Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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Broken And Betrayed: A Billionaire's Regret
My ten-year contract marriage was over. I had saved my sister's life by playing wife to a billionaire and mother to his two sons. Today, I was finally free. But at my stepson's birthday party, my public execution began when a deepfake porn video starring my face was broadcast to all of New York's elite. Then, my husband's ex-wife, Carolina, orchestrated my downfall. She stabbed herself and blamed me. The boys I raised screamed that I was a monster. And my husband, Justin, believing her lies, beat me so brutally that I miscarried the child I never knew I was carrying. He chose her. He chose the lie. He let our child die. But his mother, the woman who orchestrated our marriage, saved me. Months later, my ex-husband and stepsons found me in LA, crying and begging me to come home. I looked at the men who destroyed me and smiled. "No," I said calmly. "I don't need you anymore."/0/84063/coverorgin.jpg?v=536b235a42953b70eaffdc564a879e8d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Unmade By Love, Remade By Self
My life for the last decade has been an endless parent-teacher conference, a special kind of hell where I was the main exhibit. It all shattered when my nine-year-old stepdaughter, Madisyn, hurled a weighted beanbag at my head, then publicly denounced me as a "kept man" and a "gold-digging loser." The humiliation spiraled, culminating in a doctored photo circulating, reviving an old, devastating lie that branded me a pervert, while my wife and her ex-boyfriend flaunted their affair and my stepdaughter called him "Dad" with a loving smile. But the real horror struck when my wife confessed: her mother had been secretly drugging me for years, suppressing my hormones, to make me "docile," to "keep me calm." That' s when the familiar ache of humiliation hardened into a single, cold thought: I'm done./0/86566/coverorgin.jpg?v=5a518357660b2d7d16a4b5ead45df518&imageMogr2/format/webp)
A Mother's Vengeful Heart
The world turned into a twisted metal scream. One moment, I was humming along in the car with my son, Ethan, in the back. The next, a violent jolt, a blinding pain, and then - silence. Too much silence. My son was gone. My husband, David, pulled me from the wreck, a mask of panic on his face. But in the emergency room, as I drifted in and out of consciousness, his voice from the hallway cut through the fog: "Just make sure it' s done. No loose ends. The problem is solved. Now I can finally move forward without any… distractions." A distraction? Was our son just a problem to him? The man I loved, the father of my child, had orchestrated his death. And when I woke from surgery, he delivered another cruel blow, a lie that ripped away my ability to ever be a mother again. He buried Ethan without me, dismissed his toys, and called my love for our child an "obsession." The grief I felt became a chilling clarity. He hadn't just lost our son; he had murdered him. And then, at night, I found his hidden life-another woman, Victoria, and another son, Alex. An email from David, dated the day Ethan was born, called my son an "error." How could he have done this? How could his hate run so deep? Every moment, every memory, was re-framed by this horrific betrayal. The man I married was a monster, his grief a sickening performance. My son's last drawing, a simple wish for his daddy to play catch, solidified my purpose. I was no longer a grieving mother; I was an instrument of justice. My work was just beginning./1/101584/coverorgin.jpg?v=e9cfef3da5657e293d004cca9d4fa562&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Altar, The Lies, His Penance
Five years ago, my fiancé, Carter, left me at the altar. My sister, Camilla, framed me, and my own parents helped brand me a promiscuous woman who got pregnant by a stranger. Abandoned and shamed, I was left to raise my son, Leo, alone, surviving three suicide attempts and a complete mental breakdown. Now, Carter is back. He's obsessed, convinced Leo is his son, and is trying to take him from me. He even used a DNA test to prove Leo isn't my biological child, pushing me back to the edge of insanity. When my sister tried to disfigure me with acid, I finally fought back. I slapped my parents, severing ties with the family that used and abused me. But the truth was far more twisted than I ever imagined. Carter's mother confessed everything-the lies, the manipulation, the real reason he abandoned me. He destroyed his own career in an act of penance, but it was too late. Because the man who saved me, the man who stood by me through it all, had loved me in secret for years. And I was finally ready to see him./0/85784/coverorgin.jpg?v=f57b21a4e5f374843f101cf1e9719838&imageMogr2/format/webp)
