ISABELLA
Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss
I was an intern nurse working exhausting shifts, yet my mother constantly forced me into blind dates with wealthy, arrogant men to secure our family's social standing. During a terrifying hospital lockdown, an assassin disguised as a doctor held a scalpel to my throat. I was almost killed, but a high-ranking military colonel threw his own body down a flight of concrete stairs to shield me. I survived with cuts and bruises, but when I went home, my mother didn't care about my near-death experience. She was only furious that I had rushed out on my blind date with Preston, a rich financial analyst. She forced me to meet him to apologize. When Preston grabbed my arm, bruised me, and mocked my attack as a pathetic lie, my mother still took his side. "Men get angry," she told me coldly. "It's your job not to provoke them. You will beg for his forgiveness, or you are no longer welcome in this house." I had narrowly escaped an assassin, yet my own family was willing to feed me to a monster just for a fat paycheck and neighborhood gossip. My heart went completely dead. So, when the intimidating Colonel appeared, offering me maximum military protection through a sudden marriage, I didn't hesitate. I walked back into my parents' house and calmly slapped a crisp marriage certificate onto the coffee table. "I won't be apologizing to Preston. I got married today."
Chapter 1
"If you're going to order the salmon, make sure they don't overcook it. The last time I was here, it was practically cat food."
Caroline Thompson stared at the man sitting across from her. Preston Finch. Financial analyst. Ivy League graduate. The eighteenth blind date her mother had forced her into in the last two years.
He wasn't looking at her. He was using his silver fork to trace the menu like he was grading a flawed exam paper.
"The wine list here is a joke," Preston continued, snapping the leather bound menu shut. He finally looked at her, his chin tilted in perpetual judgment. "At my club in New York, we have a sommelier. Here? I wouldn't trust them to open a beer."
Caroline's fingers dug into the fabric of her dress under the table. This was her life now. Sitting across from arrogant men who thought a fat paycheck bought them the right to treat everyone else like peasants.
"So, Caroline," Preston leaned back, offering a smirk that was probably meant to be charming but landed closer to constipated. "My mother mentioned you're a nurse?"
"Intern nurse," Caroline corrected automatically. "At Washington United Medical Center."
"Right." The smirk deepened into outright dismissal. "Must be exhausting. All that cleaning up and taking orders. And the pay? Practically minimum wage, right? Honestly, a pretty girl like you should just find a guy who provides. Someone who makes enough so you don't have to wipe up vomit for a living."
A muscle ticked in Caroline's temple. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his financial advice, but her phone buzzed.
She never took personal calls on a date. But right now, it was the only thing keeping her from baptizing Preston with her ice water.
She glanced at the screen. Her breath hitched. It wasn't just the hospital. It was the direct emergency line from the Chief of Staff.
She answered it right there. "Thompson."
"Caroline." Dr. Alistair Cromwell never used her first name. His voice, usually dripping with academic condescension, was flat. Breathless. "Get back here. Now."
"I'm off the clock, Dr. Cromwell. Is something—"
"I don't have time to repeat myself." The line crackled with background shouting. "This is not a drill. We are at Code Atlas. I say again, Code Atlas. Get here in ten minutes or don't bother coming back at all."
Click.
Caroline sat frozen, the dial tone buzzing against her ear.
Code Atlas.
In all her years of training, she had only heard that term whispered in break rooms like a ghost story. It meant catastrophe. Mass casualties. A high-level terror threat. It meant the world was falling apart.
"I have to go," Caroline said, already grabbing her coat.
Preston scoffed, slamming his water glass down. "You're joking. What kind of emergency could a nurse possibly have? We haven't even ordered."
"It's a Code Atlas," she said, not caring if he understood. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and dropped it on his pristine white tablecloth. "This covers my share of nothing. Goodbye, Preston."
She didn't wait for his face to finish flushing red. She turned on her heel and practically sprinted out of the restaurant.
The Washington air hit her in a heavy, soaking downpour. Adrenaline washed away the lingering disgust of the date. She flagged down a cab dropping someone off at the corner, sliding into the back seat before the passenger was fully on the curb.
"Washington United Medical Center," she gasped. "Step on it."
By the time the cab screeched to a halt, the rain had slowed to a mist, but the chill in Caroline's bones only deepened.
She stepped out and stopped dead.
The hospital had been turned into a fortress.
The main entrance wasn't blocked by ambulances, but by military police. Two armored Humvees idled across the driveway, their headlights cutting through the fog. Men in full combat gear, rifles strapped to their chests, stood behind concrete barricades.
This wasn't a mass casualty event. This was a federal lockdown.
Heart hammering against her ribs, Caroline approached the nearest checkpoint, holding up her ID badge with a trembling hand. "Caroline Thompson. I was paged by Dr. Cromwell."
The guard, a soldier with eyes like flint, scanned her badge, checked a clipboard, and stepped aside. "Go straight to the main desk. Do not deviate from the hallway, ma'am."
