Sophia Langley
11 Published Stories
Sophia Langley's Books and Stories
The Caged Canary's Spectacular Comeback
Mafia For seven years, I was known as the "Caged Canary"—the orphan ward of the ruthless Don, Autry Villarreal. I wore his silver star necklace like a dog tag, mistaking his cold control for protection.
Then came the breaking news alert that shattered my world: Autry was marrying Cassie Turner to end a decade-long turf war.
He didn't just break my heart; he let her destroy my home. When Cassie ordered a bulldozer to rip up the rose garden my deceased father had planted, Autry stood on the patio and watched. He chose political strategy over my only living memory of my parents.
"It is necessary," he told me, handing me a briefcase full of cash to disappear. "This saves lives."
I realized then that he wasn't my protector; he was my jailer. I left the money, discarded his necklace, and vanished into the night.
Five years later, I returned to New York not as his ward, but as J.B., a Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer with a diamond ring on my finger from a man who actually cherished me.
Autry didn't handle my freedom well. He cornered me in a car, staging a paparazzi photo to look like a passionate embrace, desperate to ruin my engagement.
"I destroyed Cassie for you," he claimed, revealing he had leaked his own ex-fiancée's crimes to clear my name. "I cleaned the slate. I can give you the world now."
He expected gratitude. He expected me to fall back into his arms.
I looked him dead in the eye and posted a selfie with my fiancé instead.
"I don't want your world, Autry. I'm done living in the dark." The Runaway Bride's Secret Billionaire Protector
Modern I sat before the vanity in a lace dress that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, but to me, it felt like a burial shroud. I was the sacrifice being offered to the Ortega family, a human payment for my father’s debts and failing company.
When I tried to refuse, my stepmother forced a glass of drugged champagne into my hand and threatened to destroy me. She whispered that if I didn't marry the "monster" Cooper Ortega, she’d release psychiatric records proving I was a mental patient who hallucinated a child that never existed.
I escaped by jumping out of a speeding limo, tumbling into a ditch and losing everything but my life. A mysterious, scarred driver in a beat-up Ford saved me, but when I limped back home, my father threw me out like trash. My own sister stood in the foyer, wearing my engagement ring and clinging to Lance, the man who had promised to protect me.
"You're a sinking ship, Fran," my father sneered before locking the gates. Then I found the recording—my stepmother’s voice complaining that the doctor wanted more money because my baby had cried before they took him away. My son wasn't stillborn; he was stolen by the people I called family.
I was broken, homeless, and hunted, with only a "poor" driver named Cooper to help me. I didn't know he was actually the billionaire monster I had jumped out of a car to avoid, but I moved into his cramped studio anyway.
I’m starting a war with nothing but a cracked phone and a mother’s rage. They took my life and they took my son, so now I’m going to take everything they have left. Just A Substitute: The Wife He Failed
Modern At the family dinner, the waiter stumbled, sending a tray of boiling onion soup flying toward the table.
My husband, Marcus, moved instantly.
But not for me.
He threw his body over my cousin Chloe, shielding her completely in his arms.
I was left exposed. The scalding liquid hit my chest and arm, burning my skin instantly.
While I screamed in agony on the floor, Marcus was frantically checking Chloe for scratches, whispering, "Thank God it missed you. You are more important than her. Always."
In the hospital, he handed me a check for fifty thousand dollars.
"It was an instinct," he said, avoiding my eyes. "Don't make a scene."
He didn't notice my hollow expression.
He didn't ask why the doctors were looking at him with pity.
And he certainly didn't know that the shock and trauma had caused me to miscarry our six-week-old baby.
For four years, I had been his perfect doll. I dressed like Chloe, painted like Chloe, and waited for him to love me.
I thought I was his wife.
I didn't realize I was just a placeholder until he sacrificed our child to save his true love from a splash of soup.
When he left to comfort Chloe again, I pulled the IV from my arm.
I placed the signed divorce papers on the bedside table.
Underneath them, I left the medical report confirming the miscarriage of his child.
Then, I vanished. Casino King's Daughter: Payback
Billionaires I am Luna Croft. My boyfriend, Smith Caldwell, called himself a "casino master." Every time he went gambling, he came back loaded with winnings.
