My Brother's Lies, My Fiancé's Betrayal

I served the Dunlap family for six years, managing their dark accounts and raising children that weren't mine, all while waiting for my husband to truly love me. But when the "real" mistress returned, my devotion was rewarded with a death sentence. My husband, Gavyn, didn't just ask for a divorce; he dragged me to a cliff edge. He stood next to Iliana, the woman who stole my life, and looked at me with cold indifference. He called me a thief. He called me an "incubator"—a temporary vessel used to hold his place until his princess came back. Then, he ordered his hitman to finish it. I managed to bribe the hitman and jumped into the freezing ocean, but the fall cost me the only thing that mattered. Alone on a desolate beach, shivering and broken, I miscarried Gavyn's child—the baby he didn't even know existed. I lay in the sand, hollowed out by grief. I couldn't understand how the man I worshipped could discard me like trash. He didn't just break my heart; he tried to erase my existence. But fate wasn't done with me. On that same beach, I found a wounded young man hiding in the woods. He wasn't just a stranger; he was the lost heir to the Sosa crime family—Gavyn's mortal enemies. When the Don, Daniel Sosa, came to claim his nephew, he offered me a hand. Now, the world thinks Alex Dunlap is dead. But tonight, I am walking into the Grand Gala on the arm of the most dangerous man in the city. And I’m going to burn Gavyn’s empire to the ground.

My husband, Mark, was in the shower when a message from an unknown number buzzed, "Your husband says I'm way more exciting than you, his dead fish, and now I'm pregnant with his child. Who do you think he'll choose?" It was Chloe Miller, Mark' s assistant, the one I' d personally recommended. My breath caught as a video downloaded-Mark, wild and untamed, saying something I couldn't hear over the pounding in my ears. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the shower. Humiliation washed over me, and my decade-long world crumbled. I found a drafted divorce agreement in Mark' s desk drawer. He had been planning this. Then Chloe sent more photos-Mark kissing her in a honeymoon suite in Iceland, taunting me with, "How long has it been since he touched you, old hag?" Every image was a fresh stab of pain. At a charity gala, Chloe, visibly pregnant, clung to Mark. He whispered to her, showing genuine worry. He then bought her a diamond necklace right after buying me a spa voucher. Later, his phone lit up with a message from her, "Is the old hag mad? Don' t worry about her. Come back to me. The baby and I need you." He typed back instantly, still holding me, pretending to comfort me. How could he feign concern for me while being so blatantly connected to her? How could he lie so effortlessly, acting the part of a loving husband while planning to discard me and our entire life? The hypocrisy was suffocating, the cruelty breathtaking. I looked at his smiling, deceitful face, and felt nothing but a vast, empty wasteland where my love for him used to be. My heart, once a steady flame, was extinguished. Now, all that was left were the ashes, and I was ready to become the storm.

The doctor' s words hit me like a cold gavel: six months left to live. My life's purpose, my son David, would inherit everything I' d worked for. My life was dedicated to him, every penny saved, so he and his family would never worry. On Christmas Eve, after preparing a giant feast, David called, claiming they were stuck in traffic. Then I overheard his wife, Jessica, and David himself, laughing about my "stuffy little house" from his biological father Daniel's mansion, discussing how they needed to ensure David was in my will. A cold dread seeped into my bones as I listened to them tear me apart. Jessica hissed that I held David back, keeping him from his "real, successful father." David, my son, replied with a deep resentment, wishing he were a Hayes, not a Miller. The phone clicked dead. The love that had defined my existence went cold. I had worked two jobs, sold my mother' s jewelry, and sacrificed my retirement for him, only to be called selfish and an obstacle. If I was just a will to him, then I would write a new one. My quiet rebellion had begun.

The system's cold, mechanical voice echoed in my head: "Elimination in 24 hours. Affection and love values from all targets remain at zero. Final task failed." My life, spent trying to win a game of affection I was designed to lose, was ending. Then the phone rang. It was my husband, David, frantic. "Olivia, where are you? Get to the hospital. Now. It's Emily." My twin sister. Always Emily. Her kidneys had failed, she needed a transplant, and as her twin, I was the perfect match. My heart didn't even flutter. They demanded my last kidney, just as they always demanded sacrifices from me. My mother called next, yelling, "How can you be so selfish? Your sister needs you! We've given you everything... the least you can do is save her life." They called Emily "delicate," their excuse for endless favoritism, while seeing me as "the strong one" who endured and gave without complaint. I had already secretly given my father one of my kidneys years ago, letting Emily take the credit and the love. I signed the consent forms for the surgery, a final act of surrender. My family promised David a down payment on a house and offered me "forgiveness for all the trouble I'd caused"- a veiled threat for a lifetime of perceived defiance. I was a tool, a means to Emily's end, and now, a vessel to be emptied. I had chased their love for ten years, following the system' s tasks, sacrificing my dignity for worthless points. But every time I earned one, Emily found a way to make me lose two. David' s score never even reached one. Now I knew the truth: the system was a curse, a reflection of my desperate need for their approval, and it was killing me. Just hours before the surgery, a new nightmare began. Emily's latest design was leaked, traced to my IP address. The press swarmed; my mother slapped me; Emily, the perfect victim, cried for me to be forgiven. My family ordered me to confess, to take the blame for something I didn't do, to protect Emily's reputation. And I did it. I publicly admitted to being the jealous villain, sacrificing my name, my dignity, my entire being for the family that never loved me.

