new bride, stood. She held up a small, sleek USB drive, her eyes firm. "I have something to share," she announced, her voice echoing. "A final message. From Sarah." My breath, if I had one, would have hitched. My most private journal, my very words, were about to silence their celebration, with the police already waiting outside.

My parents' murder left me an empty shell, and my fiancée's abandonment poured salt on the wound. I was drowning. Then, at their funeral, a lifeline appeared: my ex-fiancée's sister, Detective Sarah Davis, publicly proposed, vowing to bring their killers to justice. I said yes, desperately clutching onto her promise. Five years passed. The case grew cold. My world crumbled again when I overheard Sarah, my wife, deliberately stonewalling leads. The killer? Michael Vance, my ex's new husband. My blood ran cold as I heard Sarah pledge to do "anything to protect him," revealing a sickening loyalty that twisted my insides. The truth hit me like a physical blow: my marriage was a calculated performance, every comforting word a lie. She wasn't just covering up; she was protecting my parents' killer, actively erasing me from their family's narrative. How could the woman I trusted betray me so utterly for the man who destroyed my life? After she physically attacked me to shield Michael during a Thanksgiving blow-up – publicly choosing him over me – I knew what I had to do. I systematically gathered irrefutable evidence of their conspiracy, faked my own death, and set the wheels of justice in motion from the shadows. Now, 'Ethan Miller' is dead, but the man he was lives to see justice served, on his own terms.

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.

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

I was meant to study law. Instead, the law sold me. My father's debts sold me into a contract marriage with Dante Moretti, the heir to a mafia empire who hides behind a billion-dollar legal empire. To the world, he's the polished, untouchable CEO. Behind closed doors, he's ruthless, demanding, and dangerously irresistible. I swore I'd outsmart him that I'd serve my time and win my freedom. But every kiss feels like a trap, every touch like a dare, and every secret I uncover pulls me deeper into his world. And the longer I stay, the harder it is to remember: Am I his prisoner... or his bride?

I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me. But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest. The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me. They didn't. Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her. They let me burn to keep her warm. When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages. That was the moment Elena Vitiello died. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York. By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring. "You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them. "Burn for it."

Amira Davis was a rising doctor with a bright future, until her stepsister kidnapped her, stole her kidney, and revealed the man Amira loved was part of the plan. Left for dead, Amira leapt to escape her pain... but fate gave her a second chance. Reborn at 18, she returns with one mission: revenge. When she saves the life of ruthless Mafia boss Leonardo Marchetti, he vows to protect her. But as passion ignites and secrets unravel, Amira discovers she's the daughter of Leonardo's deadliest enemy and her entire past was built on blood and lies. Now caught between love and vengeance, family and betrayal, Amira must choose: destroy the man who stole everything or trust him to help her reclaim it all. Revenge runs deep. Love cuts deeper. Start reading now-Amira's war has only just begun.

For five years, I lived a beautiful lie. I was Aliana Hughes, the cherished wife of the city's most feared Mafia Capo and the beloved daughter of the Don. I believed my arranged marriage had blossomed into love. On my birthday, my husband promised me the amusement park. Instead, I found him there with his other family, celebrating the fifth birthday of the son I never knew he had. I overheard their plan. My husband called me a "naive fool," a placeholder to legitimize his secret son. The ultimate betrayal wasn't his affair, but the sight of my own father's car parked across the street. My family wasn't just aware; they were the architects of my ruin. Back home, I found the proof: a secret photo album of my husband's other family posing with my parents, and records showing my father had bankrolled the entire deception. They had even drugged me on weekends so he could play happy family. The grief didn't break me. It turned into something cold and sharp. I was a ghost in a life that was never mine, and a ghost has nothing to lose. I copied every damning file onto a USB drive. As they celebrated their perfect day, I sent a courier with my parting gift: a recording of their treachery. While their world burned, I walked toward the airport, ready to erase myself and start over.

When her father's PTSD leads to a tragic accident, Aria Moretti does the unthinkable-she surrenders herself to Nico Romano, the ruthless man her father wronged. Known as the cold and feared ruler of Chicago's underworld, Nico is a man no one crosses and lives to tell the story. To him, Aria is a debt he intends to collect in full. But she isn't the fragile girl he expects.

On our ninth anniversary, my husband Dominick didn't toast to us. Instead, he rested his hand on his mistress's pregnant belly in front of the entire crime family. I was just a debt payment to him, a ghost in a forty-thousand-dollar gown. But the humiliation didn't end in the ballroom. When his mistress, Chastity, started hemorrhaging later that night, he didn't call an ambulance. He dragged me to the family clinic. He knew I had a serious heart condition. He knew a transfusion of that magnitude could trigger a fatal cardiac event. "She is carrying my son," he said, his eyes devoid of any humanity. "You will give her whatever she needs." I begged him. I bargained for my freedom. He lied and agreed, just to get the needle in my arm. As my dark red blood flowed through the tube to save the woman destroying my life, my chest tightened. The monitors began to scream. My heart was failing. "Mr. Reyes! She's crashing!" the doctor shouted. Dominick didn't even turn around. He walked out of the room to hold Chastity's hand, leaving me to die on the table. I survived, but Annis Myers died in that clinic. He thought I would return to the penthouse and continue being his obedient, silent wife. He thought he owned the blood in my veins. He was wrong. I went back to the penthouse one last time. I struck a match. I let the room burn. By the time Dominick realized I wasn't in the ashes, I was already on a plane to London. I had left my wedding ring in an envelope, along with the medical records that proved his cruelty. He wanted a war? I would give him one.

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."

Luca DeLuca was never meant to be a king. Born into one of the most powerful mafia families, he was raised in the shadows of blood and violence-protected, sheltered, and kept far from the world his father ruled with an iron fist. But when Don Salvatore DeLuca is assassinated, everything changes. The empire his father built is now crumbling, threatened by enemies within and outside the family. Forced into a throne he never wanted, Luca must learn to navigate a world of betrayal, power, and brutal survival. He isn't a killer. Not yet. But in the mafia, power is earned in blood-and to lead, he must be willing to lose everything, including the last pieces of his soul. But Luca's battle isn't just against the underworld's deadliest players. It's against himself. As he struggles with the darkness seeping into his veins, a forbidden love threatens to shatter everything. Torn between the woman who makes him feel human and the ruthless empire that demands his loyalty, Luca must decide: Is he willing to sacrifice love for power? Or will love be his greatest weakness? In a world where trust is a death sentence and mercy is a myth, Luca DeLuca must either rise as a legend or die as a footnote.