It wasn't until later that I realized he always chose the same table.
And the dealer at that table was his so-called untouchable dream girl, Alice Moore.
"Luna, I'm a millionaire now. You're way out of your league-so let's call it quits. Alice is my true love. She gives me both fortune and pleasure," he added with smug certainty.
I said yes, only to watch him lose every last dollar at the table moments later.
He shoved me straight into the hands of the loan sharks who had come to collect his debt.
"This is my girlfriend. I'm giving her up to settle my debt. She's an orphan. Even if you ruin her completely, no one will come after you!"
The casino staff and the loan sharks closed in on me, but I couldn't help laughing.
"Let your boss come out and talk to me," I demanded. My Parents, Their Pet, My Hell
History The Great Depression had gnawed away at everything, leaving my family-my parents, Mark and Susan, and me, Sarah-scrambling for survival in a city choked with despair.
Then, they found Buddy, a stray golden retriever, shivering in an alley.
Suddenly, my meager cannery wages, meant for rent and food, were funneled into premium dog food, toys, and vet visits for him. I worked myself to exhaustion, only to watch them hand-feed Buddy roasted chicken from our good plates while I got watery potato soup.
He wasn't just a dog; a cold, malevolent intelligence lurked in his eyes, a mocking smirk reserved just for me. When I tried to evict him, he bit me, and my parents blamed me, tending to him while I bled, calling me a "jealous, worthless girl."
My world shattered when I was laid off, and an eviction notice arrived. Our only hope was a government housing lottery. But when I announced it, my parents only saw three spots: one for them, and one for Buddy.
"He's not a dog!" my mother screamed. "He's family! More family than you've ever been!"
They raced off, dragging Buddy, leaving me, weakened by hunger and infection, to chase after them. I watched, horrified, as an official marked three names: my father, my mother, and the dog.
They were ushered through the gate. They didn't look back as it locked, leaving me outside. Through the bars, Buddy looked at me and grinned.
I died alone, freezing in an alley.
Then, a sudden jolt. My eyes flew open. I was in my bed, the morning my parents found Buddy. My blood ran cold, hearing their cheerful voices.
I was back. And this time, I wouldn't die in the cold. I would find out why they chose a dog over their own daughter. And they would pay. Death's Embrace, Love's Aftermath
Horror The cold, sterile air in the office bit at my prison uniform, a cruel reminder of the past three years.
I knelt on the polished floor, my gaze fixed on Daniel Miller' s expensive shoes, a man I once loved for five years.
"A convicted felon, trying to seduce me?" his voice, low and laced with familiar cruelty, sent a shiver down my spine.
He was now Detective Miller, a powerful figure in the new corporate order, and I was nothing, a "convicted felon" whose parents' assets were seized, their names tarnished.
As if that wasn' t enough, he sneered, accusing me of sabotaging his family, ruining Chloe, and pushing her to the brink of suicide.
Chloe, his fiancée, my cousin, the one he chose over me when my world crumbled, the one whose father rebuilt his career and became the new CEO.
"Silence!" he roared, his fist slamming onto the desk when I tried to deny pushing Chloe.
He declared me his personal assistant, more like a maid, even forcing me into a humiliating encounter that left me aching and defeated.
Then came the true horror.
My uncle, Chloe' s father, the new CEO, had me secretly poisoned, giving me just three months to live.
Three months.
My back, a roadmap of whip scars from prison, my body frail, I knew I had to survive, not just for revenge, but to reclaim what was mine.
I bit my finger, signing my life away, a shaky, bloody promise to turn their world upside down.
Now, as the poison courses through my veins, I refuse to be a quiet victim, a disgraced criminal.
I will make them pay. The Monster and His Mockery
Modern The club's bass vibrated through Mark' s bones as he showered the squalling women with champagne.
His wife, Sarah, lay miles away in a hospital bed, kept alive by tubes after a hit-and-run, the money from their house sale meant for her treatment now being thrown away on a lavish display.
Suddenly, Sarah' s parents, the Smiths, stood before him, their faces etched with grief.
They watched in horror as he publically humiliated them, throwing crumpled bills at his kneeling mother-in-law, even striking the woman on his lap.
