/1/113147/coverbig.jpg?v=068b924ed7954adeefef4a96c83598b4)
I was accused of pushing my sister down the stairs, facing a highly publicized second-degree murder charge. My billionaire husband, Lachlan, insisted on a private psychiatric evaluation. I thought he was trying to build a medical defense to save me. But through a cracked door, I overheard the psychiatrist talking to Lachlan's crisis PR team. Lachlan had bribed the doctor to officially diagnose me with severe paranoid schizophrenia. The plan was flawless. They were going to involuntarily lock me in an asylum and strip me of my voting rights to steal my trust fund. Worse, Lachlan's team leaked my clinic photos to the press, using my "violent mental breakdown" to perfectly cover up his midnight hotel rendezvous with a Hollywood starlet. I was forced to swallow heavy sedatives while the entire world labeled me a crazy, toxic wife. As the chemical fog dragged me into terrifying nightmares, I realized this family had always used me as their scapegoat, just like my adoptive mother did when I was a child. They thought the drugs, the public ruin, and the isolation would break me into quiet submission. But I secretly recorded the doctor's corrupt phone call. I went home, uploaded my million-dollar custom wedding dress to an auction site for exactly one dollar, and prepared to expose the Langley family's deadliest, bloodiest secret.
Contents
The Mad Wife's Spectacular Comeback Chapter 1 1
"I am not experiencing a psychotic break, Dr. Finch."
Beth Buckley's voice was barely a whisper, but it sounded like a gunshot in the sterile silence of the room.
She sat rigidly on the cold Chesterfield leather sofa. Her fingers gripped the edges of her cashmere shawl so tightly that her knuckles were completely white. The fabric offered no warmth against the chill settling deep in her bones.
Across the mahogany coffee table, Dr. Alistair Finch did not look up.
The only sound in the room was the heavy ticking of the brass wall clock and the sharp, scratching noise of his expensive fountain pen moving across thick parchment paper.
Every scratch felt like a physical scrape against Beth's eardrums.
Finch finally paused. He set the pen down with deliberate slowness and reached for the bottle of San Pellegrino.
He poured the sparkling water into a crystal glass and pushed it across the polished wood toward her. The condensation dripped down the sides, pooling into a small puddle.
Beth didn't touch it. Her throat was painfully dry, but her stomach was twisting into tight, hard knots.
"I am telling you the truth," Beth said, forcing her voice to stay steady. "I didn't push Essie down those stairs because I wanted to. I couldn't control my own arms. It was The Quill. It's a system. A script. It forces me to do these things so I take the fall."
Finch adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. His eyes behind the lenses were completely devoid of empathy. He looked at her the way a biologist looks at a struggling insect pinned to a board.
He picked up his pen again. He wrote the words Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with Dissociative Hallucinations in bold, dark ink.
Beth saw the letters forming upside down. A wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to swallow back the bile rising in her throat.
"You aren't listening to me," Beth said. Her voice cracked. The volume rose, bouncing off the soundproofed walls. "I am a scapegoat! This entire narrative is designed to destroy me!"
Finch sighed. It was a heavy, practiced sigh.
He reached under the edge of his desk and pressed a button. A white noise machine hummed to life in the corner, swallowing the sharp edges of her raised voice. He was setting the privacy level to maximum.
"Beth," Finch said. His tone was smooth, professional, and entirely condescending. "Let's talk about the reality of your situation. You are facing a very public, very damaging legal battle. The attempted second-degree murder charge regarding your sister is... significant."
Beth's chest tightened. It felt like a heavy concrete block had been dropped onto her lungs.
"You think I'm making this up," she breathed out. "You think I'm faking a mental illness to get a medical defense for the trial."
Finch didn't answer. Instead, he opened his top drawer and pulled out a stack of thick cards.
He laid the first one on the table. It was a Rorschach inkblot test. A chaotic, ugly smear of black ink.