Caroline slipped under the yellow tape. The lobby was unrecognizable. The usual chaotic symphony of the ER was gone, replaced by a suffocating, terrified silence. Doctors and nurses huddled in clusters. Armed soldiers lined the corridors like statues.
"Thompson!"
Dr. Cromwell was striding toward her. He looked like he had aged a decade since morning. His white coat was rumpled, a dark coffee stain splashed across his tie.
"Listen carefully, I don't have time for questions," he snapped, his forehead gleaming with sweat. "You are assigned to ICU Room 3. You will monitor the patient's vitals. You will not speak to him. You will not touch any personal effects in the room. If his heart rate fluctuates by more than ten percent, you hit this button." He shoved a black pager into her palm. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go."
Caroline walked briskly toward the private elevator bank. The air smelled different here—sharper, metallic, like ozone and gunpowder.
As she turned the corner, the doors of the VIP elevator slid open. A group of people emerged, moving like a single, lethal organism. Men in dark suits. Military brass with medals gleaming.
But they were just background noise.
In the center, walking slightly ahead, was a man who looked like he had been carved from granite and violence.
He was well over six feet, his shoulders straining the seams of his digital camouflage uniform. The rank on his chest—a silver eagle—demanded absolute submission. His face was a landscape of sharp angles and hard lines, his jaw set like a steel trap.
As the group passed, the man turned his head.
His eyes—a cold, piercing, impossible gray—swept the corridor. And for a fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto Caroline's.
It was like stepping onto a landmine.
The air was violently sucked from her lungs. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot down her spine, freezing her blood. Those eyes didn't just look at her; they stripped her down, assessed her threat level, and branded her in the span of a single heartbeat.
"Colonel Romero," an aide murmured, handing the man a classified tablet.
The spell shattered. The man—Colonel Romero—broke eye contact, taking the tablet without missing a stride. He began firing off orders in a low, gravelly voice that vibrated down the hallway.
Caroline let out a shaky breath, her knees suddenly weak. She hadn't realized she was holding onto the wall until a hand grabbed her arm.
"Are you breathing?" her friend Brenna whispered, pulling Caroline into a supply alcove. Brenna's face was paper-white. "Oh my god, Caroline. Did you see him?"
Caroline swallowed hard, her throat like sandpaper. "The Colonel?"
"Jarrod Romero," Brenna breathed, the name heavy with awe and terror. "Department of Defense. My cousin at the Pentagon says he's the guy they call when the world is ending." She clutched a medical chart to her chest. "He looks like he'd shoot you just for breathing his air."
Caroline rubbed the back of her neck, trying to dispel the lingering, phantom heat from that brief eye contact. "Where are you headed?"
"ICU 3. Cromwell's special assignment."
Brenna's eyes widened, all gossip vanishing instantly. "Oh, God. Caroline, be careful. That patient... this whole thing is black-ops. The FBI tried to get in twenty minutes ago and Romero's men turned them away at gunpoint."
"I just have to watch the monitors," Caroline said, though her voice lacked conviction.
She grabbed a supply cart and pushed through the double doors of the ICU wing. They hissed shut behind her, sealing her in a sterile, fluorescent-lit silence.
Two MPs stood outside Room 3, their faces blank masks. They checked her badge twice before unlocking the door.
The room was freezing. The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor was the only sound.
In the bed lay a young man, motionless. His face was a swollen canvas of bruises, thick bandages wrapping his torso. Caroline moved to the bedside, picking up the chart.
Alston Petersen. Lieutenant. JAG Corps.
The list of his injuries read like a torture report.
She set the chart down, her eyes fixed on the rhythmic spike of the heart monitor. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.
She had told Brenna she just had to watch the monitors. But standing in the freezing room, looking at the broken soldier, Caroline knew the truth.
She had just walked into the eye of a very deadly storm. And the man with the ice-gray eyes was the one holding the lightning.
Bestfriends Shouldn't Know How You Taste
Ashley Grey knows better than to get involved with her bestfriend that's in a relationship. She has been keeping her feelings for him a secret for years. Until one day they are dared to kiss each other. Then everything is flipped between them. Stolen kisses, touches and a whole lot of tension. These two go on a journey that will either drift them apart or pull them even closer. " I can't be your friend Ley when I know how you taste."
The Best Friend's Contract
Aidan, a billionaire and CEO of Empire is known for the title 'Top 5 Hottest Bachelor' for two reasons. His extremely good-looks and for not wanting to get married, at least until he reaches forty but his mother keeps on setting him with unwanted dates, leaving him frustrated. Kenna, Aidan's best friend, is a doctor who has never found the right time for love. She has always been busy with work to an extent that she forgets about her own personal life. Both of them has always been close ever since they were kids, after a single incident that happened, instantly making them inseparable. As they grew older, things began to change yet best friends are forever . . . no matter the circumstances. What happens when Aidan sets up a contract and wants Kenna to be a part of it?