"You bastard. That' s her money! That' s the money for her treatment!" Mr. Smith roared, his face red with fury.
Then, with chilling indifference, Mark told them Sarah was a vegetable and would die soon, revealing an "inoperable tumor."
Mrs. Smith collapsed, bleeding from her mouth.
The city exploded with outrage as videos of "MarkTheMonster" went viral, but he reveled in the hatred, driving straight to the hospital.
There, Mr. Smith launched himself at Mark, screaming, "You killed her! Sarah is dead! And it' s your fault!"
But when the doctor confirmed Sarah's death, Mark threw his head back and laughed, "Oh, thank God! I'm free!"
He celebrated, declaring himself released from the burden of his wife, a woman who, in her dying breath, had recorded a message forgiving him and telling him to be happy.
Then, in an unthinkable act, Mark pulled back the sheet from Sarah' s gurney and slapped her lifeless face, hissing, "You were more than a burden. You were a leech."
The crowd erupted, consuming Mark in a storm of vigilante justice.
As police intervened, Mark, battered but lucid, dropped a bombshell on Captain Miller.
"How can I have killed a woman who isn' t actually dead?" he asked, pointing a bloody finger at the doctor.
He accused Dr. Evans of fraud and attempted murder, revealing Sarah' s "injuries" were a minor concussion.
He then pulled out Sarah' s real medical records and a recording implicating Mrs. Smith in funding the hit-and-run, claiming the Smiths had already conspired to kill his first wife, Ava.
Just as the Smiths and Dr. Evans were cuffed, Sarah sat up, confirming the elaborate charade. His Trophy Wife, Her Secret Life
Romance My wife, Sophia Hayes, was beautiful, poised, and utterly detached.
For five years, our marriage had been a bizarre, silent transaction: she'd disappear for days, even weeks, to "support" her childhood sweetheart and his failing tech startup.
Each time she returned, a lavish "guilt offering" would appear – a vintage Patek, a signed first edition, a priceless Ming vase.
Ninety-nine such gifts now filled our sterile mansion, each a screaming monument to her absence and my bitter complicity.
I was no longer the man who' d clung to hope, who' d screamed and shattered expensive crystal.
Today, as she fastened a diamond bracelet, preparing for her hundredth departure, she waved away my feigned concern for our anniversary, prioritizing his celebration.
"I need you to sign this," I said, offering a document I' d subtly placed among her latest "gift."
She signed, carelessly dismissing it as a prenup addendum, already thinking of David.
She didn' t read the fine print. She never did.
"PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE" it read, the final decree awaiting its ironclad confirmation.
The world saw her as a successful patron, supporting a talented founder, but at a glamorous gala, the veil slipped.
A reporter, sensing blood, asked, "Are you two an item?"
Panic flashed in Sophia' s eyes, and in her fear, she sought me out – her hidden husband – to rescue her public image.
I stepped from the shadows, played my part, and then watched as she rushed not to me, but to him, murmuring reassurances.
That night, she didn't come home; the next morning, she arrived, exhausted but triumphant, thanking me for "saving us."
She dismissed my quiet anger as humility, oblivious.
"You asked me to be there, Sophia," I said, watching her carefully curated world unravel.
"I did? When?" she asked, genuinely bewildered.
Her memory, a weapon of convenience, had erased my very existence.
I nodded, utterly calm as she detailed her next trip with David, making another empty promise for "us" once she returned.
That date was the day our divorce would be finalized.
A cold, hard satisfaction settled in my gut; the world she had built was about to come crashing down.
Just not in the way she expected. Secrets of a Killer Father
Modern My daughter, Molly, lay frail in the hospital bed, her future hanging by a thread.
The doctor's words were stark: an incredibly expensive experimental therapy was her only hope.
My ex-husband, Matthew, stood by, his charming facade crumbling as he refused to pay, citing "scam" and "natural remedies."
My heart ached with a familiar, searing pain.
I remembered this scene – the same cold refusal, the same sweet-sounding lies that doomed her, and me, in another life.
He stood there, the man who had abandoned us before, the man who ultimately murdered us.
This time, however, I was ready. This time, I had a plan.
