Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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The Missing Wife's Return
We were the quintessential Chicago love story, high school sweethearts, married for five blissful years. My husband, Michael, a successful real estate developer, suddenly longed for a family, and our high-profile OB-GYN, Dr. Peterson, joyfully announced we were expecting twins. But eight months into my pregnancy, a chilling conversation changed everything. I overheard Michael conspiring with Dr. Peterson, not about our supposed twins, but about 'Chloe's' baby, and a forced C-section for me to steal her child. "Born a month apart, they won't look like twins," Dr. Peterson warned, yet Michael heartlessly replied, "She won't see them much anyway; I'll keep her occupied." In that horrifying moment, I realized my beloved husband planned to use me to legitimize another woman's baby, then discard me. He was a monster beneath the charming facade, frantically searching for his "missing" pregnant wife on national TV, all a performance. He bought me my dream bakery and orchestrated a public reunion for the cameras, while inside, I felt only cold, sickening dread. Then came Chloe's anonymous messages and Michael's sickening "promotional wedding" with his pregnant mistress, humiliating me publicly. The man I loved, the man I married, was a ghost, replaced by a calculating schemer. How could the man I trusted utterly betray me, twisting our love into such a grotesque charade? But while he reveled in his deception, I was already planning my escape. I had to protect my baby from his sick game, so aided by my powerful mother, I left him with divorce papers, ready for a final act he'd never forget. His confident charade was his undoing; my departure was my fierce liberation./0/86388/coverorgin.jpg?v=7641094bb349bb1c7f42a7eedd357bed&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His Sister, His Choice: My Freedom
The gallery shimmered with color, a vibrant tribute to my son Leo's first year, his framed finger paintings and tiny plaster casts proudly displayed. My art, my life, my world. Today, I was a proud mother and a celebrated artist. Then the gallery door creaked open, and a cold draft swept in with Brenda, my husband' s sister, her eyes already searching for fault lines. "An entire party for a one-year-old? A little much, don' t you think, Sarah? Most people just do a cake and some balloons." The words cut, but the real sting came when she implied my "art" was just a desperate attempt to contribute financially. Mark, my husband, stood beside me, silent, his arm tightening in a gesture of restraint, not defense. The room grew heavy with unspoken judgment, our friends shifting in discomfort. Brenda, reveling in the awkwardness, then whispered loud enough for me to hear, insulting my post-baby body. My throat tightened, and I fought back tears. This was supposed to be a moment of joy, yet here I was, wounded again by someone who delighted in tearing me down. Later, as "Happy Birthday" filled the air, and Leo' s candle flickered, Brenda' s voice sliced through the sweetness: "I wish he grows up to look a little more like Mark. Right now, with that hair, he could be mistaken for the mailman' s kid." The insinuation was vile, stripping any innocence from the day. Something inside me snapped. "Get out," I said, my voice shaking with a rage I hadn' t known I possessed. But when Brenda feigned tears, my husband, Mark, sided with her. "Sarah, that' s enough," he said, his voice cold. "You are making a scene. Apologize to my sister right now." Apologize? His words hit me harder than any slap. He didn' t defend me; he condemned me. He chose his toxic sister over his family, over me. Was this the man I married? The father of my child? My marriage, my sense of security, crumbled into a lie. My pain didn' t matter; my dignity didn' t matter. Only keeping the peace with Brenda mattered, at my expense. As Linda, my gallery-owner friend, began politely ushering guests out, a horrifying clarity washed over me. I couldn't live a life where I always came second. I had to choose myself. I had to choose my son. The battle for my voice, my boundaries, and my future had just begun./1/103127/coverorgin.jpg?v=1bd2f420829df6682fdcab3e62491a4a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
A Scientist's Revenge: New Life
I removed an intern from an award nomination for stealing my dead sister's research. My husband, Craig, was furious. He chose to defend her, not me. His rage turned violent. He destroyed my life's work-a cure for Alzheimer's-then shoved me so hard I miscarried our child. He called me "dramatic" as I bled on the floor. Then he locked me in our home, a prisoner, forcing me to sign over my patents to his mistress, the woman who drove my sister to suicide. He thought he had broken me, that I was his to control. But when he tried to humiliate me in the most depraved way imaginable, I saw my chance. I threw myself from a second-story window. As I lay broken on the ground, watching him rush to his mistress's side, I made a vow. My revenge was just beginning./1/103440/coverorgin.jpg?v=5ee1d150b46222ec72a5f2c978cdbb44&imageMogr2/format/webp)