A Wife's Quiet Devastation
My husband, Mark, swore he' d never betray me. After three years of his relentless pursuit, promising a world where my work was respected, I believed him. Then, a routine check of our shared finances revealed recurring, substantial transfers to a secluded suburban home I' d never heard of. I drove there myself, my heart pounding at the sight of his second car in the driveway, the one always "at the repair shop." Chloe, Mark' s distant cousin, opened the door, her panic palpable, and behind her, two small children, twins, peeked out with Mark' s eyes. Just then, Mark' s car pulled in, and his smile vanished when he saw me, followed by his parents, beaming, cooing over the toddlers. He dropped to his knees, begging, "Those aren' t my kids. I swear they aren' t." He spun a tale of Chloe' s assault and his noble act of protection, a story Chloe tearfully corroborated, then added, "Please, let me stay." As she moved, I saw it-a clear, undeniable pregnant belly, and before I could ask who this father was, she shrieked, pulling a paring knife to her throat, "Don' t ask! I can' t take it! I' ll kill myself!" Mark' s parents shot me dirty looks, comforting a sobbing Chloe, their unified front of lies cornering me. I gave a stiff nod, allowing this charade, this invasion, into my home. But in that moment, something inside me broke. He didn' t buy himself more time; he' d only started the clock on his own destruction./0/79996/coverorgin.jpg?v=ef4be126f13c86a70dffc5f7764369bd&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Billionaire's Wife: A Death That Wasn't
Sarah Thorne, née Miller, lived in a glittering New York penthouse, the wife of tech billionaire Marcus Thorne. Everyone whispered it was a fairytale, but Sarah was trapped, a silent prisoner in a gilded cage. Her world crumbled when Marcus, the man who’d allegedly ‘saved’ her, began using her parents’ struggling diner as ruthless leverage, threatening them with prison. Then, his mistress Tiffany arrived, turning Sarah’s home into a stage for relentless humiliation. Marcus’s cruelty escalated: from gaslighting his infidelity to forcing Sarah into a childhood trauma trigger – a dark, rat-infested root cellar. He even publicly shamed her with leaked childhood photos and doused her in greasy dishwater at a high-society event. The betrayal was absolute. How could the man who promised her the world become her tormentor? Why did he constantly break her down? In despair, Sarah decided she couldn't escape him alive. She contacted her childhood chemist friend, Evie, for an untraceable substance. Her grim plan: a final, shared exit. But Evie's "poison" wasn't what Sarah thought. It was a reversible sedative, designed not for an end, but for Sarah's ultimate freedom and Marcus's brutal, surprising reckoning./0/82812/coverorgin.jpg?v=3f410213bfbc56ae82934ad40fb7f8c3&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Quiet Force's Reckoning
My life revolved around AuraStream, the tech company I co-founded with my wife, Olivia, where I was the quiet force behind the scenes. Our shared tradition: Olivia, the CEO, would dedicate the prestigious Innovator's Chalice to me, acknowledging our joint vision, every single year. But this year, the gala lights felt cold as she announced the award was for "fresh perspective," for Noah Evans, a junior marketing intern. My gut twisted as Noah immediately plastered photos of Olivia, the chalice, and himself across Instagram, celebrating "my CEO' s belief in my vision." The public humiliation escalated as Olivia showered Noah with a luxury company car for organizing pizza lunches, promoted him to "Special Projects Coordinator" over qualified veterans, and dismissed my team' s concerns about his incompetence. I watched, baffled, as she defended him and told me to "get my people in line" when he actively stole our ideas. The ultimate betrayal struck on the launch day of our flagship platform, Phoenix, when Olivia skipped out, claiming a "crucial partner meeting." Instead, I saw Noah' s Instagram post: poolside at a luxury resort, clinking champagne flutes with Olivia, who was conspicuously wearing the custom white gold watch I' d given her – the one with our entwined initials. How could she so openly flaunt her favoritism, her affair, and our shattered trust, using a symbol of our marriage to mock me? As the pieces clicked into place, a cold, unyielding resolve settled deep within me. She broke it all, and now, it was my turn to show her the true meaning of consequences./1/102836/coverorgin.jpg?v=f3a74caacbaff4f292b60249f9a35ce3&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Her Final Act of Vengeance
