Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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The Comeback Billionaire
I, Mike Evans, died young from endless work, a fool who gave everything to build a future. But then, as my soul drifted, I watched my supposed devoted wife, Jessica, calmly discard my ashes, her face devoid of grief. Moments later, she was in *our* bed with Chad Peterson, my best friend, laughing, truly laughing. My son, Kevin, the one I poured every dime into for his surgical career, walked in and called Chad, "Dad." My entire fortune, built brick by painful brick, was now theirs to exploit. Jessica’s "girls’ trips" and Kevin’s "specialized training" were just cover stories for their years-long affair. This sickening truth, this profound betrayal, ripped through me with a pain far more searing than death itself. My life, my sacrifices, had fueled their illicit happiness, making me nothing more than a convenient workhorse to be discarded. How could I have been so monumentally, tragically blind to such a colossal lie? Then, an unexpected jolt, a blinding flash, and I gasped, choking on lake water. I was back, years in the past, at the exact moment I was supposed to "save" Jessica from drowning. The very incident that launched my miserable first life of servitude. But this time, things would be different. This time, the game would change./1/101985/coverorgin.jpg?v=a8929ca4497a9b819ef4bd1531a5e73f&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Don't Cry Now, My Heartless Ex-Husband
The smell of leaking gasoline burned my nostrils, but the cold look in my husband's eyes hurt worse. Trapped in the overturned car, I watched Jacob reach in. He didn't reach for me, his wife. He unbuckled his mistress, Cassandra, shielding her head with a tenderness he never showed me. He walked away, leaving me to burn. I survived, but at a brutal cost. My right hand—the hand that played Chopin—was crushed into a useless claw. Jacob didn't apologize. Instead, he moved Cassandra into our home. He let her wear my diamonds, mock my injuries, and burn my sheet music. When I tried to expose her embezzlement, he called me unstable. To punish me for "betraying the family," he dug up my mother's grave and threw her ashes into the sea. That was the moment the wife died, and something else was born. He thought he had buried me under the weight of his cruelty. He didn't realize he had planted a seed. I staged my death and vanished into the snowy streets of Vienna. Five years later, I am a world-renowned composer, and Jacob is a ruined man in a wheelchair, begging for a forgiveness I no longer have the energy to give./0/82274/coverorgin.jpg?v=61745903f649c4f12740b2f693f1cfed&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Her Sacrifice Burned Away
Ava Miller, terminally ill with ALS, fled a brutal five-year imprisonment in a mental health facility. Her desperate wish was a final act of control: a pre-arranged full-body donation for complete disintegration, leaving no trace behind. But her carefully planned escape shattered when she collided with Liam Donovan, her former fiancé and the man who believed she was responsible for his beloved sister' s tragic death. Liam, consumed by grief and rage, dragged Ava into a new nightmare, intent on making her pay for Chloe' s loss. Despite her rapidly worsening illness and broken body, Ava shielded a secret that would exonerate her but destroy Chloe' s memory, embracing Liam' s abuse as penance. She endured public degradation, horrific assaults, and even a forced bone marrow donation that left her paralyzed, all to uphold her silent promise. How could the man she still desperately loved be so cruelly blind to her innocence and suffering, allowing his hatred to consume her? Why did she choose to sacrifice every shred of dignity for a truth she couldn't speak, leaving her stripped of everything but oblivion? Her final agonizing moments came in a fire he implicitly condoned, prompting Liam to slowly unravel her devastating sacrifice through hidden clues long after she was gone. Now, haunted by the profound truth of Ava's unwavering love and innocent torment, Liam is forced to confront the monstrous depths of his own actions, embarking on a brutal journey for redemption, only to discover some truths come too late for forgiveness./1/103393/coverorgin.jpg?v=1264c4ba925629ea919c53f7e840186a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Anniversary, His Secret Wife