He Chose Power, She Found Love
Five years after my ex, Clay, traded me for power, we met again at an exclusive summit. He and his new fiancée, Destany, publicly humiliated me, calling me a trespasser and a thief for looking for my son's lost locket. Then, my three-year-old son, Justus, ran to me, crying "Mama!" In a horrifying move, Destany snatched him from my arms. She shrieked to the powerful crowd that I was a low-born commoner who had kidnapped a child of noble blood. The room erupted, calling for my arrest. Clay, the man I once loved, watched with cold satisfaction as guards pinned my arms back. He ordered them to take my son away and deal with me. I screamed that Justus was mine, but my pleas were drowned out by their accusations. How could this be happening? The man who once promised me everything was now helping to rip my child away from me, branding me a criminal. But just as they were about to drag me away, an immense power slammed into the room, forcing everyone to their knees. A tall, imposing figure appeared, his golden eyes blazing with fury. My husband, Damien, had arrived./1/104848/coverorgin.jpg?v=20260107205648&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Not Just An Incubator: The Ex-Wife's Cold Revenge
Ten minutes. That was how close I was to handing my fiancé the keys to a three-hundred-million-dollar empire built on my code. But when I walked into the office, his mistress was sitting in my chair, spinning the pen I bought him for our anniversary. Caleb didn't even look up. He told me the investors wanted stability, not a pregnant woman. He called our unborn child a "liability" and ordered security to escort me out of the building I paid for. I went home to pack, only to find a burner phone hidden in the closet. The texts were brutal. He called me an "incubator." He said once the deal was signed, he’d take the baby and dump the "nerd." When he caught me with the phone, he didn't apologize. He dragged me by my hair and threw me into the soundproof panic room to keep me quiet until the deal closed. "Caleb, please! I'm bleeding!" I pounded on the steel door until my hands were raw. But he just locked it and went to eat pizza with his mistress. Alone in the dark, on the freezing concrete, I felt the life inside me slip away. He hadn't just stolen my company; he had killed my child. He thought I was broken. He thought I was just "the help." But he forgot one thing: I built the security system he was trying to sell. Three days later, I rolled my wheelchair into his victory press conference, flanked by his biggest rival. "Do you trust your new code, Caleb?" "Because I wrote the backdoor. And I just opened it."/0/42899/coverorgin.jpg?v=0bdef79e453cc517e8872cd195f7e2f7&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Single Dad
Most college-aged girls go to Europe to experience their sexual awakening. All I had to do was come home. Ford Dalton isn’t the kind of man I’d look at twice—because I can’t stop looking at him at all. We can’t take our hands off each other in the bar. Back at his house, it’s our lips. And in his bed? There isn’t a single part of us that’s not on fire. One night would never be long enough for Ford to show me every delicious thing he can do to my body./0/79036/coverorgin.jpg?v=c1076ac1e006bc2f7676f105ef4f5bad&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Premiere Night Betrayal
I woke up from a car accident, my head pounding, to Ethan's hushed voice on the phone. Not sweet nothings to me, his injured fiancée, but a deal with his agent to steal my screenplay, "City of Echoes," and give it to A-lister Olivia Monroe. He planned to propose at the premiere, trap me with a ring, and erase me from the narrative of my own success, all for Olivia's comeback and his own glory. The agent, surprisingly, spilled the tea: my early career sacrifice to cover Ethan's plagiarism, and Olivia's involvement in the stress that led to my miscarriage, our baby now gone. Was my entire relationship a carefully woven web of lies, orchestrated by an ambitious man and a manipulative starlet? Then I saw that framed photo of me in Liam Sterling's office: a gesture of respect towards my writing. This realization made me start a new life plan: run, collaborate with Ethan's nemesis, and rewrite my history./0/84042/coverorgin.jpg?v=c85755dc4aec82e52ec3770e62693339&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Discarded Husband, Rising Mogul