My husband, Conrad, pulled me from the abyss after my brother died, saving me when I had nothing. He promised to protect me forever. But for ten years, his endless affairs and cruel mind games have been a slow poison, leaving me with a terminal illness and a broken spirit. The final blow came on our tenth anniversary. He gave my gift-an emerald necklace I' d dreamed of since our honeymoon-to his mistress, Aubrey. But that wasn't enough. He then gave her the last piece of my brother I had left: his final symphony. She scribbled on the pages, used them as a coaster, and called his life's work "garbage." As my body failed, I realized the man who swore to save me had weaponized my deepest traumas to destroy me. My love curdled into a cold, quiet rage. Now, drowning in guilt, he has destroyed Aubrey to atone for his sins. He kneels by my deathbed, begging for forgiveness, promising to do anything to earn it. He has no idea my final act of revenge requires his absolute devotion. And his life./0/84220/coverorgin.jpg?v=b7904455e0d669dba20523fdb772ca22&imageMogr2/format/webp)
From Disgrace to State Champion
For years, my life revolved around the track, every stride a step closer to a college scholarship, my only ticket out. My younger sister, Molly, barely trained but somehow always beat me by a hair, basking in our parents' proud glances. I pushed harder than anyone, bleeding on the track, only for her to effortlessly pull ahead, usually with a smug, "Didn't want to hurt your feelings." But at the Regional Qualifiers, with college scouts watching, she took it too far. Mid-race, she faked a stumble and pointed straight at me, yelling I had shoved her. My own coach, convinced by the rumors she' d spread, disqualified me on the spot, erasing my dreams in one swift, heartbreaking blow. My parents, who worshipped Molly, accused me of jealousy, of being a "sore loser," even as I stood there, utterly numb, my future crumbling. How could someone who barely tried consistently beat me, then maliciously destroy my reputation and chances? Why did everyone believe her effortless lies over my years of sacrifice? Sitting on the cold floor of my room, staring at the wreckage of my life, I finally saw it: her success wasn't hers at all. It was a parasite, feeding on my effort, my dreams. And I realized, with chilling clarity, the only way out was to make the parasite eat itself alive./1/102054/coverorgin.jpg?v=828cbf573e24a89aa516682206765801&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Twin's Last Martian Wish
For five years, I played the part of the devoted wife to a billionaire who despised me. I endured his coldness, his public affair with his mistress Gisele, and every humiliation he threw my way. All of it was a performance, a long game for one single purpose. On our fifth anniversary, the day my contract ended, I finally collected my deceased fiancé Julian's ashes. His last wish was to have them scattered on Mars, a dream only accessible to me through my marriage to his identical twin brother, Clayton. With my mission accomplished, I asked for a divorce. But Clayton, the man who had ignored me for half a decade, refused. He laughed, then kissed me with a brutal possessiveness I' d never felt before. "You're not going anywhere," he whispered. "You're mine now." He dragged me from our sterile penthouse, his eyes burning with a terrifying obsession. He offered me a real marriage, a child, a future I never wanted. He couldn't understand that my heart had always belonged to his dead brother. When I finally revealed the truth-that our entire marriage was just a means to fulfill Julian's last wish-he didn't let me go. He broke. He abandoned his mistress, begged, and even kidnapped me, convinced he could force me to love him. "You'll learn to be mine," he snarled, his sanity unraveling as he held me captive on his private jet. "We'll have children. They'll bind us together. You'll never leave me then." But he was wrong. This wasn't the story of a woman won over by a monster's late-blooming love. This was the story of my escape, and I was finally ready to be free./0/86411/coverorgin.jpg?v=ec04a9e0c20a9d39efb4f70d3d8c3cbd&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Nanny’s Vengeance, A New Life
