Eileen
9 Published Stories
Eileen's Books and Stories
Discarded Heiress: Reborn from Mafia Prison
Mafia Seven years ago, my fiancé, Don Dante Moretti, sent me to prison to take the fall for my adopted sister, Chiara. He called it a gift—a way to protect me from a worse fate.
Today, he picked me up from prison only to abandon me at my family's estate. His reason? Chiara was having another one of her "episodes."
My parents then informed me I'd be staying in the third-floor storage room, so as not to disturb the fragile girl who stole my life.
They celebrated her "recovery" with a lavish dinner party, while I was treated like a ghost. When I refused to join, my mother hissed that I was ungrateful, and my father called me jealous.
They assumed I couldn't understand their venomous whispers. But prison was my university. I learned Spanish. I understood every word.
It was then I realized I wasn't just a sacrifice; I was disposable. The love I once felt for all of them had turned to ash.
That night, in the dusty storage room, I logged onto an encrypted channel I'd set up years ago. A single message was waiting: "The offer stands. Do you accept?" My hands, scarred and steady, typed back, "I accept." His Possession, Her Escape
Mafia I was the wife of Brennan Johnson, the head of the Sterling Syndicate. For years, I was the perfect partner, helping him climb from a young enforcer to the undisputed boss, believing he was the man who had once saved my life and promised to protect me forever.
That illusion shattered when I overheard him promising that same protection to a young art student he was sleeping with.
When I confronted him, he called me tainted and complicated. When I asked for a divorce, he cut my cheek with shattered glass and snarled that I belonged to him. He publicly gave my foundation and a necklace meant for me to his mistress, declaring her his "one and only" in front of the entire city.
The ultimate betrayal came when we were both kidnapped. The kidnappers held a knife to each of our throats and told him to choose.
He looked at me, his wife, and said, "I choose her."
He abandoned me to be assaulted and killed, walking away with his new love without a backward glance.
But I didn't die. An old family loyalist saved me.
I faked my death, escaped the country, and built a new life from the ashes of the old one. I was finally free.
Until tonight, when he walked into my restaurant, a ghost from a life I had buried. He found me. And he wants me back. His Regret, Her Unstoppable Rise
Romance My seven-year marriage to the heir Kobe Kidd began as a contract. I was the respectable placeholder wife he needed. In exchange, I got the stability I'd craved my whole life. I kept my side of the bargain perfectly, except for one mistake: I fell in love with him.
Then, his first love, Felicie, came back into the picture. Suddenly, I wasn't a wife; I was an obstacle. After our car crashed, he scrambled to save an unconscious Felicie from the wreckage, leaving me trapped inside the smoking vehicle without a second glance.
I survived the explosion, only to face something worse. When Felicie was stabbed by her own violent ex after using me as a human shield, she told Kobe I’d hired the man to kill her.
He believed her instantly.
He didn't check the cameras. He didn't ask me a single question. He just looked at me with pure, undiluted hatred and had me thrown into the mansion's cold, dark basement.
I was locked away for days, screaming for a man who had already left me to burn. I finally understood. It didn’t matter what the truth was. I wasn't her, and that was the only crime that mattered.
So I finalized our divorce, walked away without looking back, and started a new life. But months later, he found me. He showed up in my small café an ocean away, his eyes full of regret, begging for a second chance.
He said he finally knew the truth.
He said he loved me. Eight Years, A Twisted Play
Romance "Ava, are you sure about this? The Venice project is a huge commitment. Two years is a long time." My boss asked, as I looked out my office window at the New York skyline, a view I'd worked my whole life to earn. "I'm sure, Mark. I've made up my mind."
That's when he casually asked if my wedding to Ethan Hayes was on hold. "No," I said, "There is no wedding." The truth was, my fingers, slick with blood, were fumbling to open Ethan's laptop, hoping to find answers.
Instead, I found a folder labeled "C," filled with thousands of photos of Chloe Davis, his high school sweetheart. There wasn't a single folder for me. I searched for photos of us and found a mere handful from a company party two years ago. For eight years, I'd made excuses for him, believing his charming lies. The excuses I'd built, the little walls around my heart, all came crashing down.