My voice, unnervingly calm, cut through the tension. "If you won't pay, Matthew, I understand. We'll go to Oregon. They have a law there – the Dignity with Death Act. Physician-assisted suicide."
The room plunged into shocked silence. Gasps. Disbelief. Even Molly, my sweet, brave girl, looked stunned.
How could a mother even suggest such a thing? What monstrous desperation, or sheer madness, would drive her to this unthinkable act, to choose death for her child?
But they didn't know what I knew.
They didn't know the dark secret Matthew was hiding, the true horror he had planned. And this time, I wouldn't let him get away with it.
This time, I' d drag his true intentions into the light, even if I had to burn down everything around me to expose him. Framed by Memory
Romance The first thing I remember is the blood. My fiancée, Jocelyn, stood in the doorway, her face a mask of horror. Our perfect future shattered when I was found standing over her parents' bodies, my father's blood-soaked guitar in my hands.
The police came, and I didn't resist, silenced by a terrible promise. The media branded me the "Guitar Slinger Killer," and the world condemned me. But the deepest cut came when Jocelyn, the woman who saved me, joined the prosecution, vowing to make me pay.
How could she believe I was a monster? How could I explain that I was sacrificing everything, including her love, for a promise I never asked for? My silence was my only shield, a burden of pain and untold truth.
Now, a "Neural-Narrative" machine will force my memories to the surface, and everyone will see. But who will they choose to believe when the "truth" is revealed? On Her Wedding Day, His Death Began
Billionaires I was Ethan Miller, a boy from a trailer park, who married into the impossibly wealthy Vanderbilt family.
My life with Vicky was a gilded cage – opulent, yes, but undeniably a prison.
My stutter, a constant echo of my humble beginnings, always made me feel like an outsider in her world.
But nothing prepared me for the day Vicky believed I'd abducted her ‘lover,' Julian Astor.
Her voice, usually just sharp, turned venomous.
She threatened to destroy my only family, my beloved grandparents, if I didn't produce him.
And then, I watched, live on a screen, as a bulldozer tore apart their cherished farm.
My frail grandmother collapsed.
Vicky laughed, blaming me for every single splinter.
From then on, I was a ghost in her mansion, silently enduring her escalating cruelty.
She publicly humiliated me with leaked, shameful photos of my past.
She had me doused with garbage at a lavish party.
She framed me for poisoning Julian, then forced me to drain my own blood to save him.
Finally, she threw me into a decrepit, cockroach-infested basement, filled with the rancid smell of my deepest traumas.
How could love morph into such a grotesque instrument of torture?
Was this her way of molding me, or just pure sadism?
With nothing left to lose, only one desperate thought remained: freedom, at any cost.
As Vicky married Julian, live-streamed directly to my dark prison, I swallowed an experimental drug.
I hoped for a final, peaceful escape.
But my ‘death' was just the beginning of her utter ruin. You might like
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. His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Artist Returns
Zaccaria Linn On our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table.
Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen.
"Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over."
I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward.
Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant.
She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest.
As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me.
He hugged her.
"It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you."
The betrayal didn't stop there.
When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police.
When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations.
He declined the call.
He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife.
That was the moment the chain broke.
As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come.
I opened the door and jumped into the dark.
Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement.
Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one. The Capo's Scarred Wife: A Vicious Comeback
Sofia Wade I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me.
But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest.
The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me.
They didn't.
Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her.
They let me burn to keep her warm.
When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages.
That was the moment Elena Vitiello died.
I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York.
By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring.
"You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them.
"Burn for it." Marrying The Rival: My Ex-Husband's Despair
Fonz Nadherny I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria.
But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity.
A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love.
My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me.
Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego.
He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press.
He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan.
He had no idea she was a fraud.
He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her.
He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate.
At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her.
I didn't beg. I didn't cry.
I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play. Too Late To Beg: My Cold Ex-Husband
Bei Ke On our ninth anniversary, my husband Dominick didn't toast to us. Instead, he rested his hand on his mistress's pregnant belly in front of the entire crime family.
I was just a debt payment to him, a ghost in a forty-thousand-dollar gown.
But the humiliation didn't end in the ballroom. When his mistress, Chastity, started hemorrhaging later that night, he didn't call an ambulance. He dragged me to the family clinic.