The grand hall buzzed, thick with the scent of champagne and success, a celebration for my son Liam' s tech company going public. My heart swelled with fierce pride, eighteen years of sacrifice culminating in this moment. Then, the main doors swung open, and I saw her: Olivia, my best friend, whom I' d watched die eighteen years ago, right after giving birth. Beside her stood Mark, my ex-fiancé, who' d abandoned me weeks before our wedding. They walked towards the stage like they owned it, and Liam, my son, beamed. "Please welcome my mother, Olivia Hayes, and her husband, Mark Johnson!" My mother. The words punched me. I watched, frozen, as Olivia embraced Liam on stage. "Some of you may know Susan Miller," Olivia announced, pointing directly at me as cameras flashed. "We faked my death and gave her our son to raise, to see if she would sacrifice everything for him. And she did!" Laughter rippled through the crowd, a grotesque mockery of my life. Mark added, "Now, the test is over. It' s time for our son to come home, to his real family." My eyes darted to Liam. No warmth, no love, only cool, dismissive pity. "Thank you for everything, Susan. You were a great nanny. But it' s time for me to be with my real parents." Nanny. Eighteen years of lullabies, scraped knees, and unwavering love reduced to a job title. The betrayal ripped through me, stealing my breath, and I collapsed into darkness. Then, the sharp, antiseptic smell of a hospital. The rhythmic beep of a machine. I was back. Back on the day Olivia gave birth. The day my life was stolen./0/83126/coverorgin.jpg?v=4c744abc557c62fc5016aa7901e95242&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Bride Who Rose from Ashes
Days before my picture-perfect wedding to Kevin Davenport, a man as beloved in our tight-knit town as his prominent family, my life stretched before me, an unblemished canvas. But a late-night stroll turned into a nightmare when I was savagely attacked, leaving me battered, disfigured, and my future hanging by a thread. Waking in the sterile hospital room, amidst the beeping machines, the true horror unfolded: my own father and brother, the very men who vowed to protect me, were the architects of my suffering. I overheard them celebrating, their voices chillingly calm, about how my "unfortunate accident" cleared the path for Dad's ambitious intern, Jessica Evans, to become a Davenport in my stead. They deliberately stalled my reconstructive surgery, allowing my severe injuries to worsen, while simultaneously unleashing a venomous smear campaign across social media, painting me as the villain. And then came the doctor's quiet confession: the brutal assault and subsequent neglect meant I might never be able to have children. The ultimate blow landed when Jessica herself glided into my room in my wedding dress, her triumphant smile twisting as she leaned in to whisper that she'd paid the attackers extra to ensure my visible "unforgettable" disfigurement. My father and brother watched, their faces hard with approval, ready to silence my pain. How could the family I loved, the people who should have protected me, orchestrate such a monstrous betrayal, sacrificing my body, my future, and my very identity for their ambition? The physical agony paled in comparison to the searing rage and profound despair that ignited within me, consuming every last shred of my old life. They thought they had broken me irrevocably, that I was a defeated, silenced doll in their cruel game. But as they celebrated their victory, I reached for a hidden burner phone, dialing the number of a woman they had underestimated for years: my formidable, estranged mother, Eleanor Vance, a corporate lawyer in New York. Let them think I was sedated and compliant. My real fight had just begun./0/82031/coverorgin.jpg?v=fbf6963a1d25133ae8c670e4790c5008&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Dying Wife's Last Revenge
My doctor' s words echoed: rare, aggressive cancer. My husband, Mark, squeezed my hand, his politician's smile unconvincing. Then came the sliver of hope: an exclusive experimental program. But my sympathetic specialist, Dr. Ramirez, also mentioned my adopted sister, Jessica, suffering from a "severe, debilitating" flu aftermath. Mark, backed by my parents, didn't hesitate. They deemed frail Jessica more deserving of the treatment, claiming I was "strong." I watched as my only chance was handed over to her. It wasn't enough. Soon, Mark asked for a divorce to marry Jessica, citing her "stability" and "Leo' s future." My life' s work, my beloved bakery chain, signed over. My son, Leo, began calling Jessica "Mom." Even as my body screamed warnings – nosebleeds, fainting – they dismissed them, telling me to stop being "dramatic" and "upsetting Jessica." How could they be so utterly blind? So consumed by their self-serving narratives, so deaf to my silent screams? I was dying, yet they only saw a "strong" woman who needed to be "sensible" and give everything away. But then, Dr. Ramirez slipped me an unmarked vial: an experimental analgesic, three days of perfect health before a painful end. Three days to look fine, feel normal. Three days for my ultimate plan. My revenge would be served cold, from beyond the grave./1/102055/coverorgin.jpg?v=f528b7005b2f6139b8a15aadd3d0d325&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Transactional Marriage: Her Bitter Ascent
