Mei Piaoxiang
13 Published Stories
Mei Piaoxiang's Books and Stories
Her Pain, His Ultimate Regret
Romance My team lead looked at my termination letter, unable to meet my eyes. He said it came from the top, nothing he could do. I was the scapegoat for a supposed error, fired from the company because Chloe Davis, Nathan Hayes' s high school sweetheart and co-founder, was back.
Suddenly, I saw Nathan get out of his car, holding the door for Chloe with a tenderness he hadn't shown me in ages. Our eyes met, a flicker of something in his expression before it was gone, and he walked right past me without a word, leaving a sharp pain in my chest. I hailed a cab and went to his penthouse, the place I called home, for now. I cooked his favorite meal, sent him a picture, and waited, but he never replied.
Days passed. Nathan didn't contact me. I'd been to the hospital three times, my doctor pressing for treatment options, but I kept them hidden. He finally came home, his tension easing when I told him I just had a cold. He pulled my hand to his face, a familiar, intimate gesture, reminding me how easily I mistook habit for affection.
After a night of desperate passion, he whispered, "Ava, you're not mad I fired you, are you?" I wasn't. Three years ago, he paid off my mother's gambling debts, turning me into his "kept woman." I was dutiful, obedient, supportive, asking for nothing. He called me his "beautiful bird in a golden cage," the one who could never leave him.
Then, Chloe's best friend, Brenda Smith, confronted me, throwing my desperate texts to Nathan in my face. "You're a pathetic homewrecker," she sneered, slapping me hard across the cheek. I ended up in the hospital with a concussion. Nathan came back, but his main concern was Chloe's reputation. "Ava, Chloe is different from you to me," he said, touching my bruised cheek. "Just be good, okay?"
The pain was suffocating. I didn't understand how he could be so cruelly indifferent. I closed my eyes, and a single tear escaped. He didn't wipe it away. Our three years together meant nothing. It was all a ghost compared to his "white knight."
"Let's break up, Nathan." His jaw tightened. "Ava, break up? Haven't you forgotten our agreement? Unless one of us dies, I am the one who decides when we part ways." I finally understood. To be free, I had to die for him to let me go. Too Late For Regret, Mr. Booth
Modern I was eight months pregnant with triplets, waiting for my husband in his private office.
Instead, his "childhood friend" Jaida walked in and threw divorce papers at my pregnant belly.
"He doesn't need you anymore. I'm the one who gave him a kidney five years ago, and now he's giving me his family."
But I was the one who secretly gave him my kidney.
Before I could expose her lie, she pushed me hard against a glass table.
I went into premature labor. In the blood-soaked operating room, I heard Jaida give a cold order to the corrupt doctor.
"Secure the heirs, whatever the cost to the incubator."
They told me my two sons died, leaving only my frail daughter. I barely escaped the burning hospital with her, faking our deaths to survive.
Four years later, I took my daughter to a top cardiologist for her rare heart defect, only to run into my ex-husband and Jaida.
They had a four-year-old son with them. His name was Jacob—the exact name I had chosen for my "dead" baby.
What completely shattered my world was the doctor's secret revelation: their son and my daughter shared an impossible, one-in-ten-million genetic mutation.
My sons didn't die in that operating room. Jaida had stolen my baby and my life.
I immediately ordered a secret DNA test. This time, I wouldn't just run; I would make them pay for everything they took from me. Broken Doll No More: Her Ruthless Revenge
Mafia I stood before the heavy oak door with a positive pregnancy test burning a hole in my pocket, ready to tell the Underboss, Anthony Holden, that his legacy was secured.
But before I could turn the handle, I heard his twin brother laughing from inside.
"She screams your name, not mine. It is a little insulting, brother," Emmanuel mocked.
"Three years of celibacy for the alliance while you play with my toy," Anthony sighed. "I deserve a medal."
My world shattered. For three years, I thought I was the exception to their violence, but I had been sleeping with a monster in the dark.
When I kicked the door open, Bianca House—my high school tormentor—was sitting there like a queen.
"Happy anniversary, Erica," she sneered. "You were just a placeholder for the territory deal."
They didn't stop there. They took my dignity, and then they took my life.
At a dinner intended to show unity, they watched me choke on peanuts. Anthony looked me in the eye and used my EpiPen on Bianca’s fake faint while I suffocated on the floor.
They threw my grandmother’s ashes off a balcony just to watch me scream. They pushed me into traffic to ensure I’d be a compliant prop for their wedding.
