Snooty
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Snooty's Books and Stories
Counterattack Of The Vengeful Goddess
Romance This summer, the temperature suddenly rose, and my sister-in-law suggested that the whole family go to Prastin for diving to escape the heat. I suddenly realized that the climate in Prastin this year was different from previous years, so I suggested staying for a few days and then going home. As a result, my sister-in-law angrily scolded me, saying, "Prastin is a summer resort. I don't know if you can shut up, you country bumpkin. In another month, the weather will get cooler. If we don't stay for a month, I won't go home." My mother strongly agreed on the side.
After landing, they were ripped off at a seafood market by a shady business and held at knifepoint by thugs to pay a high bill, forcing me to give them money. Later, the Earth's magnetic field became chaotic, and the cool sea breeze turned into a scorching heat wave, turning the summer resort into a hell on earth. The airport stopped flights due to the high temperatures, and our family was trapped in a guesthouse. Despite the government's high-temperature warning, my sister-in-law insisted on going diving to cool off. As a result, in the extreme heat, a sudden high tide trapped her. In a critical moment, my brother pushed me into the water, and my sister-in-law grabbed my hair, using my head as a support, and was successfully rescued. However, I was swept into the seabed by scalding hot seawater and drowned. A rescuer who was salvaging my body also tragically died. Faced with the blame from those around her, my mother said, "It's all my daughter's fault for not listening and insisting on going diving. If she couldn't be saved, it's her own fault." After this incident, they finally realized the dangers of high temperatures. The three of them stayed in the guesthouse, worked together to endure the high temperatures, and finally received government rescue. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to when my sister-in-law suggested going to Prastin to escape the heat. Bought By The Coldhearted Media Mogul
Modern My bank account was four hundred dollars in the red when my brother called me screaming from the most exclusive club in Manhattan. He said he was going to be killed or arrested, and I was the only one who could save him from the mess he’d made.
When I arrived at The Onyx, I found my brother on his knees, accused of assaulting a high-profile socialite. But instead of begging for my help, he pointed a shaking finger at me and screamed, "It was her! My sister set the whole thing up because she wanted money!"
The man watching the chaos from the shadows was Adrian Clemons—the billionaire CEO of the company where I worked as a lowly assistant. He didn't look at me with pity; he looked at me with a profound, exhausted disgust, as if I were a stain on his expensive rug.
To save his own skin, my brother didn't just lie; he offered me up like a piece of tradeable property. "She'll do anything," he pleaded with the billionaire. "She’s clean, she’s obedient. Just don't send me to jail!"
Adrian didn't call the police. Instead, he made a cold, terrifying business proposal: "Lend her to me for one year. I wipe your debt, and the cops stay away." My brother didn't even blink before he snapped, "Done. Take her."
I was whisked away to City Hall in a silent Rolls Royce, signing a marriage license before I could even process the betrayal. I wasn't a bride; I was a "human asset" bought to help a cold-blooded monster secure his inheritance.
The moment my hand accidentally brushed his during the signing, he recoiled as if I were contagious, his face turning a ghostly, panicked white. He made it clear that I was nothing more than a prop, a girl from the slums meant to spite his elitist mother.
As the heavy iron gates of the Clemons estate slammed shut behind me that night, I realized I hadn't just saved my brother. I had entered a golden cage owned by a man who hated my touch, but owned my life for the next three hundred and sixty-five days. Eight Years Of His Lies
Modern For eight years, I gave up everything to protect my son from his deadly peanut allergy. This meant three months of crushing loneliness every winter while he and his father, Greg, lived in a separate "allergy-free zone." I called it lonely; my doctors called it seasonal depression.
But the allergy was a lie. I overheard them through the apartment door-Greg, my son Josh, and Brittany, his high school sweetheart. They were feeding my son his allergen on purpose.
"Just a little bit to keep the allergy strong," Greg coached him. It was their ticket for a secret life.
When Josh was later hospitalized for a reaction, he cried for Brittany, not me. "Mommy's always sad," he whimpered, as she swept in to play the hero.
Then I discovered the pills Greg gave me for my "depression" were actually powerful sedatives. He wasn't just lying; he was drugging me to keep me docile and confused.