The first time my husband, Gregory, chose a billion-dollar deal over my father' s funeral, I knew our marriage was a transaction. But when he started canceling meetings for an actress named Kennedy, I realized he was capable of love-just not for me. Then came the whispers of his devotion: buying her a theater, brawling with a director who criticized her. My investigation led to a "warning"-a hit-and-run that left me hospitalized. His assistant's message was chilling: "Accidents do happen." At the police station, after he'd been in another fight for her, Kennedy pointed at me and wailed, "Make her kneel! Make her apologize for breathing the same air as us!" Gregory' s cold eyes met mine. "Christie," he commanded, his voice deadly quiet. "Kneel."/0/81249/coverorgin.jpg?v=8c7717467fd41a0d9c93b49010cad49d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Woman They Tried To Erase
I risked my life daily, fighting monsters to keep our post-apocalyptic community, The Hollow, alive. Yet, they only saw Anna-the gentle, beloved persona inhabiting my body. My brother, Michael, and my former love, Caleb, preferred her, doting on her while ignoring the real me, Sarah. When Project Chimera offered "consciousness integration therapy"-a polite term for erasing me-my own people readily agreed. They celebrated it as Anna's path to freedom, pushing me to sacrifice myself on the very anniversary of my deepest sorrow. I retreated, a silent prisoner. Anna played the helpless victim, effortlessly charming Michael and Caleb, who lavished her with protection. Caleb, my last hope, gave her the tenderness he once reserved for me. "He chose me," Anna's smug triumph echoed in my mind, as my very self began to blur. The betrayal was a gaping wound. How could they discard me, the one who bled for their survival? Was I nothing more than a tool, an inconvenient ghost to be wished away? The agony was so profound, I willed myself into oblivion. But oblivion wasn't the end. Days later, a desperate Chimera needed my unique brain patterns. Forced to resurface, I came face-to-face with him: Ethan Vance, my forgotten childhood love. He wasn't there to erase me. He had orchestrated everything to bring me back-transferring my true self to my original, secretly healed body. My rebirth, stronger than ever, was just beginning./0/84378/coverorgin.jpg?v=9f386b5dfe26bbf93e471a555096ccfd&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Fiancee's Lie: A Conspiracy Unraveled
My name is Ethan Hughes. I was a decorated Army Ranger, but PTSD brought me back to civilian life, seeking quiet stability with my brilliant fiancée, Sabrina, and my childhood best friend, Anthony. One night, the medication for my PTSD hit harder than usual, a thick fog pulling me under. Then, a sharp, chemical scent - gas. Through the haze, I saw Sabrina, methodical, setting up the apartment. And Anthony, watching her from the doorway. "Is it done?" he asked, his voice low. "I've planted the data trail," Sabrina replied, grabbing my laptop. "It'll look like he downloaded the files and then, overcome with guilt, decided to end it. A tragic story of a damaged veteran." My mind screamed. They were framing me for treason. My fiancée. My best friend. As the gas thickened, Anthony' s cold eyes met mine, devoid of friendship. "He'll be the perfect scapegoat, Sabrina. No one questions the actions of a man with PTSD." Rage burned, but my body was useless. I was trapped, listening to them discuss my staged suicide, my betrayal. My father, the real hero, would have saved Sabrina's. But here I was, drowning in their lies. Then, black. I woke, paralyzed, a machine beeping. Overhearing Sabrina confirm I was in a medically induced coma, the narrative set: "Troubled veteran... committed treason." They had even altered security footage. Buried alive. What kind of nightmare was this? And who could possibly believe me, trapped in a dead body, with no voice?/0/81093/coverorgin.jpg?v=28bca5c6edf7cf559c6e12e607c106c6&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Strike Three, You're Out
My six-year-old son, Danny, was vibrant and healthy, until my estranged wife, Sarah, demanded he donate his liver to her ex-lover, a washed-up football star. As a paramedic, I knew the devastating risks, but Sarah, blinded by her obsession with this "hero" figure, forced the surgery through. Soon after, in the pediatric ICU, Danny hemorrhaged and urgently needed blood - O-negative, Sarah's blood type. But Sarah was at the "hero's" lavish "welcome home" party, celebrating, utterly dismissing my frantic calls as "drama." My son died that day, his tiny hand growing cold in mine, while his mother reveled in the reflected glory of a man she idolized. Then came the crushing truth: Sarah had pushed the surgeons for a riskier, expedited