They killed the baby in my womb.
They thought they had broken me. They thought I was just a nurse, a civilian, a loose end.
But on the day of the wedding, I wasn't in the pews.
I was on a bus out of state, hacking the church's livestream.
As the priest began to speak, I replaced the image of the cross with the video of their confession.
I watched their empire crumble from a cracked phone screen, leaving the monsters behind to find a man who would actually burn the world for me. When Love Became a Nightmare
Romance The text message from Mark, "Trip extended. Don' t wait up. Love you," was the first crack in the facade of my four-year marriage, a hollow echo of affection on our anniversary. Then, discovering him with his assistant, Olivia Stone, in his office, their intimacy a brutal slap, confirmed my deepest fears.
But his words cut deeper than the sight: "Ever since she got pregnant, she' s become… unbearable. Clingy. Emotional. It' s not the woman I married." In that instant, a searing pain shot through my abdomen, and a choked gasp escaped me, a prelude to the nightmare that followed.
He pushed me down the stairs. My body hit the cold steps over and over. I lay in a heap, bleeding, losing our baby. Yet, he rushed past me to comfort Olivia, asking, "Are you okay? Did she scare you?" He chose her, leaving me broken and bleeding on the floor. At the hospital, he confirmed the devastating loss and then blamed me, twisting reality.
As if summoned, Olivia appeared, feigning sorrow, while he comforted her, bringing her to my room where our child's life had just ended. He pushed me back onto the bed, furious at my screams, and then escorted her out, murmuring soothing words, leaving me utterly alone with the ghost of our child.
His cruelty knew no bounds. He threw my beloved dog, Buddy, out into a raging storm, then forced me to apologize to Olivia for upsetting HER, threatening Buddy's life if I refused. I knelt, humiliating myself, whispering apologies I didn't mean, all for Buddy.
How could he be so monstrous? He remembered nothing of the man I loved, only this cruel stranger. Yet, the question of what he truly remembered, what he was capable of, hung heavy in the air.
That night, alone after my performative apology, I called my lawyer. My decision was solid, unchangeable. The marriage was a festering wound, and the only way to survive was to cut it out completely. His Shadow, Her Betrayal, His Rise
Modern The blinding white of the hospital ceiling.
My ears registered the monotonous beep of a machine, my body a dull ache radiating from my chest, but my mind was replaying a lifetime.
A lifetime I didn't swerve, didn't fight, a life where I gave everything for her, for Sarah Miller.
I saw myself hollowed out, unfulfilled, alone, a footnote in her brilliant biography, my own child a ghost.
Then the blinding clarity: this wasn't just a brush with death, it was a preview of the life I was about to lose myself in.
My gaze drifted-Sarah, impeccable as always, on her phone, brow furrowed.
And next to her, Alex, murmuring, his hand on her arm, a gesture far too familiar.
They were a perfect, closed circuit.
I was the outsider.
A cold certainty settled in my chest, more real than the pain from my injuries: I would not let that life happen.
My hands trembled, not from weakness, but from a newfound resolve.
I called my boss.
"Mike! I heard about the accident. Are you okay? Do you need anything?"
"I'm okay, Mark," I said, my voice raspy. "But I'm calling to resign."
"Resign? Mike, what are you talking about? You're our top young talent. We were just about to put you on the downtown high-rise project."
"I don't want the high-rise," I said, with surprising strength. "I want the sustainable community project. The one in Oak Creek. I know it's a pay cut. I know it's in the middle of nowhere. I'll take it. I need to do it."
A weight I hadn't realized I was carrying lifted from my shoulders.
It felt incredible.
This was my second chance.
My life wasn't going to be a footnote in Sarah Miller's biography.
It was going to be my own story.
Starting now. Divorce Papers, A Woman Reborn
Modern My record label was a empire, built on grit and an uncanny ear for talent.
But that morning, standing in my sanctuary, Studio A, the controlled chaos I expected was replaced by a scene that froze my blood: a girl I didn't know, holding "The Nightingale," Liam's one-of-a-kind microphone.
It wasn't just any mic. It was our mic, a silver emblem of our shared career, engraved with "E+L"-a symbol of a sacred promise he made years ago, that only his voice would ever touch it. And this girl, Ava, with her sickly sweet smile, was singing into it, her cheap perfume clinging to the pop filter, her fingers wrapped right over our initials. My sound engineer paled and cut the audio.
"Hi, Ms. Reed. I'm Ava. Liam said I could warm up with this one." Her voice was pure saccharine.
Liam, the man of principles, who preached loyalty and integrity, had let her use it, had broken his promise for her. He walked in later, carefree, carrying coffees, asking, "Where's Ava?" as if it were nothing. Blithely admitting he told her she could use his mic.
Why did he dismiss our vow so easily? Why was this girl, a stranger, allowed to hold something so intimate, so symbolic of us? And why did Liam act like my feelings were an overreaction, just something he needed to manage?
I sent her home, but the real fight had just begun. Too Late, Mr. Thompson: Your Script is Burned
Fantasy Three months pregnant, my life with Mark, a rising tech CEO, in our beautiful Charleston home, felt truly perfect.
We were college sweethearts, five years married-a fairy tale come true.
Then Mark arrived holding a cheap, wilted rose. Above his head, impossible words flickered like captions only I could see: `"The 'side piece' got the fresh bouquet, the 'starter wife' gets a pity rose?"` More chillingly: `"Only 4 more months until the 'first wife' is written off. Classic tragic exit."` My perfect world shattered.
The comments exposed his long-term affair with his intern, Brit, and my role as a disposable "plot device."
When I confronted them, Brit shoved me. I fell. I woke with an agonizing void-my baby gone.
Mark, feigning remorse, still used our funds to protect his mistress.
His hypocrisy infuriated me. The comments confirmed his manipulative strategy.
Then, the ultimate blow: Mark declared Brit was pregnant, calling it "our second chance." He even offered to make her abort that baby if I'd take him back, proving him utterly depraved.
I refused to be written off. My baby was gone, but I was still here.
The tragic script they wrote for me was now totally ablaze. I chose to fight. "No mercy," I told my lawyer.
I would dismantle his empire, reclaim my life, and write my own powerful, uncompromised ending. The Love Story Passed Nineteen Again
Romance I woke up nineteen again, in my familiar 80s room, recalling a seventy-year marriage with Mark.
He was my soulmate, my golden love story, and I believed this time, we could make it even more perfect.
But this new, young Mark was shockingly different.
He was ambitious, driven, and then, at the Fourth of July picnic, he publicly asked Tiffany Anderson, the town' s popular golden girl, to be his girlfriend.
My seventy-year love story, my perfect reunion dream, shattered into a million pieces.
I watched my past, present, and future fall apart before my eyes.
Every shared milestone, every tender moment, was now seen through a horrifying lens of betrayal.
He' d never been truly with me; he was always just chasing her.
Mark himself confirmed my deepest fears, treating me with open disdain, trying to sabotage my music.
How could the man I loved for a lifetime treat me like this?
My heart screamed, "Did you ever, in all those seventy years, actually love me?"
His answer was a cold, brutal laugh: "Love you? Don't be stupid. It was convenient. It was always Tiffany."
My entire past life, a carefully constructed illusion, imploded.
But in that moment of utter devastation, a fierce, new resolve ignited within me.
The very sabotage meant to break me instead opened an unexpected door.
A city music promoter, impressed by my raw performance, offered me a way out-a chance to become truly myself, finally free from his shadow. From Nerd To NovaCorp Heir
Young Adult I was just Ethan Miller, the quiet coder, dreaming of a tech internship and a shot with Brittany Hayes.
Then the internship list dropped. Her boyfriend Chad made it, I didn't.
Hours later, the school' s social media lit up: a "Loser List" poll, and I was "Biggest Nerd," number one.
My private DMs, every awkward, hopeful word asking Brittany to prom, were instantly plastered school-wide.
Laughter and pointed fingers followed me, the burning humiliation a public execution of my dignity.
Brittany had orchestrated it all.
She' d played me for a fool, then falsely accused me of hacking, costing me my dream CS program and a suspension.
The "Future Innovator" scholarship I was promised went to Chad.
Why did she hate me so much, actively ruining my life and now targeting Sarah Jenkins, an innocent outcast I' d tried to help?
But at prom, as Brittany "accidentally" spilled a drink on Sarah' s dress, something inside me snapped.
The chauffeur opened the Maybach' s door; I stepped out in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo, my family' s security detail and stylist flanking me.
"I'm Mark Miller's son," I whispered to a stunned Sarah. "NovaCorp. Time for an upgrade." Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Her Sacrifice Burned Away
Modern Ava Miller, terminally ill with ALS, fled a brutal five-year imprisonment in a mental health facility.
