Garnett
1 Published Story
Garnett's Book and Story
Unyielding Conqueror's Return
Modern Would you believe me if I told you that my uncle actually killed my parents? Yeah, I was just as shocked as you when I found out the truth.
My uncle, Cordell, was the one who raised me after my parents' untimely death in a drowning incident fifteen years ago. I was just five years old at the time. Since I had nowhere to go, Cordell took me in.
I thought he was my savior. But little did I know that he actually took me in just to cover up his crimes. Cordell killed my parents to take over the family estate!
My childhood was far from perfect. Cordell was such a cold-blooded man. He never cared about anyone else but himself.
When I finally came of age, I made boss moves by using my talent. My success began after I set up a biotech company at the age of twenty. In no time, I soon became a force to reckon with.
Cordell wasn't happy about this. To sabotage me, he accused me of rape and then took over my company. My reputation was ruined in the blink of an eye.
Beaten and battered, I fled out of the country in search of greener pastures. Five years passed by quickly. Those were the most eventful years of my life.
I, Randolph Truman, passed through a lake of fire and came out like refined gold. I finally returned home as the leader of the most formidable armed organization. My net worth ran into trillions!
A hundred thousand soldiers were at my command. I was on top of the world. People would surely respect me even if they didn't want to.
Unfortunately for Cordell, he hadn't gotten the memo. He mocked me when our paths crossed again. He called me a rapist and also encouraged others to ridicule me.
But the moment I unveiled my new identity to them, they all bowed before me, wept, and begged for my forgiveness. I felt like a king!
Should I pay Cordell back in his own coin? Wanna know what I did to him? You might like
The Discarded Husband's Spectacular Comeback
Qian Mo Mo I spent three hours searing the perfect wagyu steak and chilling a bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon for our anniversary. My wife, Evelin, texted me saying she was stuck in a late board meeting.
"Don't wait up."
But a bank alert on my phone told a different story: a $5,600 charge at a VIP lounge in the Meatpacking District. When I tracked her down, I didn't find her in a boardroom; I found her sitting on my business partner's lap, laughing as he fed her chocolate-covered strawberries.
When I confronted them, Evelin didn't even look guilty. She called me hysterical and a "prude" for interrupting their night. Hank mocked me to my face, calling me a pathetic "trophy husband" who was probably home ironing napkins while they were out having real fun. When I finally snapped and defended my dignity, my own wife slapped me across the face and had her security throw me out like trash.
"You are nothing without the Carney name. You're a stray I picked up."
By the time I hit the sidewalk, she had frozen all our joint accounts and blacklisted my name from every major firm in the city. I had spent ten years managing her family's billions and fixing the books her lover messed up, only to be left with ten dollars in my pocket and a suitcase full of dusty law books. She thinks I'm a broken man who will come crawling back to beg for mercy just to afford a meal.
I realized then that our marriage was just a corpse I'd been dragging around, and she was the monster who had killed it years ago. I felt the sting of her slap and the weight of her betrayal, wondering how I could have been so blind to the person I shared a bed with.
Standing in a cramped apartment in Queens, I blocked her number and called a "shark" lawyer I hadn't spoken to since law school.
"I'm the biggest shark in the tank, Dom. Let her try to ruin you."
Evelin thinks she took everything, but she forgot one thing: I'm the one who knows exactly where the bodies are buried in her family's ledgers. The war has just begun. Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect
Fritz Heaney I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon.
The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat.
I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant.
"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."
There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission.
For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment.
When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself.
"Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary."