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Modern Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

I stood at my mother's open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule. While the priest's voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?" When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone-he brought Charla with him. He claimed she'd had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child." He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me. "He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect. Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.
Losing My Genius Wife: The Billionaire's Regret

Losing My Genius Wife: The Billionaire's Regret

"Are you a mute? Or just stupid? No wonder Daddy Brody hates you!" At the family funeral, my husband's first love's son pointed at my traumatized three-year-old daughter, cursing her viciously. When I furiously tried to protect my child, my husband-whose paralyzed legs I had just spent three years curing-stormed in and shielded them. He glared at me with absolute disgust: "Stop your pathetic lies! Why would a seven-year-old maliciously curse at her?! Must you embarrass us today?" His first love stood there with red eyes, playing the perfect victim, while his entire elite family scolded me for being "unpresentable." Watching him tenderly hand a handkerchief to his mistress, I finally realized that my three years of blood and sweat to pull him out of the abyss was nothing but a joke. The next day, he audaciously handed over the biomedical division I had spent five years building to his mistress-a woman who couldn't even read a data chart. "Celestia is more qualified than you," he said with sickening self-righteousness. "You are failing as a mother, so I'm doing this for your own good." He even threatened to use a bribed doctor to declare me "mentally unstable" just to strip away my custody of my daughter! He was certain I would cry and beg like I always did. Instead, I fired his corrupt doctor on the spot and locked down all the encrypted core data, leaving his precious mistress panicking like a complete idiot in front of the blank screens. When he stormed home furiously to demand I fix it, I coldly pointed at the nightstand: "The signed divorce papers are right there. Sign them, and I'll see you in court." Just as he froze in absolute shock, my phone lit up. It was a text from "The Ninth"-the legendary, untouchable specialist who had just miraculously saved my daughter, and the one omnipotent man my husband's billions could never buy. "Your request has been approved. I am waiting for you."
The Ugly Wife's Glorious Comeback

The Ugly Wife's Glorious Comeback

Rosalie was the neglected, unwanted "ugly duckling" of the family, while her stepsister was both beautiful and talented-and on the verge of marrying Damian, the darling of high society and heir to the most powerful family. Everyone worshipped her stepsister and treated Rosalie like dirt. Isabelle, in particular, was arrogant and condescending. "Rosalie, you'll always be beneath me!" she sneered. But on the day of the wedding, to everyone's shock, it was Rosalie who walked down the aisle in a stunning wedding gown. Isabelle, in turn, became the laughingstock of the town. The entire city was buzzing with shock. How could this be? No one believed that Damian would ever fall for someone like Rosalie-a so-called "useless and ugly" outcast. Everyone assumed it was only a matter of time before she was kicked out. Yet, as time went on, Rosalie didn't fade into obscurity; instead, she dazzled the world. She was a medical genius, a financial magnate, a prodigy in artifact appraisal, and even the AI pioneer. One revelation after another left her critics utterly speechless. Her family was filled with regret, and even her ex came crawling back, begging for her love. But before Rosalie could even reject him outright, she was thrust back into the limelight. Damian posted a stunning photo of her, which sent her straight to the top of the trending topics!
Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle

Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle

Twenty minutes before the "Wedding of the Century" at The Plaza, I stood outside the Presidential Suite in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown. I was the girl from a West Virginia trailer park about to marry Hugh Maxwell, the golden heir to a billion-dollar defense empire. I pushed the door open only to find Hugh pinned against the bed with my own stepsister, Floy. She was wearing my bridal diamond necklace, and the sounds of their laughter scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper. I didn't scream; I listened as Hugh grunted that once the wedding was over and the trust fund unlocked, he'd dump "that hillbilly trash" on a bus back to the mountains. They weren't just cheating; they were planning to steal my family's land deeds and leave me with nothing. When I set off the sprinklers and exposed their naked bodies to the paparazzi, the Maxwell family didn't apologize. They called me a "greedy peasant" and threatened to ruin my life unless I signed a new deal to save their crashing stock. I realized then that I was never a bride to them. I was a transaction, a rounding error in a ledger to be used and discarded. They thought my poverty made me weak and my silence made me a victim. "If we don't have a marriage certificate by midnight, the bank freezes thirty percent of our liquidity," their lawyer warned. So, I gave them exactly what they wanted. I used a loophole in their hundred-year-old family covenant and married the only other direct heir available. I didn't marry Hugh. I walked into the ICU and married his uncle, Fleet Maxwell-the legendary war hero who had been in a vegetative state for months. Now, I am the matriarch of the Maxwell dynasty. I've suspended Hugh's executive powers, exiled my mother-in-law to the Swiss Alps, and taken control of the family vault. They think I'm just a gold-digger waiting for a "corpse" to die so I can collect a fifty-million-dollar widow's payout. But last night, as I lay beside my comatose husband, the man they called a vegetable gripped my hand back.
The Billionaire's Secret Triplets: Mom's Revenge

The Billionaire's Secret Triplets: Mom's Revenge

Six years ago, I was a naive girl sold by my father to the powerful Sanders estate, only to be tossed onto the streets after a brutal assault they labeled "marital infidelity." I fled the country pregnant and broken, hiding from the shadow of a husband I had never even met. Now, I've returned to New York with my triplets to sign the final divorce papers and disappear forever. But Archibald Sanders-the man I was told was a crippled recluse-intercepted us with the cold precision of a predator. He didn't see the woman his family destroyed; he saw a gold-digger who had shamed his name. His security team hunted us to a grimy motel, using tactical force to snatch my children away and drag me to his glass-walled empire. In his office, he loomed over me, demanding a DNA test and threatening to throw me in prison while my babies were lost to the foster system. He was convinced I'd cheated, yet he stared at my sons with a haunting confusion, unable to ignore the stormy blue eyes that were a perfect mirror of his own. I stood there, paralyzed by his scent-the sharp tang of rain and expensive leather that triggered the icy dread of my worst nightmares. How could he accuse me of betrayal when he felt exactly like the monster who had shattered my life in that dark hotel room? "I'll sign anything," I sobbed, "just give me my kids." But the game changed when my five-year-old son hacked the tower's security, holding the skyscraper hostage to save me. In the chaos, a fragile, silent boy-Archibald's secret son-wandered into the room and reached for me as if I were his missing soul. Archibald's face turned to stone as he tore up the agreement and locked the doors. "Until I find out why my son is looking at you like that," he growled, "you aren't going anywhere."