Her desperate wish was a final act of control: a pre-arranged full-body donation for complete disintegration, leaving no trace behind.
But her carefully planned escape shattered when she collided with Liam Donovan, her former fiancé and the man who believed she was responsible for his beloved sister' s tragic death.
Liam, consumed by grief and rage, dragged Ava into a new nightmare, intent on making her pay for Chloe' s loss.
Despite her rapidly worsening illness and broken body, Ava shielded a secret that would exonerate her but destroy Chloe' s memory, embracing Liam' s abuse as penance.
She endured public degradation, horrific assaults, and even a forced bone marrow donation that left her paralyzed, all to uphold her silent promise.
How could the man she still desperately loved be so cruelly blind to her innocence and suffering, allowing his hatred to consume her?
Why did she choose to sacrifice every shred of dignity for a truth she couldn't speak, leaving her stripped of everything but oblivion?
Her final agonizing moments came in a fire he implicitly condoned, prompting Liam to slowly unravel her devastating sacrifice through hidden clues long after she was gone.
Now, haunted by the profound truth of Ava's unwavering love and innocent torment, Liam is forced to confront the monstrous depths of his own actions, embarking on a brutal journey for redemption, only to discover some truths come too late for forgiveness. The Day I Chose My Own Destiny
Romance My blood was a rare gift, able to heal any wound and mend broken bodies.
In my first wretched life, it bound me to Ethan Vanderbilt, who saw my power as his sole property.
But my gift couldn't bring back the dead, a truth Ethan refused to accept when his "true love," Veronica, lay lifeless before him.
Consumed by a twisted grief not for me, he cruelly watched as my own life bled out from a wound he inflicted.
I died a slow, agonizing death, powerless against his vengeful madness.
As darkness claimed me, a maid's faint whisper revealed a chilling secret: Veronica wasn’t where they claimed; her death wasn't an accident.
"Another man… his wife found out."
My entire torment, my very death, was built on a monstrous lie.
The utter injustice of it burned, even as I faded.
Then, I gasped, whole and alive, in a hospital room.
The calendar date confirmed it: I was back to the very day Ethan first summoned me.
This time, I wouldn't be his victim.
This time, I had a choice.
This was my second chance. If He Dies, He Dies
Modern I poured my life, my health, into Vicky Sterling's startup.
Now she's a celebrated CEO, and I’m just a recovering patient, battling Crohn’s.
Her "conceptual artist" lover, Julian, fills our home with his presence.
One evening, Julian, knowing my strict diet, offered me a rich, forbidden pasta.
Under his watchful smirk, I took a bite.
Within the hour, internal fire consumed me.
I crawled to Vicky, begging for the hospital, but she dismissed my agony.
She called me "dramatic," prioritized Julian's fake illness, and brutally kicked my surgical scars.
Her assistant Brenda then locked me in my room, where Julian's venomous brown recluse bit me.
When paramedics arrived, Vicky blocked the ambulance, chillingly stating, "If he dies, he dies!"
How could the woman I loved, the one I sacrificed everything for, actively ensure my agonizing death?
Was I just a burden to be eliminated, a mere inconvenience?
As darkness encroached, I used my last ounce of strength, not to call 911 again, but the one man who could truly help: Uncle Frank.
My story wasn't ending; it was just beginning. You might like
While I Was Bleeding Out, He Lit Lanterns For Her
Katie Oettgen As I lay on the floor of our manor, bleeding out from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, I used my last ounce of strength to call my husband, Cole.
I begged him for help, my vision blurring.
But the only thing I heard was the clinking of champagne glasses and his mistress's giggle in the background.
"Stop the drama, June," Cole snapped, his voice cold. "We're about to go on stage. Don't call again."
He hung up, leaving me to die alone on the Persian rug while he accepted an award with another woman on his arm.
I woke up in the hospital days later. My baby was gone. They had removed my fallopian tube.
Cole finally arrived, smelling of expensive scotch and his mistress's perfume. He didn't hug me. He didn't cry.
Instead, he leaned over my hospital bed, pressing his knee into the mattress until my fresh stitches tore open and bled.
"You embarrassed me by calling an ambulance," he hissed. "My mistress, Alycia, says you're faking it. Clean yourself up."
He left me bleeding again to go announce a $10 million donation to Alycia's "groundbreaking" medical research.
I stared at the TV screen, numb. The research Alycia was taking credit for? It was mine. I wrote that patent years ago under a pseudonym.