The final blow was our marriage certificate-a worthless fake. He had built my entire world on a foundation of deceit. So I walked out, leaving him to the mess he created, ready to reclaim the life he stole from me. His Betrayal, Her Unbreakable Will
Modern The pain hit me in the middle of a billion-dollar merger presentation. It was a sharp, twisting cramp, so intense it stole my breath. I excused myself, trembling, and called my husband, Ethan, who was supposed to be my rock.
Instead, I heard the sounds of children laughing and music in the background. My desperate plea that "something's wrong... I think I'm bleeding" was met with dismissal. Ethan, playing dad to Olivia's son Liam, brushed me off, accusing me of being "dramatic" and "pathetic" for trying to ruin Liam's "Star Camper" award. He hung up, leaving me to slide down the hallway wall as a warm gush of blood soaked through my dress.
Hours later, I woke up in a hospital bed. Our baby was gone. The doctor's kind, sad face confirmed the emptiness I already felt. I lay there, a hollowed-out shell, the pain too deep for tears. When the nurse presented the cremation authorization, I didn't hesitate. I signed my name, Chloe Davis, and then asked her to send the ashes to my husband, Ethan Miller, at his office.
"And," I added, looking her straight in the eye, "can you include a gift card? Just write one thing on it: 'For your next family.'"
He hadn't come to the hospital. He hadn't even called. Two days later, he came home, cheerful and oblivious, talking about how Olivia "really needed him" and how he' d brought me soup. He still didn't get it. He was standing in the middle of a graveyard, complaining about the price of flowers. The man I had loved was gone, replaced by a stranger.
His casual disregard, constant betrayal, and the loss of our child ignited a cold, unwavering resolve within me. I took down the nursery, packing away every tiny reminder of a future that would never be. Then, I called my lawyer. I was filing for divorce, and this time, I wasn't just leaving him; I was taking everything back-my money, my career, my life-and he wouldn't even see it coming. The Wife He Cast Out
Billionaires The freezing rain lashed at my face as David locked me out for the third time this week.
My voice trembled as I begged, "David, please. It' s cold. Let me in."
His only answer was the TV volume growing louder, a clear sign he didn' t care.
Just five years ago, I was Sarah Miller, Wall Street' s "Golden Eyes," a financial genius with a fortress of wealth.
Then David Smith arrived, charming and protective, convincing me to trade my career for a quiet life, a family, pouring all my assets into his hands.
I even underwent a "special procedure" he insisted on-a bone marrow transfer that left me with a permanent chill and weakness, supposedly to protect his health and our prosperity.
A year later, his college sweetheart, Olivia White, walked back into his life.
Tonight, as I shivered on the porch, our 8-year-old son, Ethan, opened the door, his face a cold copy of his father' s.
"Dad said you need to think about what you did wrong," Ethan announced, flatly. "Olivia is here. She' s way nicer than you."
David and Olivia appeared, his arm around her, a smug look on his face.
"Still out here, Sarah?" he sneered. "Maybe the cold will knock some sense into you. You' ve become useless. All you do is spend my money."
"Your money?" I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "David, it was my money. My life' s work."
Olivia laughed a sharp, unpleasant sound. "Oh, Sarah. That was a long time ago. You' re just a housewife now. David is the one making the real moves."
He pulled her closer. "I' ve been investing our money into Olivia' s tech startup. It' s the future. It' s for Ethan' s education."
The blatant lie stole my breath. I had seen the financials; her startup was a fraudulent mess. He was stealing from me to fund his affair.
"You' re lying," I said, finding my voice. "That company is worthless. You' re throwing our money away on her."
His face hardened. "Don' t you dare question my judgment. You gave up that life, remember?"
Even Ethan parroted, "Yeah, Mom! Dad' s smart. Olivia is smart. You just cook and clean."
Their words, twisting my son' s voice, finally broke me. I looked at David' s face and saw no love, just a manipulator who saw me as a bank account. My sacrifice wasn' t love; it was a successful transaction.
The cold rain no longer bothered me. A clarifying rage settled deep within. The naive woman on the doorstep was gone, mourned by no one but herself.
I stopped pleading. I stopped shivering. My eyes, clear and steady for the first time in years, saw him for what he was: a self-serving thief.
Without a word, I turned and walked away, leaving him shouting, "Sarah! Where are you going? Get back here!"