Tonight was our tenth anniversary, wrapping up ten years of a meticulously kept contractual marriage. For a decade, I, Ethan Lester, had been the silent architect behind my wife Sabrina Chadwick' s booming real estate empire. I managed her entire life, a dutiful husband and housekeeper, all to repay her for saving my father' s life. But then, she walked in, not alone, but with a smug-faced young man. "So this is the famous kept man," Caleb sneered, his words echoing through our Manhattan penthouse lobby. Sabrina, my wife, my partner of ten years, pulled him towards the elevator, her expression chillingly indifferent, utterly ignoring me. She didn' t care that her protégé was publicly humiliating me. She didn' t care what I felt when I overheard them that night, or the next morning when she ordered me to make them breakfast. I had been nothing but a loyal servant, and now, even that seemed to be beneath her consideration. I was left on a gurney in a crowded hospital hallway with a broken ankle after a car crash SHE forced me into, while she pampered Caleb over a scratch. That was the moment I realized the ultimate insult: I was just a possession, easily discarded. When the doctor asked for my family contacts, I looked him dead in the eye and said, "I have no family. Take her name off." I had been a fool to ever think love could bloom from a bargain, or that I could ever truly matter to her. Now, instead of cleaning her mess, I' m building my own empire. She desperately wants me back, but she has no idea what' s coming./0/86545/coverorgin.jpg?v=760356dd8770398d4297543470984801&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Discarded Husband, Unseen Genius
The Grand Hyatt ballroom glittered with the success of SmithTech's IPO, a company I, Alex Chase, had secretly poured three years of my life into, building its unbreachable cybersecurity. As my wife, Sarah Smith, the celebrated CEO, took the stage, her eyes met mine, chillingly. Then, the hammer fell. "It' s also a night for new beginnings. For cutting away dead weight," she announced, her gaze fixed on me, the "live-in husband." Sarah's assistant, Mark Johnson, smugly presented my termination letter. My "courtesy position" in IT was revoked, my performance "lacking." The cameras, once focused on her triumph, now devoured my public humiliation. Sarah then ordered the destruction of my simple black laptop, calling it "junk," an "eyesore." I watched in silent horror as Mark gleefully smashed it to pieces, scattering the "true core of SmithTech' s security"-my life's work-across the marble floor. They didn't see the truth. They only saw a pathetic husband, discarded. How could they be so blind? This wasn't just a laptop; it was the master key, the quantum core that authenticated their entire system. Without it, SmithTech isn't just vulnerable; it's doomed. Their billions mean nothing. The system I built, the fortress they so carelessly destroyed, will now turn against them. As I walked out into the cool night, leaving behind the laughter and the wreckage, I smiled. My name online wasn't Alex Chase; it was Hades. And their public debut? It just became their public execution. The clock was ticking./0/90456/coverorgin.jpg?v=223a954c3f0b09c1894e6a59ce020674&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Prank That Broke Her
I was on my way to tell my boyfriend, Cooper, that I was pregnant. He was my savior, the man who rescued me after a brutal assault left me an orphan. But when I arrived at his penthouse, I overheard him talking to his sister, Kenya. My entire life was a lie. The assault wasn't random; it was a "prank" they had orchestrated so he could play the hero. It only got worse. Kenya tortured and killed my dog for "surgical practice," and Cooper defended her. They leaked a private video of me, destroying my reputation at school. When I tried to escape, Kenya sent thugs after me, and the attack caused me to miscarry our child. As I lay bleeding in the hospital, Cooper blamed me for losing the baby. He then told me the miscarriage had left me permanently infertile. His final demand was the cruelest. He said I had to "compensate" his sister for all the trouble I'd caused by donating one of my kidneys to her. But they had made one fatal mistake. They thought I was a powerless orphan. They didn't know I had just inherited a billion-dollar empire from a secret aunt. And I was about to use every penny to burn their world to the ground./0/86858/coverorgin.jpg?v=304780b31bf3b2c11bfc125dbda95da0&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Ambition Destroys, Love Saves
My five-year relationship wasn't just with my CEO girlfriend, Olivia; it was with the company we built from scratch. I poured my heart into both, from the late nights debugging to the vision of an empire. Then her entitled nephew, Liam, an intern who knew nothing, pushed a catastrophic error into our live system. It was a million-dollar mistake that could cripple us. When I confronted him, he whined to his aunt. Olivia called me into her office, her voice cold. Liam sat there, feigning tears. She snapped that I was bullying her nephew, who was "just trying his best." Her solution? A choice: either I get demoted to Liam's personal assistant, mentoring him and taking full responsibility for his incompetence, or I clean out my desk and move out of our shared apartment. I signed my resignation, printing it from her own printer, and slid it onto her desk. "I choose option two," I said, handing back her apartment key. "We're done." Olivia, stunned, ripped up my resignation, screaming that I was fired. As I walked out, Liam, emboldened, pointed and yelled that everything was my fault, that I had sabotaged the company. I just kept walking./0/85763/coverorgin.jpg?v=4db0626b3177574de39ef0725d78c85a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Love Dies: A Family's Tragic End