"Tell me what you see here," he said smoothly.
The sheer arrogance in his voice snapped the last thin thread of Beth's control.
Her hand shot out. She slapped the stack of cards. They flew off the mahogany desk and scattered across the Persian rug like dead leaves.
Finch didn't flinch. His hand moved smoothly under the desk again, pressing a different, hidden button.
Beth stood up. Her legs were shaking so badly she had to lock her knees to stay upright.
She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. Down on the Manhattan street below, a swarm of paparazzi was camped outside the building. The flashes of their cameras strobed against the glass, blinding and relentless.
"Look at them," Beth said, pointing a trembling finger at the window. "This is exactly what the script wants. My complete social ruin. And you are just playing your part."
Finch stood up. He walked over to a locked mahogany cabinet against the wall.
He opened it, took out a small amber bottle, and shook two white pills into his palm.
He walked back and held them out to her, along with the glass of sparkling water.
"You are experiencing a severe manic episode, Beth," Finch said. He used the tone one might use to soothe a rabid dog. "Take the sedatives. We need to calm your nervous system."
Beth stared at the two white pills.
A sudden, sharp pain pierced her temples. A flash of memory hit her-the system, The Quill, forcing her to swallow pills just like these to wipe her memory of a previous rebellion. The phantom taste of chalk and chemicals coated her tongue.
Her breathing turned shallow and rapid. Panic clawed at her throat.
She swung her arm out to push his hand away.
Her wrist collided with the crystal glass. It tipped over. The sparkling water splashed directly onto Finch's custom-tailored suit jacket, soaking the expensive wool.
Before the glass even hit the carpet, the heavy oak door of the consultation room burst open.
Two large security guards rushed in, their eyes locked on Beth.
Finch held up a hand, stopping them in their tracks. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and calmly dabbed at the wet stain on his lapel.
His professional mask slipped, revealing a glimpse of cold, hard annoyance.
"If you refuse to cooperate with this treatment, Beth," Finch said, his voice dropping an octave, "I will not be able to provide a favorable psychiatric evaluation for the court. You will face prison. Not a private hospital."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Beth froze. The adrenaline draining from her blood left her feeling hollow and freezing cold.
She looked at the guards. She looked at Finch.
A bitter, self-deprecating smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. She realized the brutal truth. In this world, no one would ever believe the designated villain. Fighting them right now was pointless.
She walked slowly back to the sofa and sat down.
She reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the two white pills from where they had fallen onto the table.
She didn't ask for more water. She placed the pills on her tongue and swallowed hard. The dry, chalky lumps scraped down her throat, leaving a trail of discomfort.
Finch watched her swallow. A look of deep satisfaction crossed his face.
He waved the guards out of the room. The door clicked shut.
He sat back down in his leather chair and began writing rapidly on a prescription pad.
Beth closed her eyes. She could already feel the heavy, unnatural lethargy creeping into her bloodstream. Her limbs felt like they were filling with lead.
Deep in her mind, she screamed at the hidden system, but there was only silence.
Finch tore the sheet from the pad and slid it across the table.
"I have scheduled a mandatory follow-up for next Tuesday," he said.
Beth took the paper. She stood up, her movements sluggish.
She walked to the door and wrapped her hand around the cold brass handle.
Just as she turned the knob, a sharp vibration broke the silence.
It was Finch's private phone, sitting face down on his desk.
Beth paused, her back to him. Through the heavy fog of the sedative, a tiny spark of sharp clarity ignited in her brain.
View More Comments on App
Other books by Xi Yue
More/1/108574/coverbig.jpg?v=7840373b937baeef9c96eba90599dbbd)
Scars Of Betrayal: The Fallen Heiress Returns
RomanceI took the fall for my sister and endured three years of torment in prison. My knee was shattered, my body covered in scars, and I almost lost my life in that "accident". On the day I was released, clinging to the last shred of hope, I ran toward my fiancé Ford’s Maybach—only to hear his cold voice: "Your existence is just a nuisance." It turned out that the beatings and cigarette burns in prison were all arranged by him, paid for with his money. It turned out that the sister I had protected with all my heart had long been switching my medicine behind my back, hoping I would be completely crippled. At the family gala, they joined hands to strip me bare in front of the flashing camera lights. My father slapped me hard across the face and roared: "Why didn’t you just die in prison?" I smiled and tore apart my tattered dress, then dialed the number I had hidden in my heart for three years—the man who only understood blood for blood, his voice hoarse and alluring: "Turn around." This time, I will no longer be a toy to be manipulated. I will tear off their masks and burn the Willis family to the ground. By the way, I will take back everything that belongs to me—including him, the one hiding in the shadows.
/1/108223/coverbig.jpg?v=376ce42bf025bc04fbcfde1492c1907e)
The Blind Billionaire's Hidden Genius Wife
RomanceMy father didn’t look at me like a daughter; he looked at me like a bad loan he needed to settle. After five years of being nothing but a monthly expense on his ledger, I was shoved back into the Quinn mansion, smelling the expensive lavender that masked the rot beneath the floorboards. He slammed a prenuptial agreement onto the mahogany table and gave me a heartless ultimatum. "Sign it and marry Harrison Sterling, or I call the care facility in ten minutes and tell them to pull the plug on your mother's life support." My stepmother Lydia told me I should be grateful for this "future," while my stepsister Tiffany kicked a bag with her old, hideous wedding dress at my feet. They told me I was born for nothing but to pay off their debts. I was shipped off in the rain to the Sterling estate, a stone fortress where the housekeeper treated me like a servant and locked me in a pitch-black room. Inside, my new husband—a man rumored to be a blind, unstable monster—hurled a crystal glass at my head and tried to strangle me with his bare hands. I could feel the tremors in his grip and the sickly-sweet smell of neurotoxins on his breath. I realized then that Harrison wasn't the master of this house; he was a specimen in a jar, being systematically poisoned by his own family while cameras watched his every move. My own father had sold me into a death trap, thinking I was just a desperate girl with nowhere else to go. But they didn't know I had been living a double life as a medical prodigy who graduated from Johns Hopkins at nineteen. I pinned my "monster" husband to the floor, pulled a set of silver acupuncture needles from the hem of my dress, and made him a deal. "I’ll give you your eyes back, and in exchange, you help me burn both our families to the ground."
/1/106615/coverbig.jpg?v=caa27118a3a3d478e7370eecf40f0eb4)
Rising From Shadows: The Billionaire's Cold Revenge
ModernI stood in the shadows of the hospital, watching my wife kiss another man while my grandmother lay dying upstairs. Just minutes ago, Erlene had snapped at me over the phone, calling me a "needy child" and claiming she was stuck at a business meeting across town. Now, she was stepping out of a red Porsche in a designer dress, wrapped in the arms of Andrew Hanson, the man who was supposed to be her "sick friend." "I'm not going up," Erlene said coldly when I confronted her in the rain. "I don't like watching people die. It's depressing. Tell her I came by." She looked at my soaked, cheap hoodie and my scuffed sneakers with pure disgust before turning her back on me to return to her lover’s side. I had to go back to the ICU alone and lie to my grandmother with her final breath, telling her Erlene was waiting just outside the door. As the heart monitor flatlined at 2:14 AM, my phone buzzed with a call from my mother-in-law, who screamed that I was a "worthless loser" and demanded I sign divorce papers immediately so her daughter could finally be with a "real man." For three years, I lived as a ghost, a poor driver who endured their insults and hid my true identity just to have a simple life with the woman I loved. I sacrificed my future for a family that treated me like a stray dog, only for them to spit on me while I held my grandmother’s cold hand. Why did I stay in the shadows for so long? Why did I let these people believe they could crush me under their expensive heels? I walked out of that hospital and threw my thick, black glasses onto the wet asphalt, watching a delivery truck grind them into dust. I didn't need the disguise anymore. I drove my rusted Honda to the towering iron gates of the George Estate, where the security team dropped their batons and snapped into a terrified salute. My father was waiting on the marble steps, but I wasn't there for a peaceful reunion. I was there to reclaim my inheritance and make sure Erlene realized exactly what she had thrown away.