I didn' t look back. He thought I was a washed-up housewife, but he had forgotten about the Golden Eyes. They built their empire with my money. I was going to take it all back. And then, I was going to burn their world to the ground. My Fiancé Married His Deceased Brother's Wife
Romance For five years, Mark and I were the perfect couple, or so I thought.
He was the promising artist, and I, the talented interior designer.
But for five years, he had never once talked about marrying me.
His reason? His deceased brother' s widow, Olivia.
He claimed his "duty" was to fulfill his brother' s dying wish: to have a child with Olivia.
So, I endured, counting the nights he spent in her bed, the scent of her perfume clinging to him when he returned.
On the sixtieth day, Olivia announced her pregnancy.
Mark was ecstatic, promising me a wedding in one week.
That same night, at a massive party to celebrate the pregnancy, I stood in the crowd, waiting for him to announce our engagement.
Instead, he got down on one knee, pulled out a diamond ring, and proposed to Olivia.
My heart shattered. He had publicly humiliated me.
Later, the stinging reality of my betrayal was cemented by a text from Olivia:
"He was never yours."
I was no more than a placeholder, a fool warming his bed while he pursued his true agenda.
The pain was unbearable, but a cold resolve flickered within me.
When Mark, oblivious, later tried to gaslight me with more lies, I saw a hickey on his neck.
He then ran off to Olivia, leaving me in the car to get a cab.
Back at the apartment, he even offered me a smaller ring and then audaciously asked if Olivia, his pregnant fiancée, could move in with us, citing a high-risk pregnancy.
He wanted me to care for her.
The audacity was astounding. Yet, a strange calm washed over me.
"Okay," I said, my voice steady. "She can move in."
The next evening, Olivia faked a fall down the stairs, accusing me of trying to harm her baby.
Mark' s face, contorted with rage, snarled at me:
"If anything happens to this baby, I will destroy you. I swear to God, I will ruin your life."
The last thread snapped. No anger, no sadness. Just peace. I was free.
I walked to our bedroom, took my packed suitcase, and dropped the engagement ring into the trash.
Then, I walked out. Not His Brother's Fool
Romance Ethan Scott promised me a Texas-sized wedding, then drove off with a greasy-haired woman he called his "business partner," leaving me pregnant with his brother Caleb's child.
I married Caleb, secured, and settled into our new life on the outskirts of town, far from the Scotts.
A year later, Ethan and his mistress, Tara, rolled back in, broke and bitter, expecting to find me forlorn-instead they found me heavily pregnant on the porch.
Tara, with a sneer, convinced Ethan I was a conniving gold-digger, trying to pass off another man' s child as his.
Fueled by her lies, Ethan, his own brother, lunged at me, pushing our mother aside before dragging me into the dusty yard.
He publicly humiliated me, screaming I was a "cheating whore," then kicked me to my knees, snarling he' d "beat the truth out of me."
The horror escalated when he grabbed a hot fire poker, and Tara hissed for him to "brand" me.
He shoved me into a filthy pigsty, where a sow charged, slamming into my side, tearing agony erupting through me.
I screamed, bleeding heavily, realizing my baby was coming, right there in the mud, as Ethan and Tara laughed.
I thought I was going to die, my baby too, abandoned to the filth.
Just as darkness closed in, Caleb's truck screeched to a halt, and he emerged, a mask of pure, cold fury, his eyes finding me in the pigsty.
He plunged through the mud, scooped me up, and as he carried me away, Tara dared to mock him, "You don' t have to pretend, Caleb! We saved you!"
His reply, chillingly quiet, promised, "If she dies, I will kill you both with my bare hands." The Unseen Empress of Sound
Modern My belly swollen, nine months in, I clutched the counter as a brutal contraction stole my breath.
"Ethan," I gasped, "I think it's the baby. It's too early."
He didn't even glance up from his phone, scrolling through pictures of Sabrina Chavez, the singer who' d stolen my song.
"Not now, Jocelyn," he drawled, "I'm dealing with a crisis." He meant Sabrina's stylist sent the wrong shoes.
Not impending premature birth.
Another wave of pain hit, sharper.
I saw red on my legs.
But he took my phone and keys. "You're going to sit down, drink some water, and stop trying to sabotage the biggest night of my career." He left, the door clicking like a coffin lid.
An hour later, I was bleeding on the floor, the storm had knocked out the landlines, and the front door was locked.