On my first wedding anniversary, I woke up pregnant and thrilled, waiting for my husband, Carter. But a trending TikTok video shattered my world. It showed Carter celebrating the same anniversary with a famous influencer, Kenley Mendez. He had lied to me for an entire year with a fake marriage certificate while being legally married to her. When I confronted him, he spun a story about Kenley dying of cancer, begging for my sympathy. But his lies quickly turned to violence. During a fight, he struck me so hard that I collapsed, and later that day, I miscarried our baby. To protect his perfect public image, Carter' s company then released a statement branding me as a delusional mistress. The internet exploded with hate, and I became the villain in his tragic love story. I had lost my baby, my husband, and my reputation. The man I had loved and supported for eight years had not only betrayed me but systematically destroyed my life. Lying in that cold hospital bed, with nothing left to lose, I picked up my phone. I turned off the beauty filters, looked straight into the camera, and hit 'Go Live.'/0/98700/coverorgin.jpg?v=34bf3bb8036040e604c0497e04d4551d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Peace After Pain: My Unwritten Blueprint
The algorithm knew my fiancé was cheating on me before I did. It led me, five days before my wedding, to a secret Instagram account. My maid of honor was wearing my wedding dress. The account was a shrine to her three-year affair with my fiancé, Arden. They had crafted a perfect narrative for their followers: they were tragic soulmates, and I was the cold, calculating villain keeping them apart. The comments were full of hate for me. But the final twist of the knife was seeing that my best friend, Dallas, had "liked" a comment wishing I'd have an "accident" and break my leg again. I had saved his life. My family had saved hers from ruin. Why this elaborate, public cruelty? On my wedding day, I was a no-show. Instead, as the elite of New York society watched, the ballroom screens lit up with a presentation I' d prepared, exposing every photo, every text, and every single lie./0/83995/coverorgin.jpg?v=a3094d8f66791098da6cde17a33804d1&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Discarded Daughter's Rise
Christmas morning should have been filled with joy, but for me, it was the day my hard work, my straight-A report card, was ripped to shreds by my father. Instead of comfort, my own paternal grandmother slapped me, calling me a "bad omen" just like my mother, Brenda. My mother, a paralegal who valued appearances, had vanished weeks prior, only for divorce papers to appear. Soon after, my father dumped me at a bus station, tossing a few crumpled bills and driving off, telling me not to call him, even in an emergency. Hours passed, the cold seeping into my bones, every hopeful car not hers, until finally, it was my Grandma Rose who saved me, wrapping me in a hug that smelled of cinnamon and soap. But the truth soon crushed me: my mother hadn't wanted me, and my grandmother, with her meager social security, had to invent "gifts from your mom" to keep my hope alive. Just when I thought I had a haven, Brenda reappeared, engaged to a wealthy businessman, dragging me back into her world of superficiality and ridicule. Life with them became a new hell, culminating in a public slap from my mother for making her "look bad" and finally, being thrown out onto the street with nothing but a small bag. I walked for miles, desperate to get back to Grandma Rose, the only person who had ever truly loved me. And then, just weeks before my SATs, she collapsed, needing an expensive surgery my parents coldly refused to fund, forcing me to sacrifice my future for her. She passed, leaving me heartbroken, but also with a cold, clear rage burning inside me. When my mother brazenly reappeared after Grandma' s funeral, complaining about the "inconvenience" of her death and scoffing at my efforts, something inside me snapped. I was done being a victim. I stood up, my voice dangerously quiet, and told her to get out, but not before she paid what she owed me. I sued both my parents for years of neglect, studied relentlessly, and when I emerged as the state's top SAT scorer, exposing their hypocrisy to the world. Years later, as a successful investment banker, I faced them again, broken and desperate for money, and coolly repeated their own words back: "That's not my problem." Now, holding my daughter, Rose, a child I chose to have on my own terms, I realized I had not only broken the cycle but built a new legacy of unconditional love./0/86498/coverorgin.jpg?v=20260106211548&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Rejected By Family, Reborn By Love
Dr. Chen looked at my patent transfer agreement, concerned. "Ava, are you absolutely sure? This patent is your life's work." I was sure; it was my only way to shield it from my family. They saw my success not as pride, but as a resource for Willow, my foster sister, who masterfully painted me as selfish to my father, Richard, and brother, Ethan. My cherished belongings vanished, ending up with Willow, while my room-the one with the best light-was given to her for her "artistic sensibilities," banishing me to the cramped attic. Then came the day I signed the patent away. I returned home to a surprise party for Willow, celebrating her art grant. They had forgotten it was the anniversary of my mother's passing. My fiancé, Liam, usually my partner, stood by Willow, his arm possessively around her. My father, beaming, said, "Ava, perfect timing! Willow needs your help. You're going to give her the patent." I stared, disbelief chilling me. "It's a medical patent. It has nothing to do with art or business. And it's not for sale." Willow burst into tears, claiming Liam said I'd agreed to surprise her. Liam mumbled a pathetic "It's for the family." Then, Willow brought out a mango mousse cake-a deadly allergy for me. Liam, irritated, snapped, "Just for once, can you not make everything about you?" Willow, the kicked puppy, apologized, claiming forgetfulness, and turned to my father, who raged at me. "Look what you did, you ungrateful child! You will sign over that patent and apologize to Willow!" When I refused, he slapped and shoved me. I fell, my face landing squarely in the cake. Anaphylaxis set in immediately. I gasped for air, crawling for my EpiPen, as they watched me-my father, Ethan, Willow, and Liam-all stood by, watching me die. As blessed air trickled back into my lungs, one thought solidified: I'm leaving, and I am never, ever coming back./1/104019/coverorgin.jpg?v=eafc5acf33deafe499bdd9dd6cd6eabc&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Ex Became My Sister-in-Law
On the day Izabella Dobson learned she was two months pregnant, she was also diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. Sitting in the taxi, the doctor's words echoed in her ears again. "Miss Dobson, your body is weaker than most. An abortion now would accelerate the cancer. You have only three months left. Why not go home and discuss chemotherapy with your family? You're still so young..." Izabella folded the report and slipped it into a hidden compartment in her bag. She let out a soft, bitter laugh. Ever since her father pressured her into a marriage of convenience with Carson's brother, a terminally ill man, for familial obligations, she had lost her family. Her husband had long passed away, and Carson harbored a deep-seated resentment towards her. As revenge, he publicly declared he would marry her stepsister. He was eager to witness her suffering, waiting for her to express regret. Yet, little did he know that on their wedding day, Izabella, frail and serene, lay in her hospital bed with her eyes gently closing. Carson, we can finally release each other from this pain.../0/55993/coverorgin.jpg?v=732dc082db4bd16d94ef12f4c90c92f9&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Her Hacker Husband
Zohra has been living all her life in daydreaming, whether she is awake or sleep. She has always dreamed. Dreamed of something better when nightmares would chase her. Daydreaming was always her coping mechanism for everything. Until, everything changes and she was announced to marry a psychiatrist as a alternative bride. Who is a real man, and breakes the beautiful wall she has made from daydreaming. Waqas Rehan was a man of his words and is adamant to make Zohra Hayat believe that she has been eating lies from a silver spoon. Will Zohra Hayat let Waqas Rehan lead her life after all she went through?/0/89627/coverorgin.jpg?v=3eabd9110d9613164d5835844e7a2e05&imageMogr2/format/webp)