From Underworld to Crown
My fiancé, Richard Ahmed, had been unfaithful. His mistress, Eva Marsh, sent me a provocative video. In the video, Richard and Eva were passionately kissing, while his friends cheered loudly, "You two are perfect for each other. You should get married." Richard's parents were holding Eva's hand, saying, "You're the only one we see as part of the family." I let out a cold laugh and dialed the number of my father, the head of a criminal syndicate. "Get in touch with a team for me. I have a live stream event planned." "Alright. The condition is that you return to Zlomont and become the new head of the Brooks Group."
Betrayed Bride, Mafia Princess Rises
At my ten-week ultrasound, I was supposed to be celebrating the future of the Falcone family. I was Isabella Falcone, wife to the most powerful Don in the south. But when the nurse called my name, the man who stood up beside his pregnant mistress was my husband. In the sterile silence of that waiting room, he chose her. He later confessed he was being blackmailed by her family—a weakness that was a death sentence in our world. That night, he moved his mistress into our home, into my bedroom, and locked me away like a prisoner in the staff quarters. He wasn't imprisoning his wife; he was guarding an asset. He needed the legitimate heir I carried to save his crumbling empire. His betrayal was absolute when his own mother and my adoptive parents arrived while he was away. They forced me to sign divorce papers, then told me they were taking me to a clinic. His mother pulled out a gun and pointed not at my head, but at my stomach. "We're terminating this complication," she said coldly. As they dragged me from the house, my world went dark. But through the haze, I saw a fleet of black cars blocking the gate. An army of men poured out, led by a face I had only ever seen in a photograph. Days earlier, locked in my room, I made a single phone call to the only man more powerful than my husband: my biological father, the head of the Chicago Outfit. And he had come to collect his daughter.
His Billions Can't Buy Her Forgiveness Now
The scissors made a sickening crunch as I severed the long hair Marcus worshipped. For three years, I had been his "silk anchor," the hidden woman who grounded him while he conquered New York. But as the dark strands hit the porcelain sink, my phone lit up with a news alert that shattered my world. *Thorne Enterprises CEO Marcus Thorne and Isabella Vance announce engagement.* While I was waiting for his call, he was sliding a massive diamond onto another woman's finger. At the gala that night, I was forced to watch them. Izzy leaned across the table, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth. "You look exhausted, Olivia. Especially now that you're... alone." Marcus didn't defend me. He didn't even look at me. He just swirled his scotch and told me to focus on the merger data, dismissing me like an inconvenient employee rather than the woman he swore to protect. He thought I was a pragmatist. He thought I would stay in the shadows, accepting the scraps of his affection while he married for power. He was wrong. I went home and packed my life into a single suitcase. I took the river rock he had carved for me—the one he called his anchor—and left it on the empty easel with a note in black marker. *You were my rock. Now you’re just a stone.* By the time he realized his mistake and came pounding on my door, I was already gone, flying toward a new life in Montana where he couldn't reach me.
Rejected by the Son, I Chose the Don
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.
His Discarded Wife Is The Rival's Queen
For three years, I played the perfect wife to Fitzgerald David, raising his "orphaned" nephew and building the core technology for his billion-dollar sports empire from scratch. But when my adoptive mother was dying of leukemia and needed a $200,000 bone marrow transplant, he coldly refused to release my own legally earned bonus. Instead, he routed my entire payout to his mistress, Kristi, so she could parade around taking full credit for my patents. When I rushed home to beg him for the money, I found Kristi wearing his family's heirloom diamonds. Their spoiled son was in the courtyard, laughing as he beat my bleeding rescue dog with a heavy brass buckle. Fitzgerald didn't even flinch at the cruelty. "Get on your knees and apologize to Kristi and my son," he demanded. He even threatened to freeze my mother's medical funds so she would die, leaving me completely dependent on the David family. That's when I overheard his private conversation and the sickening truth finally clicked. The boy wasn't his nephew. He was his illegitimate son with Kristi. My marriage was nothing but a calculated PR shield to protect his mistress's reputation while they drained my intellect and treated me like a captive slave. They thought I was trapped, assuming I'd swallow the humiliation to save my mother's life. But they didn't know Fitzgerald had just arrogantly blindly batch-signed his daily executive paperwork. Sitting right at the top of that stack was my unconditional release and non-compete waiver. I calmly saved the audio recording of his paternity fraud, walked out into the blizzard, and accepted a five-million-dollar VP position from his biggest corporate rival.
You Killed My Love, Now Beg For It
For three years, Isabella was Adrian's wife only in bed. She thought her devotion could thaw even the iciest heart. What she got back was years of neglect. She learned she was pregnant just as his first love announced her own baby-and their wedding. Devastated, Isabella hid her belly, signed the papers, and tried to leave. But he shredded them. "Even dead, you're mine!" Then she died. For five years, he hid in his empty mansion, weeping at her grave. Five years later, she returned as an underworld princess, with a loyal protector and a clever young son. Adrian broke down and fell to his knees. "Take my life. Just love me once more." She retorted icily, "The dead have no heart left to give."
ISABELLA
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I Married A Beast
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