The first thing I felt was the splintering pain in my back, a sharp, ugly ache. My art school interview, my one shot, was missed because a ladder slipped. Instead of concern, my adoptive parents, the Davises, stood over me and my ruined canvases, their faces masks of fury. "Stealing Emily's scholarship spot wasn't enough," my mother shrieked, "now you've sabotaged her art career? We never should have adopted you!" My father grabbed me, hauling me up despite my cry of pain, and dragged me to the attic, slamming the door shut with a deafening metallic click. The familiar dread of claustrophobia seized me. "Please," I gasped, pounding a weak fist against the door, "Please, don't. I can't… I can't breathe." But their footsteps faded, her words echoing: "She's just being dramatic." They left me there, trapped and forgotten, my pleas turning into choked sobs no one would hear. Days later, they discussed plans for Emily during their European vacation, dismissing the growing, sweet stench in the house as my mess. They never thought of me again, not for seven days, not until it was too late./0/81070/coverorgin.jpg?v=b232112d2947c22e1a0e52e2299551a9&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Report That Broke Us
Four months pregnant, I was floating on cloud nine. My husband, David, held my hand as we walked into Dr. Peterson' s office. Today was the day for our baby' s genetic screening results – a joyful formality, we thought, confirming our perfect future. But the moment David scanned the detailed report, his happy face shattered. It drained of color, twisting into a mask of pure terror and bitter revulsion. "You need to have an abortion," he choked out, his voice utterly unrecognizable, fixed on the sterile pages. My own parents arrived, their expressions mirroring David' s grotesque horror. Without explanation, they drugged me, dragged me to a remote cabin, and forced a "medically induced miscarriage." I awoke weeks later in a high-end mental institution, labeled hysterical, my baby gone, my spirit utterly crushed. I had died there, surrounded by silence and indifference. What unspeakable secret was on that paper? What could turn my loving husband and doting parents into monsters who condemned me and my unborn child with such shocking cruelty? The betrayal was a wound deeper than any physical pain, leaving me with a burning, desperate question. Then, I gasped awake, clutching my pregnant belly. It hadn't happened yet. It was a premonition, a horrific, vivid nightmare. This time, I wouldn't be a passive victim. This time, I would get that report first. And this time, I would fight like hell./0/80288/coverorgin.jpg?v=6e5e38d2cfc4cb5cca7f15e01c3479fa&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Fiancé to Fiend, Sister to Slayer
Locked away in a mental health center, my only window to the outside was a rickety tablet. I watched, hopeful, as my sister Chloe walked down the aisle, her smile a burst of sunlight on her wedding day. But the joyful scene shattered in an instant. A woman, face grotesquely scarred, shrieked venomous accusations about Chloe ruining her life. Without a word of defense, her fiancé Mark, twisted with rage, slapped Chloe across the face, declared her "poison," and had her violently dragged away to a sinister "farm" for "purification." The livestream cut out, leaving me in stunned silence. Then came Mom’s call, her voice a thin, broken wire: Chloe was gone. Dead. An "accident" at that farm, they said, left without medical help. When Mom tried to get answers, Mark’s men beat her and threw her out. My sister, the kindest soul, was brutally taken from us. Chloe, gone due to such callous cruelty and calculated neglect? The unbearable injustice, the suffocating grief, sparked a suppressed fury I’d carried for years. They called me dangerous, diagnosed me with an explosive disorder, and for years, I'd fought it. But now, that dark fire felt like the only truth. No longer fighting my demons, I unleashed them. In a cold, calculated move, I forced my way out of that institution, leaving chaos in my wake. The cool Oregon air hit my face, carrying the scent of impending rain and undeniable revenge. My sister deserved justice, and I was going to deliver it, no matter the cost./1/103128/coverorgin.jpg?v=451812381843dba22af34123dfbdb113&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Birthday, His Cruel Betrayal
On my 28th birthday, my superstar boyfriend, Jarrett, stood me up. He had to comfort his co-star, Kisha. A few hours later, I saw the paparazzi photo that ended our seven-year relationship. Jarrett was in a dimly lit bar, his arm wrapped around a tear-streaked Kisha, her head on his shoulder. The next morning, I confronted him. He insisted it was just "method acting." "She was just drunk," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Confessing her feelings for her character." He called me dramatic and paranoid for questioning him. He said I was throwing away seven years over a "stupid photo." It was the same gaslighting he'd used for years, wrapping his emotional infidelity in a pretty little "method acting" bow. But this time, I didn't cry. I felt a sudden, chilling calm. "I regret every second I wasted loving you," I told him. "We are over."/0/38676/coverorgin.jpg?v=bbf53ad7829f203d7481399e03b77d82&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Elevator