He Chose Lies, I Chose Leaving
I went through many trials and tribulations and finally found my husband's long-lost younger sister. But by the time I found her, she was on the brink of death. In my haste to get her to the hospital, I accidentally crashed into a red sports car. The female driver demanded that I apologize, as well as pay a million for repair costs. I argued, "It was clearly your reckless lane changing that caused the accident. Why should all the blame fall on me? Besides, in a life-or-death situation, can't you let me take the injured to the hospital first?" The woman ruthlessly pushed me to the ground. "Shut up, you low-life! My husband just bought this car for me today, and running into people like you is such bad luck! My husband is the heir of the Blakely family, the wealthiest family in the city. We wouldn't care if it cost a dozen lives!" I was stunned for a few seconds. The heir of the Blakely family? So, this arrogant woman in front of me was my husband Nixon's mistress? Should I just walk away from his sister? But her grandfather had been desperately searching for her/1/104645/coverorgin.jpg?v=ac4ab0653b0c31411d0448cc1af43e74&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Barren Wife's Revenge: It Was You
On our seventh anniversary, my husband Dante tossed divorce papers onto the desk. He looked at me with cold indifference, his hand resting on the swollen belly of his nineteen-year-old mistress. "You are barren, Seraphina," he spat. "She carries my legacy. You carry nothing but ghosts." When I tried to argue, he shoved me. I fell hard, my back slamming against the concrete floor of the studio. Pain tore through my abdomen, and warm blood began to pool beneath my red dress. The tragedy wasn't just the violence; it was the truth he didn't know. The IVF hadn't failed. I was pregnant with the son he had desperately prayed for. And in his rage to protect a mistress carrying a stranger's baby, he had just killed his own flesh and blood. He stepped over my bleeding body and took her to the Commission Auction to celebrate. He thought I was broken. He thought I was finished. But he forgot that I knew all his secrets. I woke up in the hospital, signed the papers that froze his entire fortune, and walked straight into the gala. I stood before the most dangerous men in New York and threw a medical file onto Dante's table. "You killed your real son today when you pushed me," I said, my voice slicing through the silence. "As for hers? It can't be yours, Dante." "Because according to this, you have been sterile for seven years."/0/81336/coverorgin.jpg?v=32851f01f31d8027b8287e2652be4985&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Not My Kids, Not My Life
Michael Thompson, a shell of a man at 58, lay dying in a sterile nursing home bed. His wife, Brenda, had passed a year prior, but her final words were still a fresh wound. "Michael," she' d whispered with a chilling, triumphant smile, "The children… David and Sarah… they' re not yours." "They' re Rick' s. It was always Rick." His rival, the man he despised, the one she supposedly hated with him. His entire life, every sacrifice for their family, every dream deferred, was a cruel, elaborate lie. He' d given everything, only to be drained emotionally and financially by the woman he loved. After her funeral, the children he' d raised had swiftly and efficiently stripped him of his assets, leaving him abandoned in this desolate place. Deep regret, a bitter acid, burned in his chest. If only he could go back, know then what he knew now. His last, ragged breath escaped into the silence of the room, followed by darkness. Then, a jarring burst of music blared. "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley. His eyes snapped open. This wasn't the nursing home. He sat on a worn vinyl couch, the familiar smell of coffee and exhaust fumes filling the air. His hands were strong, unblemished by age. A calendar on the wall screamed June 1988. He was young. He was back. And then Brenda walked in, her deceptive sweetness a sharp contrast to the calculating gleam in her eyes. She spoke of the GM position, his promotion, and how he should withdraw for Rick. But this time, he knew everything. He had a chance to rewrite his fate./0/83057/coverorgin.jpg?v=d8902c1555f3c8a9e05aa464330e78c3&imageMogr2/format/webp)
A Mother's Fight!