They thought I was just a poor, orphan housewife who needed Cole's money to survive.
They had no idea I was actually a billionaire scientist hiding my identity.
I pulled the IV needle out of my arm. A drop of blood fell onto the divorce papers I had been hiding.
I didn't wipe it off. I signed my name right over it.
Then I walked into the bank, reactivated my dormant account with $128 million, and bought the penthouse directly overlooking Cole's house.
The mourning widow is dead. The avenger is born. Flash Marriage To My Best Friend's Father
Madel Cerda I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector.
That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world.
The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor.
The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist.
Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch-a titan of industry and my best friend's father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared.
"Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb.
Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen.
"Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back."
I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe. One Night With My Billionaire Boss
Nathaniel Stone I woke up on silk sheets that smelled of expensive cedar and cold sandalwood, a world away from my cramped apartment in Brooklyn.
Beside me lay Ezra Gardner-my boss, the billionaire CEO of Gardner Holdings, and the man who could end my career with a snap of his fingers.
He didn't offer an apology for the night before; instead, he looked at me with terrifying clarity and proposed a cold, calculated business arrangement.
"Marriage. It stabilizes the board and solves the PR crisis before it begins."
He dressed me in archival Chanel and sent me home in his Maybach, but my life was already falling apart. My boyfriend, Irving, claimed he had passed out early, yet his location data placed him at my best friend's apartment until three in the morning. When I tried to run, I realized Ezra was already ten steps ahead, tracking my movements and uncovering the secret I'd spent twenty years hiding: my connection to the powerful Senator Grimes.
I was trapped between a CEO who treated me like a line item on a quarterly report and a boyfriend who had been using me while sleeping with my closest friend. I felt like a pawn in a game I didn't understand, wondering why a man like Ezra would walk up forty flights of stairs on a broken leg just to make sure I was safe.
"Showtime, Mrs. Gardner."
Standing on the red carpet in a gown that cost more than my life, I watched my cheating ex-boyfriend's face turn pale as Ezra claimed me in front of the world. I wasn't just an assistant anymore; I was a weapon, and it was time to burn their world down. His Twisted Game, My Dangerous Love
Elroy Notman Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun.
Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos.
As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage.
The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice.
Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her. He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him
SHANA GRAY The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her.
Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead.
A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living.
Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body.
Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back. After Divorce: My Arrogant Ex Regrets Calling Me Trash
Sea Jet Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world.
In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief."
But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius.
Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be. Neglected Wife: Hidden Heiress's Cold Revenge
Da Lanlan I stood in the pouring rain at my father-in-law's funeral, the heels of my black pumps sinking into the mud. I was Mrs. Vargas, the wife of New York's most powerful billionaire, yet I was standing at the edge of the crowd like a forgotten statue.
Ten feet away, under the dry shelter of the family tent, my husband Hayes held another woman against his chest. It wasn't me he was whispering comfort to; it was Felicity, his late brother's widow and childhood sweetheart.
The humiliation didn't end at the cemetery. Hayes moved Felicity and her son into our home, relegating me to the guest wing while she took over the primary suites. He watched silently as her son smashed the only photograph of my deceased parents, then demanded I apologize for "scaring" the boy with my reaction. When Felicity's negligence ruined a twelve-million-dollar family heirloom, Hayes had the audacity to ask me to use my own savings to buy her a "consolation" engagement ring. He treated me like a parasite, never realizing I was a brilliant scientist with a hidden fortune and three patents to my name.
I realized then that our three-year marriage was a hollow farce. Hayes had never even touched me, claiming he wanted to "remain pure" for his memory of Felicity. I was nothing more than a business merger, a smudge on the lens of the perfect family portrait he was building with another man's widow.
The breaking point came during a lethal blizzard. Hayes promised to accompany me to my family's mandatory gala-a tradition where my absence meant a death sentence. But at the last second, he stood me up to stay home and tend to Felicity's stubbed toe. Left alone to face the wrath of the Santos Matriarch, I was forced to kneel in the freezing snow as punishment until my lungs began to fail and my vision blurred.
Just as the darkness started to take me, a black Maybach smashed through the iron gates. My exiled brother, the man the world calls "The Wolf," stepped out of the storm to reclaim what Hayes had discarded. Hayes thought I was a helpless doll who couldn't survive a day without his trust fund, but he's about to find out what happens when you let a Santos daughter freeze. Burned By Him, Reborn A Star
Rabbit The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack."
Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard.
The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn.
"Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress. 
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