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Romance Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Bound by the Brand: His Contracted Bride

Bound by the Brand: His Contracted Bride

My father and older brother, gone in a blink, left me, Ethan Miller, the last man standing and sole heir to a sprawling Texas ranch empire. The funeral dust hadn't even settled, but the vultures were already circling. My uncle, Robert, saw opportunity where I felt grief, while Governor Sterling delivered an ultimatum: secure my inheritance, or lose it to endless family disputes-by marrying within a year. Then, my ex-girlfriend, Brittany Carter, reappeared, her sympathy dripping with a sweetness that soured my stomach. I' d foolishly held onto a flicker of hope for her, even after she' d left when my prospects weren't "shiny enough." But all my illusions shattered when I overheard her and my cousin, Dylan, plotting. "He' s a wreck, completely clueless," I heard Britt sneer, her voice devoid of remorse. "He' s just a means to an end. Once he' s got full control, and I' ve wrapped him around my little finger, this ranch will practically be ours." My childhood rescuer, the girl I thought cared, was a calculating viper, mocking my grief, planning to carve up my legacy. The words hit me like a physical blow. The crushing weight of fresh profound grief twisted into something colder, sharper: pure, unadulterated anger. How could I have been so blind, so stupid? How could the people closest to me betray me so utterly, so cruelly? They clearly thought I was just a soft, grieving fool easily manipulated. But if they thought they could pick me clean, they were about to learn a harsh lesson. A fire ignited within me, burning off the sorrow. It was time to activate an old pact, one that would bring an unexpected woman into my life, and change everything the vultures thought they knew.
The Son Who Broke Her

The Son Who Broke Her

Tomorrow was my thirteenth wedding anniversary. I found a receipt in Mark's suit pocket for two at The Oak Room, our spot, sparking a small, hopeful smile that he remembered. I planned a surprise, baking his favorite lemon cake and wearing the blue dress he loved, driving downtown to meet him. But he wasn't inside the restaurant. He was across the street, entering the St. Regis Hotel with Emily Stone, his first love and now his indispensable secretary. Her tinkling laugh, his gentle smile – a betrayal that hit harder than any physical blow. The cake box became heavy, my dress felt cheap. I dialed his number, but my son, Alex, answered, annoyed. He dismissed my concerns, defending his father's "meeting" and calling me disruptive. "Just stay home," he ordered, before hanging up and blocking my number. That night, Mark returned, echoing Alex's accusations, calling me a spy and telling me to "know my place." He forced me onto the balcony during a storm, demanding I "think about my role." The next morning, feverish and aching, I placed divorce papers before him. He scoffed, mocking my pain and easily claiming full custody of Alex. Alex, summoned by Mark, delivered the final, crushing blow: "I'm a Jenkins. I'm not her son." My heart, a block of ice, shattered. That day, as I crawled away, left to bleed on the driveway by the son I raised and the husband I loved, I realized I had endured affairs, neglect, and belittling. But this? This was the end. The final, brutal severing. From that moment on, a new resolve hardened within me: I would reclaim my life, piece by painful piece, leaving them to their perfect, hollow existence.
Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: My Life Without You

Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: My Life Without You

My engagement party, the culmination of five years poured into Ethan Cartwright and our future, was supposed to be my fairy tale. But hiding on the terrace, his voice, cold and dismissive, echoed through the night: "Sarah? She's perfect. Adorably naive, utterly devoted. She won't rock the boat. Won't challenge me. And she certainly won't interfere with Isabelle." The words hit like stones, shattering my world and sending me tumbling into darkness. I woke up with amnesia, the doctor explaining recent memories were gone – Ethan's name meant nothing. But this man, a stranger, kept pushing me, forcing me into public appearances purely for his convenience. At his gala, his actual lover, Isabelle, deliberately pushed me down a grand staircase. I learned later that fall cost me a baby I never knew I carried – *his* baby. Yet, he showed zero concern. Instead, Ethan demanded I issue a public apology for "attacking" Isabelle, threatening to annul our engagement on grounds of mental instability and destroy my family's business if I refused. A man I couldn't even remember was trying to ruin my life, dismissing my pain and accusing me of deceit. The amnesia, meant as a curse, became my liberation. Looking into his empty eyes, I finally spoke, my voice steady: "This is the last thing I will ever do for you. Consider our ties severed." I walked away, leaving behind a life I could no longer remember, eager for a new beginning in Chicago with someone whose warmth offered a fragile promise – Noah Evans.