My sweet daughter Emily skipped into her bright art class, leaving me to a perfectly ordinary day. Fifteen minutes later, a scream ripped through the community center, and the art instructor pointed at me, shrieking, "Sarah Miller killed her!" Instantly arrested and dubbed "Monster Mom" by the media, I watched my husband Mark shockingly betray me, using my past postpartum depression against me, asking where I' d hidden Emily' s head. Under forced hypnosis, a therapist implanted gruesome "memories" of me committing the murder and where I supposedly hid Emily's severed head, which was then "found" exactly as I "recalled." Drowning in self-doubt and despair, I struggled, believing I had blacked out, wrestling with the monster everyone saw, and my own terrifying, fabricated recollections. But then, during a court transfer, I saw Mark' s colleague, Jessica Hayes, wearing a vibrantly patterned scarf-the very scarf worn by the killer in my horrifying, implanted "memory." In that shattering instant, a desperate cry tore from my throat as the chilling truth ignited: I hadn't murdered Emily; they had meticulously framed me and weaponized my own mind. Now, I would fight to expose the cruel conspiracy orchestrated by my husband, his mistress, and the therapist who twisted my reality./0/86968/coverorgin.jpg?v=9e5ef54b2dedb4991cb855d6ce40fc8a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His Ruin, Her New Beginning
The heavy iron gate groaned open, spitting me back into a world that felt alien. Three years in hell, for a crime I didn' t commit. I thought it was finally over. My adoptive brother, Ethan, and my former fiancé, Noah, picked me up, not with comfort, but with an invitation to a celebration. For Chloe, my adoptive sister, the golden child. The celebration of her new album, filled with my songs. The whispers followed me into the glittering ballroom. "Is that Sarah Miller? The one who went to jail?" "She looks terrible." Chloe, radiant in a dazzling gown, welcomed me with venomous whispers, flaunting her stolen life. Ethan' s cold righteousness and Noah' s pity were suffocating. They justified my sacrifice, claiming my career was over anyway. They said I owed her. They said I was responsible. But I knew the truth. I was an orphan adopted by the Bennetts, then easily discarded when their biological daughter, Chloe, reappeared. Chloe, who had built her career on my talent, who then drove drunk and struck a pedestrian, begging me to take the fall. I was a fool. They promised to visit, to support me. The visits stopped. The pleas of "Think of it as paying back the family" and "Once you' re out, we can get married" echoed like cruel jokes. Now, as I lay bleeding from Chloe's latest attack, they chose her again, leaving me to die. Why did I blindly sacrifice myself for them? Why did they choose a manipulative liar over the truth, over me? What twisted words did Chloe whisper to make them so utterly blind? My phone buzzed. An unknown number. "Is this… Sarah Miller?" a warm voice asked. "My name is Alexander Hayes. I think… I think you' re my sister."/1/101986/coverorgin.jpg?v=b96f241ebd3e5b2049e4ba2603e847fe&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Shattered Symphony: The Genius Lady Shines Again
Jacob's voice was terrifyingly calm at the scene of the crash. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the gurney being rushed past us. He was holding her hand. Not mine. My right hand was a mangled, swelling mess of flesh, throbbing with blinding agony. Blood soaked my white blouse, turning it a heavy crimson. I tried to show him, whispering that I thought my bones were crushed. He didn't even blink. He just kept pace with the doctors swarming around Cassandra. "She has a head injury, Alexia," he said, his voice tight with a panic he never felt for me. "We have to prioritize. You know how fragile she is. We need you to be strong right now." Because of his "priority," I missed the critical window for surgery. My fingers, once capable of spanning octaves and dancing through concertos, healed into stiff, alien claws. The grand piano in our living room became a coffin for my dreams. For three months, I lived as a ghost in my own home. I watched Jacob comfort Cassandra through her minor headaches while ignoring my ruined nerves. I watched him let her take credit for my music, steal my son's affection, and finally, crush my late mother's locket under her heel with a smile. When I confronted him, he only checked to see if she had twisted her ankle. That was the moment the silence broke. I realized I wasn't his partner; I was just collateral damage. So, when the Vienna Conservatory called offering a position, I didn't ask for his permission. On the night of their engagement party, while fireworks exploded for them outside, I packed a single suitcase. I left the signed divorce papers next to his medical negligence report on the counter, unlocked the door, and walked into the night. I was done waiting for him to choose me./1/102299/coverorgin.jpg?v=c6a510070907eafabfe40acd80af8c5b&imageMogr2/format/webp)