That wasn't the worst of it. On his social media, Ethan had just posted: "The whale is back in the ocean." Chloe was his Moby Dick, his obsessive pursuit, and she was back. He had used our engagement, our wedding, to win her back. I was a prop in his twisted play.
Then, Mark, Ethan's best friend, called, saying Ethan was a mess at The Black Rose. And Chloe was there. I arrived to see Ethan with his arm draped around Chloe, whispering in her ear. "She's not my fiancée!" he slurred, "I'm not marrying anyone." He never really wanted to claim me. I was just a placeholder until the real thing came along.
He didn't love me. He never had. My eight-year gamble had failed. I had put all my chips on him, and I had lost everything. The relationship was over. It had been over for a long time; I was just the last one to know.
I cancelled the wedding and flew to Venice. But he followed, a ghost from my past, still trying to control me. He even lied, claiming Chloe was faking her illnesses for attention. Then, in a car crash, I fumbled for my phone, desperate for help, and called him. My call went straight to voicemail.
I survived, but he wasn't there. When he finally showed up, he apologized, claiming Chloe had a panic attack. "Chloe. Always Chloe." I realized I had made a terrible mistake, relying on him. "We're over, Ethan," I whispered, "This has to stop."
I had to put an end to it, once and for all. The $3 Million Escape
Modern For fifteen years, my wife Sarah' s complaints were the soundtrack of my life.
"Eight thousand dollars," she' d whine, always about the paltry dowry my mother gave us.
It was a constant, low-level hum, punctuated by her rants about her cousin Jessica' s lavish gifts and exotic vacations.
Tonight, after a call with Jessica, it escalated.
"Hawaii again," she fumed, eyes burning with a strange, calculating fire.
Then, the unthinkable: "What if we get divorced?"
A fake divorce, she clarified, a scheme to extort money from my mother.
She envisioned millions, and my mother' s precious jewelry.
I stared at her, stunned by the audacity, the naked greed.
My phone buzzed.
A text from my boss: `$3 million bonus. Wire transfer tomorrow.`
A strange calm washed over me.
The words silenced Sarah' s relentless complaining, the past fifteen years of bitterness.
I looked at her, truly looked at her, and a plan of my own began to form.
This wasn' t just about the money anymore.
It was about quiet, about peace, about freedom.
"Okay," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "Let' s do it."
Her triumphant grin missed the cold resolve settling deep in my gut.
This wasn' t her fake divorce.
It was my real one. From Prison Bars to Platinum Stars
Modern The blue and red lights flashed, and the wail of the siren cut through the Nashville night.
My husband, Ethan, stood over me, his face a mask of concern, but his eyes were cold as he painted me a dangerous, jealous woman.
The police officer' s notepad was out, a white sheet covered something on the road, and my vintage Mustang was mangled. "No," I whispered, "I wasn't driving. Sabrina was."
But Ethan smiled, whispering a chilling confession: "You're pregnant, you see. You get... confused." He twisted my pain into a weapon, using my own history against me, and I was thrown into a nightmare of accusations.
My biological parents, the Clarks, disowned me, my "sister" Sabrina watched with a triumphant smirk, and soon I was signing a confession, my only hope to save my unborn child from the ordeal of a trial.
I ended up in prison, losing everything-my freedom, my reputation, my child. Every day was a fight, and my only solace was writing songs, pouring my betrayal and injustice onto paper.
I even built a fragile connection with a music blogger, a lifeline in my despair.
Yet, after my early release, when I returned home, I found Ethan and Sabrina celebrating, living the life I'd lost.
Then came the ultimate betrayal: Sabrina abusing Melody, the sight igniting a forgotten fury.
And just when I clawed my way back, building a tentative connection with my estranged daughter, Ethan, the man who claimed to love me, orchestrated the theft of my life's work-my entire album, proudly debuted by Sabrina.
He wanted me broken, dependent, stripped of everything.
Why would he push me to this absolute edge?
What dark twisted game was he truly playing?
One thing became brutally clear: I wouldn't just survive; I would fight back, not for answers to his madness, but to burn his world down and reclaim my daughter, my music, and my name. The Playboy's Hidden Empire
Billionaires Reckless playboy Alex Sterling was back in New York, straight from his Alaska 'sabbatical,' finally ready to claim his inheritance: his grandfather's multi-billion dollar tech empire.
But my greedy parents, Richard and Victoria, along with my plotting half-brothers, Marcus and Leo, were already circling like sharks, eyeing Sterling Innovations for themselves.
They wasted no time. At dinner, they openly challenged my competence, a performative prelude. Then came the emergency board meeting, where they tried to oust me as 'unfit,' propped up by bribed board members and even a seemingly damning testimony from brilliant engineer Chloe Davis, whom my father had pressured.
It looked like a clear victory for them. Everyone bought their narrative: the unstable playboy heir, easily removed. But they knew nothing of the deeper game; they didn't see the meticulously gathered evidence I held, or their own years of hidden treachery.
Their attempt to commit me to a 'wellness retreat' was the final straw, and the ultimate bait. What they thought was their triumph was actually a meticulously planned trap. Now, it was time to reveal who the true puppet master was, expose their attempted murders, and the dark secrets they'd kept hidden for decades. On Our Tenth Anniversary, I Found His Other Life
Modern My husband, Mark, was always busy building his AI car startup, NovaDrive. As an engineer sidelined by an accident, I clung to the hope that our upcoming tenth anniversary would bring him home, back to the man I married.
But then, I found his work tablet. A message thread with "Sweetheart S." revealed not just a months-long affair, but secret plans for a romantic trip to Paris—a trip he told me was a crucial business meeting.
His mistress, a woman named Sophia, then brazenly sought me out, revealing she was pregnant with Mark's child and scoffing that my accident had made things "complicated." Meanwhile, Mark was systematically stripping me of everything—our joint assets funneled into offshore accounts, my precious family heirlooms stolen from a safe deposit box and gifted to Sophia. He even called me a "liability."
The pain wasn't just the affair; it was the calculated cruelty, the meticulous betrayal I'd endured while he painted me as the clinging wife. How could the man who held my hand in the ER become someone who wanted to erase me completely, leaving me with nothing?
Just when I thought I was utterly alone, broken and financially ruined, a desperate Sophia arrived at my door. She’d finally seen Mark for the cold, manipulative user he was. Now, we're forging an unlikely alliance, ready to bet that two wronged women can bring down an empire built on lies. You might like
Rejected by the Son, I Chose the Don
Rabbit On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up.
As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress.
The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me.
The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one.
With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered.
I chose the one man they never expected.
I chose his father, the Don himself.
My Husband's Brother Owns My Secret
Rabbit My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine.
Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family.
To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset.
They both thought I was a broken doll they could control.
I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice.
She sang it, and now her career is over.
Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground. Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles
Dorine Koestler I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.
In return, he treated me like furniture.
He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste.
I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.
So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.
I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.
But I underestimated Dante.
When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.
He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away. To Ruin Him, I Married His Rival
Rabbit Andrew Hebert, the man who promised to protect me, stood on a stage and announced his engagement to my tormentor. It wasn't just heartbreak; it was a business deal. He was selling me to a creditor to cover his gambling debts.
The applause of the powerful families was a death sentence, each clap sealing my fate as collateral. Andrew had paraded me here just to show everyone I was an asset to be liquidated, while his new fiancée smirked at me from the stage.
I was trapped, with no money and no one to turn to. The man I loved was leading me to the slaughter.
But as I fled into the library, a voice emerged from the shadows, deep and dangerous.
Damien Maddox. The Dark Don. The only man Andrew feared.
He offered me a different kind of cage, one with the power to burn Andrew's world to the ground.
With nothing left to lose, I looked the devil in the eyes.
"Take me with you." Married To My Mysterious Ex-Con Husband
Flying Free My father bailed a violent ex-con out of prison just to force me into a marriage with him. I stood in a filthy Bronx hallway, my Vera Wang gown dragging through the grime, knowing this was the price for my mother’s life. If I didn't marry the man behind the steel door, the wire transfer for her hospital ventilator wouldn't go through the next morning.
The man, a scarred giant named Dock, treated me with cold contempt, telling me he didn't touch things he didn't want—and he didn't want a "Jacobson." I thought I had hit rock bottom, tied to a criminal while my family lived in luxury. But the nightmare was just beginning.
When I tried to return my wedding dress to pay for rent, my sister Janie and stepmother found me. They laughed as security dragged me out of the boutique, calling me a "charity case." When I finally crawled back to our family manor to beg for the money my father had promised, Janie revealed the horrific truth. She had liquidated my mother’s medical trust to fund a waterfront real estate project.
"Get out and let your mother rot," she screamed, throwing a glass of ice water in my face before having guards dump me in the dirt. I knelt on the gravel, wet and bleeding, realizing my own flesh and blood had signed my mother's death warrant for a profit. I had nothing left—no money, no home, and a husband who was supposed to be a monster.
I didn't understand why they hated me so much, or how I would survive the night. But then, a black car screeched to a halt in front of me. Dock pulled me inside, his eyes burning with a lethal coldness I’d never seen in a common thug.
As he wiped the blood from my hands, he picked up a encrypted phone and gave a single command.
"Initiate Project Titan. I want the Jacobson Group insolvent by Friday."
I looked at the man I thought was a broke felon, realizing I hadn't just married a stranger—I had married the most dangerous man in the city, and he was about to burn my family's world to the ground. When Love Rebuilds From Frozen Hearts
Landslide On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news.
He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city.
The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.”
For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets.
My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me.
So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts.
He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked.
He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree.
He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies. I Left The Jester For The King
Jing Jing "Little Siren: I miss your hands on me."
That message lit up the screen of a burner phone I found in my fiancé's jacket pocket while he was in the shower.
Franco Moretti, the rising star of the Vitiello crime family, treated me like a fragile glass doll. He claimed he was "saving himself" for our wedding night out of respect.
But the phone told a different story.
I unlocked it and found three years of betrayal.
It wasn't just a fling. It was Camilla, a girl from high school I had befriended out of pity.
I watched their history unfold. He complained that I was cold. He called me a statue.
Then I saw the invoice.
He had bought two identical pink diamond engagement rings. One for me, and one for her.
Worse, he had stolen my grandmother' s heirloom jade bracelet-a piece of history meant for his bride-and given it to his mistress.
"I need her name to get the chair," he texted her. "You are my true Queen."
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I realized I wasn't a person to him; I was a ladder.
Leaving him would be too easy. Leaving is what victims do.
I walked to my laptop and opened a new document. I wasn't just going to cancel the wedding. I was going to broadcast his ruin to the entire underworld, and our wedding would be my stage.
Then, I picked up the phone and dialed the one number my father forbade me to call.
"I accept," I told the deep voice on the other end.
"You understand what you are agreeing to, Gianna?" Enzo Falcone asked.
"I understand," I said, looking at the New York skyline.
"You want an alliance. I want a weapon." Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway
Tangye Wanzi I watched my husband, the most feared Capo in New York, sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit.
The nib of his Montblanc pen scratched against the paper, drowning out the rain hitting the coffee shop window.
He didn't bother to read a single word.
He thought he was signing routine shipping manifests for the family business.
In reality, he was signing the "Dissolution of Union" papers I had hidden beneath the cover sheet.
He was too distracted to check. His eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, frantically texting Sofia—the widow, the tragic beauty, the woman who had haunted our marriage for three years.
"Done," he grunted, tossing the stack into his armored SUV without even glancing at me.
"Business is concluded, Elena. We leave."
Moments later, his phone rang with her special emergency tone.
His demeanor shifted from cold boss to frantic protector instantly.
"Driver, divert. She needs me," he roared.
He looked at me with zero affection and ordered, "Get out, Elena. Luca will take you home."
He kicked me out of the car into the pouring rain to rush to his mistress, completely unaware he had just legally granted me my freedom.
I stood on the curb, shivering but smiling for the first time in years.
By the time the Don realizes he just signed his own divorce, I will be a ghost in San Francisco.
And he will have nothing left but his shipping logs and his regret. 
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