He knew I had a serious heart condition. He knew a transfusion of that magnitude could trigger a fatal cardiac event.
"She is carrying my son," he said, his eyes devoid of any humanity.
"You will give her whatever she needs."
I begged him. I bargained for my freedom. He lied and agreed, just to get the needle in my arm.
As my dark red blood flowed through the tube to save the woman destroying my life, my chest tightened. The monitors began to scream. My heart was failing.
"Mr. Reyes! She's crashing!" the doctor shouted.
Dominick didn't even turn around.
He walked out of the room to hold Chastity's hand, leaving me to die on the table.
I survived, but Annis Myers died in that clinic.
He thought I would return to the penthouse and continue being his obedient, silent wife. He thought he owned the blood in my veins.
He was wrong.
I went back to the penthouse one last time. I struck a match.
I let the room burn.
By the time Dominick realized I wasn't in the ashes, I was already on a plane to London.
I had left my wedding ring in an envelope, along with the medical records that proved his cruelty.
He wanted a war? I would give him one. Revenge Is Sweet: Marrying His Worst Enemy
CHRISTINE ROBINSON I was staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick, trembling with the terrifying joy of carrying the heir to the New York underworld’s most ruthless faction.
Then the intercom buzzed, and a voice splintered my world.
"The little art student actually thinks I'm going to marry her? It was just a game to pass the time while you were in Europe, Estella."
I froze.
My boyfriend, Holden, was in the next room, laughing with the daughter of his rival.
He explained that I was just a "clean civilian image" he needed to secure a business deal. Now that the deal was signed, he was dumping the "stray" to marry the "Queen."
I tried to run, but freedom only lasted forty-eight hours.
Holden didn't just break my heart; he turned my terror into content.
He kidnapped me, tied me to a chair at the edge of a cliff, and forced me to choose between my life and his new fiancée's.
Then, he pushed me off the edge.
As gravity snatched me, I heard him laughing.
I landed on a stunt airbag. It was just a "social experiment." A sick prank for his amusement.
"Don't be so dramatic, Kenia," he called down. "It's just a game."
He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a prop in his life.
But he forgot that I knew his secrets.
I dragged my injured body to a payphone and dialed the one number Holden told me to fear—the rival Don, Gael Simpson.
"It's Kenia," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt." Runaway Nurse: The Mafia King's Remorse
Hu Minxue For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York.
I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him.
But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash.
In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress.
He forced me to watch him court her.
At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her.
He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain.
He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life.
I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god.
I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole.
He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps.
So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother.
I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars.
I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia.
By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost. His Discarded Gem: Shining In The Ruthless Don's Arms
Temple Madison For four years, I traced the bullet scar on Chace’s chest, believing it was proof he would bleed to keep me safe.
On our anniversary, he told me to wear white because "tonight changes everything." I walked into the gala thinking I was getting a ring.
Instead, I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, drowning in silk, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto another woman's finger.
Karyn Warren. The daughter of a rival family.
When I begged him with my eyes to claim me, to save me from the public humiliation, he didn't flinch. He just leaned toward his Underboss, his voice amplified by the silence.
"Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets."
My heart didn't just break; it incinerated. He expected me to stay as his mistress, threatening to dig up my dead mother’s grave if I refused to play the obedient pet.
He thought I was trapped. He thought I had nowhere to go because of my father’s massive gambling debts.
He was wrong.
With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and texted the one name I was never supposed to use.
Keith Mosley. The Don. The monster under Chace's bed.
*I am invoking the Blood Oath. My father’s debt. I am ready to pay it.*
His reply came three seconds later, buzzing against my palm like a warning.
*The price is marriage. You belong to me. Yes or No?*
I looked up at Chace, who was laughing with his new fiancée, thinking he owned me.
I looked down and typed three letters.
*Yes.* The Unwanted Bride Becomes The City's Queen
Breeze I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella.
Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark.
But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved.
Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies.
When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel.
While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest.
The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella.
He ordered my father to punish me.
I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth.
That night, the love in my heart finally died.
On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven.
Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney.
By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return. 
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