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Romance Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
The Scarf That Broke Us

The Scarf That Broke Us

"Let' s get a divorce, Victoria." It was our fifth wedding anniversary, and for the ninety-ninth time, I heard those flat, bored words from my wife, Victoria, as she dismissed me for real estate analytics on her tablet. But then, she lowered the tablet, her beautiful, cold face mocking me: "Besides, I can' t leave you right now. I' ve been poisoned." She claimed a "love charm" from Thailand made her obsessed with her assistant, Ryan, who was the only one who could "cure" her. She then presented me with an absurdly expensive watch for our anniversary, a symbol of "loyalty," before calmly asking me to move out so Ryan could move in for his "treatment." Then, I saw it: my late mother' s cherished cashmere scarf, a symbol of my last tender memory, wrapped smugly around Ryan' s neck. It was the final cut, twisting the knife in a wound I thought was numb. "No," I said, the word startling even myself. I walked into a gleaming skyscraper, ready to resign, only to be told Victoria' s signature was required. She made me kneel in a crowded, high-end restaurant, forcing me to publicly declare I wasn' t good enough for her, just to sign my resignation. I did it. I walked out feeling nothing but a grim sense of victory, clutching the signed paper. Then, the world shattered when news reports surfaced, not from my new life, but of her erratic behavior, even assaulting someone who spoke ill of me. My phone rang, "Northwood Police Department." Victoria had filed a missing person' s report. She had found me. "She' s on her way to your office now, sir," the officer said, "We' re sending a car over as a precaution, just to keep the peace." My new life, so carefully built, was crumbling before my eyes because Victoria couldn' t stand to lose control. What would I do?
The Wife He Couldn't Afford

The Wife He Couldn't Afford

The organ music swelled, a majestic sound meant to signal joy, but all I felt was a cold dread seeping into my bones. Amidst Savannah' s elite, I, Annabel Anderson, stood in my custom-made wedding gown, a perfect Southern belle about to secure a vital political alliance. My fiancé, Wesley Scott, was arrogant and entitled, and I didn't love him, but this was my path. Just as the wedding march was about to begin, a bridesmaid burst in, gasping, "Annabel, it' s Gabrielle! They found her in her room. Pills." My younger half-sister, the constant reminder of my father' s scandal, had attempted suicide. The wedding halted. At the hospital, Gabrielle, frail and tearful, clutched Wesley' s hand. "I couldn' t bear seeing you marry her," she whispered, then delivered her masterstroke: a fabricated story of sacrificing her fertility to save him, twisting his misguided honor. Wesley, his arrogance gone, turned to me, "Annabel, she is your sister. We can make it work. She can be my wife, and you… you can be her sister-wife." The suggestion hung in the air, a scandalous, barbaric insult to my family' s honor. How could he ask the Senator' s daughter to share a husband, to become a party to public disgrace? Was he truly this manipulated, this blind? Standing in the chaos, I looked at Gabrielle's triumphant eyes. She thought she had won. I took a deep breath. There would be no accommodation. This was my chance not just to escape, but to rewrite the narrative.