procedure, declaring Ace Henderson's life the absolute priority. Still, the final, unforgivable horror was yet to come. At Danny' s treasured Little League field, where I went to scatter his ashes, Sarah and Ace showed up for a live PR stunt. Ace' s nephew, egged on by them, snatched Danny' s baseball urn, spilled his ashes onto the pitcher' s mound, and then stomped on them, gleefully shouting, "Strike three, you' re out!" I was held back, screaming, watching my son's last remains obliterated by the very people he died for, by a mother's monstrous indifference. How could such calculated cruelty be unleashed upon a child's memory, by those who should have protected him? A part of my soul died on that dusty field, leaving only a vast, echoing void. I vanished, abandoning my old life, certain peace was forever beyond my grasp. But a discovery, a fragile legacy left by Danny, might just offer a path through the darkness./0/83127/coverorgin.jpg?v=c9656797caac50bc09fb84eedcc96447&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Divorce Papers and a Newborn
I was 39 weeks pregnant, eagerly nesting for our daughter, Emily. Our Austin home was filled with dreams of a perfect new family. My ambitious architect husband, Ethan, traveled constantly for "high-stakes" projects. But I trusted our future. Then, breaking news flashed across the screen: a military coup in South America. On it, his award-winning documentary filmmaker ex-girlfriend, Olivia, was caught in the chaos, presumed in grave danger. That same night, as my first contractions began, Ethan dropped a bombshell. He was flying to South America immediately. Not for business, but for her. He walked out as my water broke. He was choosing his ex over his wife and unborn child. Days later, news of Ethan's critical injury reached me. It unleashed a barrage of demands from his family and friends. They expected me to rescue him, to pay his escalating medical bills. They expected me to be the forgiving "dutiful wife"—despite his shocking betrayal. But the deepest cut came when my lawyer unearthed the truth. For years, Ethan had been secretly siphoning thousands from our joint savings. He was taking from our daughter's future, funneling it to Olivia's 'humanitarian' non-profit. It wasn't just abandonment. It was a cold, systematic betrayal, built on lies. How could he do this to us, to Emily? I refused to follow his family's script. When a critically injured Ethan finally returned, expecting forgiveness and a tearful reunion, I was there. Not as a heartbroken wife. Instead, I was armed with divorce papers and a fierce determination to reclaim every penny he stole. This was my battle, for Emily and for me. It was the beginning of a new life on our own terms./1/105654/coverorgin.jpg?v=80d180e8824307000e4363f307624cfc&imageMogr2/format/webp)
No Escape: The Billionaire Won't Sign
I returned to New York with two scuffed suitcases and a broken heart, ready to end my three-year exile as a ghost wife. All I wanted was to sign the divorce papers, move my dying mother to hospice, and vanish from the billionaire Spears family forever. But the moment I stepped into the penthouse, I saw a pair of expensive red-bottomed heels by the door that weren't mine. Carlyle, the husband who hadn't spoken to me in years, was already moving his mistress into our home before the ink on our separation agreement was even dry. The humiliation was only the beginning. Carlyle treated me like an intruder in my own house, yet he forced me to attend high-society galas as his "perfect" wife to protect his reputation. When I tried to leave, he froze my bank accounts, leaving me unable to pay for my mother’s life-saving treatment. He watched my desperation with cold, predatory eyes, flaunting his new romance in the tabloids while keeping me trapped in his freezing home. My mother’s doctors warned me she was running out of time, but Carlyle only used her illness as a leash to keep me from running. I didn't understand why he was doing this to me. I had clearly signed away the money and the name, so why wouldn't he let me go? Why did he have me watched for years if he hated me so much? Why was he flaunting another woman while refusing to sign the papers that would set us both free? What did he want from a woman he claimed to despise? When I finally cornered him with the final decree, Carlyle didn't pick up the pen. He snatched the folder, a flicker of cold triumph in his icy eyes. "The terms are wrong, Beatrix. I'm adding an employment clause. You’re going to work for me, in my office, where I can keep you under my thumb 24/7." He didn't just refuse to sign the papers; he had just turned my divorce into a permanent prison sentence./1/102056/coverorgin.jpg?v=2c19c8de1dddb3eda4182d1bee845be6&imageMogr2/format/webp)