The last thing I remembered was the blinding glare of headlights. When I woke, my world was darkness and pain, my hands - my tools - shattered. My fiancé, Liam, the city's celebrated neurosurgeon, became my rock, his voice a soothing balm. He claimed the drunk driver was caught, our unborn son Leo was safe, and he' d be my eyes and hands until I healed. Months blurred into a fog of physical therapy and his suffocating care. My hands were slow, my blindness absolute, a constant reminder of my helplessness. But then, a flicker. A shape. Color. My sight was coming back, a miracle I couldn' t wait to share with Liam. But as I approached his operating room, voices drifted out, shattering my illusion. "Dr. Miller, Mrs. Chen' s hands are showing signs of recovery again. Do you really want to break her fingers again? This is the eighth time." Eighth time? And then… "Ben, Leo was killed by you. You want to protect Charlotte, but you don' t need to destroy Ava!" Charlotte? Leo was killed? By Liam? This man, my savior, had murdered our son and systematically tortured me to protect his mistress? The joy in my heart turned to an icy dread. He thought I was blind, helpless, and broken. He had no idea the woman he tried to destroy was meticulously cataloging his every lie, his every atrocity. He thought I was his victim. He was wrong. I was his judge. And the trial had just begun.

Eight years of marriage, white tablecloths, and soft candlelit dinners. My husband, Liam, the man who once promised forever, took my hand across an expensive restaurant table. But the perfection shattered when he pulled his hand back, revealing his family' s relentless demand for an heir. Then Chloe, a "good, healthy girl" from the countryside, appeared in our living room, brought by his iron-willed grandmother. Soon, I overheard the whispers: Chloe was pregnant. Liam' s baby. When I confronted him with divorce papers, he begged, "I thought it was you." I believed his pleas for one more chance, for him to "handle" Chloe. But the real test came in a dusty warehouse: his business rivals, a choice to be made. "You can only have one," a cold voice stated. "Your wife, Ava, or your other woman, Chloe, carrying your heir." I held my breath, knowing he should choose me. "Let Chloe go. Protect the child. I need the child," Liam' s voice echoed, cold and distant. Then came a frantic whisper, "Ava, I promise. I' ll come back for you." The last thing I saw before the metal pipe struck was his empty promise, his true betrayal. I woke in a hospital, three days later, battered and abandoned. He didn' t come. He never called. He arrived later, no remorse, only self-pity, declaring, "I had to protect the heir. It was the only choice." His grandmother dismissed me as a barren failure, while Chloe, playing the innocent martyr, cried, "I told Liam to choose you… but he insisted on saving the baby… our baby." Watching him fuss over her, over their baby, something clicked. I was pregnant. Seven weeks. And he had just sacrificed our child, draining me for her, for a lie. My father's factory burned, his heart giving out from the shock, and Chloe, playing the sympathetic helper, framed me for arson. Then Liam had me committed to a psychiatric facility, where I barely survived a head injury. I finally understood: this wasn't about love, or even an heir. It was a calculated, ruthless game of power and betrayal. A cold, clear rage settled in. I would not just leave. I would make them pay. I would burn his kingdom to the ground.

Lyric had spent her life being hated. Bullied for her scarred face and hated by everyone-including her own mate-she was always told she was ugly. Her mate only kept her around to gain territory, and the moment he got what he wanted, he rejected her, leaving her broken and alone. Then, she met him. The first man to call her beautiful. The first man to show her what it felt like to be loved. It was only one night, but it changed everything. For Lyric, he was a saint, a savior. For him, she was the only woman that had ever made him cum in bed-a problem he had been battling for years. Lyric thought her life would finally be different, but like everyone else in her life, he lied. And when she found out who he really was, she realized he wasn't just dangerous-he was the kind of man you don't escape from. Lyric wanted to run. She wanted freedom. But she desired to navigate her way and take back her respect, to rise above the ashes. Eventually, she was forced into a dark world she didn't wish to get involved with.

Linsey was stood up by her groom to run off with another woman. Furious, she grabbed a random stranger and declared, "Let's get married!" She had acted on impulse, realizing too late that her new husband was the notorious rascal, Collin. The public laughed at her, and even her runaway ex offered to reconcile. But Linsey scoffed at him. "My husband and I are very much in love!" Everyone thought she was delusional. Then Collin was revealed to be the richest man in the world. In front of everyone, he got down on one knee and held up a stunning diamond ring. "I look forward to our forever, honey."

Elena, once a pampered heiress, suddenly lost everything when the real daughter framed her, her fiancé ridiculed her, and her adoptive parents threw her out. They all wanted to see her fall. But Elena unveiled her true identity: the heiress of a massive fortune, famed hacker, top jewelry designer, secret author, and gifted doctor. Horrified by her glorious comeback, her adoptive parents demanded half her newfound wealth. Elena exposed their cruelty and refused. Her ex pleaded for a second chance, but she scoffed, "Do you think you deserve it?" Then a powerful magnate gently proposed, "Marry me?"

Sawyer, the world's top arms dealer, stunned everyone by falling for Maren—the worthless girl no one respected. People scoffed. Why chase a useless pretty face? But when powerful elites began gathering around her, jaws dropped. "She's not even married to him yet—already cashing in on his power?" they assumed. Curious eyes dug into Maren's past... only to find she was a scientific genius, a world-renowned medical expert, and heiress to a mafia empire. Later, Sawyer posted online. "My wife treats me like the enemy. Any advice?"

Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé. Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one? Wrong. One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup. So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise. Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Enter him. Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised. But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made. Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with. And now, he's not letting me go.

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.