/0/85912/coverbig.jpg?v=ae0410a685dd43cdc9781ca4767ba299)
Her Choice, My Freedom
MafiaThe last thing I remembered from that life was the metallic taste of blood. Mark' s fists felt like concrete blocks, crushing my ribs with every blow. Through the haze of pain, I saw Sarah by the warehouse door, holding her son. She watched me die, her beautiful face blank, her eyes cold and empty. She had chosen him, the gangster, the man now beating me to death, over me. After twenty years of trying to save her, sacrificing everything, her betrayal was the final, most painful blow. Then, nothing, until a phone started ringing. I snapped awake in my childhood bedroom not aching, not broken. My old flip phone flashed a familiar name: Sarah' s Mom. I knew this call. This was the night Sarah got into trouble with Mark. The night her parents begged me to use my college savings to bail her out. Last time, I' d said yes, draining my account and giving up my dream school. This time, I took a steadying breath. "No." The line went silent. "What? Alex, what do you mean, no? This is Sarah we' re talking about." "She made her choices. She needs to face the consequences. I' m not getting involved." A weight I didn' t know I was carrying for two decades lifted. "I have my own life to think about. I' m sorry." I hung up, staring at my unbroken hands, the hands of an eighteen-year-old with a future I was taking back.
/0/85219/coverbig.jpg?v=5d43bcb06b14a3f33abc7277bc155d43)
Free From His Shadow
RomanceThe crystal chandeliers of the Grand Ballroom reflected in the champagne, but the light felt cold. My husband, Mark, was across the room, his eyes fixed on Lily, the young intern who had become his entire world. I walked towards them, the whispers of the crowd following me. He handed me a pre-prepared divorce settlement. "I\'m going to marry Lily," he said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Then, with a cruel twist of his lips, he added, "Consider our partnership terminated. Effective immediately." In the weeks that followed, Mark systematically dismantled my family' s business. He orchestrated a public scandal, leaking fabricated documents that implicated my father in fraud. My father had a heart attack. My mother aged a decade overnight. I sat by my father' s hospital bed, watching the news report on Mark and Lily' s engagement. That' s when I truly broke. Then, a blinding flash of light. A gut-wrenching pull. I gasped, my eyes flying open. The date on my phone was October 12th. The day I found Lily' s photo on his computer. The day the nightmare began. I was back. The memory of my parents' ruined faces, of my father in that hospital bed, was burned into my mind. It was not a dream. It was a warning. I had a second chance. Not for revenge. Not to win him back. For survival.
/0/84061/coverbig.jpg?v=a8b3910508b5716e471e8ebcefec1e9f)
The Billionaire's Retribution
ModernThe searing pain was the last thing I knew. A sharp, cold metal plunging into my belly, again and again. My best friend, Tara, was screaming, a twisted rage on her face I' d never seen before, "Why couldn't it have been you? You have everything!" Her husband, Brian, held the knife, his eyes empty. I watched my own blood pool on my marble floor as they staged a home invasion, taking over my life, my home, my wealth. I watched my husband, shattered by grief, take his own life. My baby, my husband, me – all of it, gone. I died, clutching to the injustice of it all, wondering how the people I loved most could betray me so absolutely. Why did they hate me so much just for having what they wanted? Then I woke up, alive, in my Silicon Valley home, my hand resting on my still-pregnant belly. And the front door opened, revealing Tara and Brian, suitcases in hand, their smiles dripping with false sweetness.
