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Modern Books for Men

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon. The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat. I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant. "Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive." There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission. For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment. When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself. "Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary."
Mighty Super-rich Heir

Mighty Super-rich Heir

Ever since I was a child, I had always been poor. Every time I came home from school, I would be met with the sight of my father busying himself in the kitchen. From my earliest recollection, I would always remember my father wearing his old factory uniforms in the house. His hair was snow-white and he had very dark skin. He would usually smoke cheap cigarettes and the car he drove around was a Santana which was a real wreck. Despite all our hardships, my father threw himself into his work for 18 years and raised me to his best abilities, and I ended up not disappointing him as I managed to get into a very good university. Because I came from poverty, I had to work a part-time job in order to pay the high tuition fees. I knew my classmates must’ve looked down on me because I was so poor, but I did my best to not let that bother me. On the day of my 18th birthday, my father announced that he was going to give me a birthday present and that he would bring it to me in person. That day I saw my father in a new light. My father’s coarse snow-white head had turned shiny black. He had replaced his tattered clothes with expensive Givenchy suits, and he even wore a Patek Philippe watch around his wrist. The old Santana was now a limited edition Rolls Royce. I stared at my father with bewildered eyes and asked him in an incredulous voice, “Dad, is our family really the richest in the world right now?” My father took out a Mayan Sicars cigar worth $500,000, lit it, and blew out a smoke ring. “Son, I know you’ve suffered a lot for the past 18 years, and I feel ashamed that I couldn’t have provided more for you. I want you to take this ten million as pocket money first. You can ask me for more later if it’s not enough!”