When help finally came, it was Ethan' s mother, who called my pain "theatrics," then shoved me into the dark, damp storm cellar, filled with corrosive cleaner.
My baby died there, in the acid, in the dark.
I should have died. I did die, to the world.
But my father, the reclusive music legend Jackson Fuller, saved me. Now, the old Jocelyn is gone, burned away.
And from the ashes, a new one has risen. And she wants revenge. The Dashcam's Silent Witness
Modern The knot in my stomach wasn't just anticipation for my prenatal check-up; it was the chilling premonition of a nightmare revisited.
My husband Mark, our town' s revered Fire Captain, conveniently had an urgent training, leaving his childhood friend Jessica to sweetly offer me a ride to the doctor.
But I knew this day, every terrifying detail, because I'd endured it once before.
In my first life, Jessica had deliberately caused a horrific car crash, and Mark, the man who supposedly saved me, later turned into our baby' s and my executioner.
This time, I secretly called 911, determined to change my fate, yet the horror unfolded eerily similarly.
Mark arrived, doting on a minimally bruised Jessica, completely ignoring my severe injuries as I hemorrhaged, publicly shaming me while I agonizingly lost our child.
The entire town, blinded by his hero status, rallied around Jessica, swiftly branding me the unstable, jealous woman who had caused all the tragedy.
Isolated and shattered, the profound injustice burned through me, leaving me incredulous at their collective delusion.
How could the truth be so twisted, and their eyes so firmly shut to the betrayers living among them?
But they underestimated the silent resolve of a woman who had already walked through hell and returned.
When Jessica pulled her next theatrical ploy, I didn't just stand there; I made a discrete call, armed with undeniable evidence from my dashcam, ready to expose the monsters and finally claim the justice my innocent baby never received. You might like
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. 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. 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. 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. Reborn Rich, My Vengeance Rises
Rabbit My husband, Ethan Vance, made me his trophy wife. My best friend, Susanna Thorne, helped me pick out my wedding dress. Together, they made me a fool.
For three years, I was Mrs. Ethan Vance, a decorative silence in his billion-dollar world, living a quiet routine until a forgotten phone charger led me to his office.
The low, feminine laugh from behind his door was a gut-punch; inside, I found Ethan and Susanna, my "best friend" and his CMO, tangled on his sofa, his only reaction irritation.
My divorce declaration brought immediate scorn and threats. I was fired, my accounts frozen, and publicly smeared as an unstable gold-digger. Even my own family disowned me for my last cent, only for me to be framed for assault and served a restraining order.
Broke, injured, and utterly demonized, they believed I was broken, too ashamed to fight. But their audacious betrayal and relentless cruelty only forged a cold, unyielding resolve.
Slumped alone, a restraining order in hand, I remembered my hidden journal: a log of Ethan's insider trading secrets. They wanted a monster? I would show them one. HIS DOE, HIS DAMNATION(An Erotic Billionaire Romance)
Viviene Trigger/Content Warning:
This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised.
It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language.
This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire.
*****
"Take off your dress, Meadow."
"Why?"
"Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost."
••••*••••*••••*
Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance.
One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring.
Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel.
He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch.
Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed.
She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge.
But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming.
Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything.
Alaric doesn't share what's his.
Not his company.
Not his wife.
And definitely not his vengeance.
Pregnant and Divorced: I Hid His Heir
Shirlee Melnick Vivian clutched her Hermès bag, her doctor's words echoing: "Extremely high-risk pregnancy." She hoped the baby would save her cold marriage, but Julian wasn't in London as his schedule claimed. Instead, a paparazzi photo revealed his early return-with a blonde woman, not his wife, at the private airport exit.
The next morning, Julian served divorce papers, callously ending their "duty" marriage for his ex, Serena. A horrifying contract clause gave him the right to terminate her pregnancy or seize their child. Humiliated, demoted, and forced to fake an ulcer, Vivian watched him parade his affair, openly discarding her while celebrating Serena.
This was a calculated erasure, not heartbreak. He cared only for his image, confirming he would "handle" the baby himself. A primal rage ignited her. "Just us," she whispered to her stomach, vowing to sign the divorce on her terms, keep her secret safe, and walk away from Sterling Corp for good, ready to protect her child alone. 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. After Betrayal, She Claimed Her Empire
Rabbit Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered.
Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak.
She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her.
Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears.
Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home." 
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