ELEVATOR BLURB Sometimes people do find love in a hopeless place, but it never comes without an emotional rollercoaster. Adrianna McPherson, the rebel heir to a Billion dollar business empire is forced to marry a man as equally ruthless as her father and even richer, another rebel heir to a Billion Dollar business empire. Adrianna and her areanged husband Lucas Shaul go through a loveless marriage, trauma, life threatening adventures and then find love. This is a tale of finding love in unexpected places, coming of age, rebellion and Outsmarting adversaries. You're in for a rollercoaster, more accurately an elevator ride of adventures from the McPherson's and the Shauls, this is Billionaire romance like you've never seen, rather—read before./1/103441/coverorgin.jpg?v=2afcf1a07cd407caaf96c1ff6ab1d1ae&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Rebirth: A Billionaire's Sweet Vow
In my last life, my fiancé and stepsister stole my company and left me for dead. Now, reborn, I have to watch it all happen again. At a lavish ball, Christian publicly humiliates me, flaunting his affair with my stepsister, Genevieve. They think I'm the same weak woman who will crumble. Genevieve even steals the one proposal that could save my mother's legacy, texting me that I'll end up with nothing. At a family dinner, Christian tries to force my hand, falsely announcing we're already married to secure his position. He expects me to play along in front of the one man who could change everything: the legendary tech titan, Immanuel Romero. But I refuse. When Christian grabs me in a rage, a powerful hand stops him. Immanuel Romero steps between us, his voice like ice. "Never touch her again." Then, he looks at the stunned room and makes an announcement that shatters their entire plan. "Eliana is my fiancée."/0/84043/coverorgin.jpg?v=aad763b1ba4a2a62c2472b5891dab070&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Inmate's Redemption: A Mob Boss's Debt
After six long years, I walked out of prison on my 30th birthday, ready to reclaim my life. Instead, my ex-husband, Ryan, arrived with his high school sweetheart, Gabby, who coldly informed me Ryan's sleek new Tesla had "Gabby's seat." My own son, Caleb, now ten, peered from the back, his eyes mirroring his father's icy gaze, asking why I was even trying to get into "Aunt Gabby's seat." Then came the demand: apologize to Gabby publicly for what I "did," or Caleb would forever believe I was a "crazy liar" who attacked Gabby, his "real mom." Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, a deliberate hit-and-run orchestrated by Gabby left me broken and vulnerable in a hospital bed, part of a sinister plan to fake amnesia and commit me to a mental institution permanently. How could the man I built an empire with, and my own child, be so utterly poisoned against me? But they underestimated me. Prison taught me how to survive, how to wait, and how to call in a forgotten favor from a dying mob boss. I'm Jocelyn, and the comeback they never saw coming just started./0/86546/coverorgin.jpg?v=c1f5f4a615ecb1143b0c14d824723219&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His Penny-Pinching, My Power
The searing pain from my C-section was nothing compared to the shock of my husband' s first words. "Did the doctor give you the final bill? The C-section costs more. You need to cover it." I had just brought our daughter, Lily, into the world, a difficult birth that required emergency surgery to save her life. Yet, for Tom, it was simply an "extra cost" for my body. This was his idea of "AA parenting"-Active and Accountable, splitting every child-related expense down the middle. What I thought was a progressive vision of equality quickly morphed into a financial battlefield where every diaper, every ounce of formula, became an itemized debt. When we moved into my parents' house for recovery, hoping for support, Tom saw only a "cost-saving opportunity." He ate their food, used their electricity, and never offered a dime, all while sending me spreadsheets for Lily' s pacifier and baby lotion. He never changed a diaper. He never comforted his crying daughter. He just watched TV, claiming a "long day." It became agonizingly clear that in his eyes, he was merely a "financial partner" in a project he was already losing interest in. The final straw came when I overheard a neighbor revealing his true feelings: he' d wanted a boy, because it would be "simpler, cheaper in the long run." His penny-pinching wasn' t about equality; it was about the supposed "lesser investment" of a daughter. So, when he and his mother publicly shamed me on social media, accusing me of mental instability, I didn't hold back. I posted screenshots of his vile texts, exposing his calculated cruelty to the entire neighborhood. I was done being the silent victim. I was going to fight back, and I was going to win./0/83261/coverorgin.jpg?v=e30db038d961759d8b3257c80508f431&imageMogr2/format/webp)