High Stakes Betrayal, A Winning Hand
My fiancé, Holden, married my best friend, Dominique, in Vegas. Tonight. Just hours before our lavish engagement party was set to begin. They announced it to our families and friends, calling it a "drunken mistake." Dominique, clinging to his arm, flashed a cheap ring and a triumphant smirk. She then proposed a high-stakes poker game to "celebrate," a cruel joke designed to humiliate me further. Holden, my fiancé of years, stood by her side. He even forced me to give up my grandmother's bracelet when I lost a hand, tossing the precious heirloom into a puddle of champagne. He told me it was just a game, that the bracelet meant nothing. But they didn't know my secret. I grew up in the underground poker scene. They thought they were playing with a fragile fiancée. They were about to lose everything to a shark./0/98701/coverorgin.jpg?v=4b0167d70ff772e475d88d51aa3207d1&imageMogr2/format/webp)
You Forgot I Was A Morgan
For a year, I played the part of the perfect, long-suffering wife, enduring my husband' s public affair. I did it all for one reason: to win full custody of our son, Colton. But when Colton was arrested, he didn't turn to me for help. He looked at me with disgust and spat that our family's problems were all my fault. Later that night, my husband, Jackson, demanded I apologize to his mistress. When I refused, he shoved me into the freezing lake. As I drowned, I saw him and my son comforting her on the dock, a perfect family silhouetted against the moonlight. They were watching me die. The last of my love for them turned to ash. They forgot one thing. I wasn't just a housewife. I was a Morgan. My fingers found the emergency beacon my billionaire father gave me. And I pressed it./0/80085/coverorgin.jpg?v=d1fc166222d6a9d4402af30b85670cf2&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Her Love, My Transaction
At twenty-two, an MIT scholarship paved my road to becoming an architect, building a future I could almost touch. But life had other plans, suddenly derailed by a devastating call: Maya, my kid sister, was diagnosed with aggressive leukemia. The medical bills were astronomical, an impossible weight on my already broken family. My father, crushed by his own demons, offered a desperate lifeline: a "favor" from the powerful Jonathan Hayes. It wasn't charity; it was a dark bargain. My freedom, my dreams, my very self, traded for Maya's life. I became Scarlett Hayes’ personal assistant – her shadow, her keeper, her disposable "toy." For five soul-crushing years, I endured her every capricious whim, her tantrums, and her casual, dehumanizing ownership of my time, my body, my dignity. She never asked; she simply took. And I, trapped, let her. Each forced compliance fueled a festering resentment, a cold, hard knot of self-loathing in my gut. My life, my aspirations, melted like ash, yet I persisted, for Maya. How had I, Liam Walker, destined for blueprints and ambition, become this hollow phantom, a silent fixture in a gilded cage? How had my world twisted into this soulless transaction, my very being reduced to a commodity? The humiliation was suffocating, the injustice a constant scream within me. Was I truly beyond redemption, or could I ever escape this nightmare? Then, the news that shifted my universe: Maya was in remission. The immediate burden lifted, and in that exhale of relief, the years of festering rage, the profound self-disgust, and the silent compliance hardened into an unyielding resolve. I was done being her plaything. Liam Walker was taking his life back, no matter the cost./0/83996/coverorgin.jpg?v=43c1f8f3829b743c5f7055ea755c2144&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The First Lady's Faked Demise
For ten years, I, Jocelyn Chavez, the First Lady, was a prisoner in a gilded cage, enduring my President husband' s public humiliations with his mistress. But then, I heard his chilling confession: he framed my family for treason, destroyed my father, imprisoned my brother, and now planned my "accidental" death to make his mistress the next First Lady. My world shattered as he orchestrated my public downfall, forcing me to confess to poisoning his mistress's son and leveraging my daughter' s life to make me admit I was "unstable" before the press. Every humiliation, every lie, every wound-each cut deeper than the last, culminating in him telling me my mother was dead and then plotting to terminate our unborn child. But he didn't know the old Jocelyn was gone; I was fighting back, and the explosion that rocked D.C., supposedly claiming my life and my daughter's, was my masterpiece, not his./0/80398/coverorgin.jpg?v=63eed89f800112586a225905f7fca6d2&imageMogr2/format/webp)
