WILONA COOK
15 Published Stories
WILONA COOK's Books and Stories
The Chosen One's Cruel Game
Romance The Miller family living room, usually a hub of quiet prestige, hummed with a different kind of energy. My adoptive father, Mr. Miller, beamed, the air thick with anticipation for the grand unveiling.
Lined up before him were the five men he had raised alongside me: Ethan Hayes, Justin Bell, Ryan Stone, Kevin White. And me, Chloe Miller, the prize in a twisted game I was forced to play.
"Chloe, my dear," Mr. Miller' s voice, warm and loving, cut through the tension. "Who do you choose?"
Ethan, the man I had tragically chosen in another life, smiled. A perfect, practiced mask of devotion. This time, his smile felt like a cruel joke.
I remembered the cheers, the naive happiness of that last life. He' d been the perfect husband, the perfect son-in-law. Until my father' s funeral.
That night, he handed me divorce papers, his voice stripped of all warmth. "Now that your father is gone, there' s no need to continue this."
Confusion turned to horror as he confessed: our marriage was an act of gratitude. A pact. A lottery among the boys to see who would "care for me" while they waited for Sophia, my sweet, innocent adoptive sister, to come of age.
Every love letter, every tender touch, every whispered promise, now tainted. I was a pawn. A well-behaved doll. Then came the final, devastating blow: he left me to drown in a flooded subway tunnel for Sophia' s sprained ankle.
But then, impossibly, I woke up. Back in my bedroom, on the very day I was supposed to choose.
This time, my choice would not be a game. It would be my freedom.
"I choose Liam Black," I declared, my voice ringing clear and steady in the stunned silence. A quiet, stoic Navy SEAL, an outsider. My escape.
The shock on their faces was a masterpiece of disbelief. Their carefully constructed world shattered by a single, powerful truth.
And I was just getting started. The Rejected Substitute: Her Secret White Wolf Identity
Werewolf For three years, I acted as a substitute for my twin sister, married to the most powerful Alpha on the East Coast. To the world, I was Isabella, the spoiled princess. To my husband, Donovan, I was a nuisance he couldn't wait to divorce.
I counted down the seconds until the contract expired so I could take my money and disappear.
But three days before my freedom, his mistress was kidnapped. The rogues demanded a trade: the wife for the mistress. Donovan didn't hesitate. He dragged me to the warehouse and threw me to the wolves.
To prove he didn't care about me, the rogue handed him a silver dagger.
Donovan looked me in the eye and drove the blade into my thigh.
As I screamed in agony, the smell of burning flesh filling the air, he stepped over my bleeding body to carry his mistress to safety. He left me there to die on the cold concrete, convinced he was punishing a cruel woman.
He didn't know I was the one who had secretly given my rare blood to save that same mistress just a week prior.
He didn't know I wasn't Isabella. He didn't know he had just tortured Ava—his true Fated Mate hiding in plain sight.
When the real Isabella returned to claim the fortune, Donovan finally realized the woman in his house smelled wrong. He tore the world apart to find me, eventually falling to his knees in the rain to beg for a second chance.
But I just looked at him, my hand resting in the grip of a new, kinder Alpha, and whispered:
"I reject you." The Discarded Wife's Revenge On The Don
Mafia I stood outside the mahogany doors, balancing a tray of espresso, when I heard my husband promise his sister that my reign as the Queen of Chicago was over.
I thought being the Don's wife meant safety. I was wrong.
In a warehouse reeking of rust, faced with an ultimatum from our enemies to choose who lives, Brennan made his choice.
"Alyssa is strong," he justified, shielding his mistress, Debbi, who was faking a pregnancy. "She knows the life."
He walked out into the sunlight with her, leaving me in the dark with a gun to my head.
He abandoned me to be tortured and murdered by his rivals, weaponizing my resilience to absolve his guilt.
He thought I died that day. He even mourned me after he eventually found out Debbi was a traitor.
But he didn't know the new security guard was an undercover FBI agent who pulled me from the edge.
Two years later, I've built a quiet life running a bistro in Maine under a new name.
But then the bell above the door chimes during the lunch rush.
I look up, and there he is. The husband who sacrificed me.
He's looking at me not with guilt, but with a terrifying, obsessive hope.
He says he burned down the world to fix his mistake. He says he won't let me go again.
I smile, but my hand is already reaching for the wire the FBI gave me.
I'm not a wife anymore, Brennan. I'm the executioner. From Broken To Beloved, My Journey
Modern My husband, Andre Grimes, was a newly-elected senator, and I was a celebrated chef pregnant with our first child. On the night of his victory, our world was supposed to be perfect.
Instead, I watched him on live TV, his arm around his pregnant mistress, as he announced their relationship to the world. He then looked into the camera and called my own pregnancy a lie, a fabrication to create a scandal.
His powerful family, along with my own adoptive parents, locked me in our home. They moved his mistress into my bedroom and planned to force me to have an abortion to protect his career.
His mother looked at me with cold eyes.
"It's for the best, Kyra. No loose ends."
I was trapped, betrayed by everyone, facing the murder of my unborn child.
But they made one mistake: they gave me back my phone. With trembling hands, I found a long-forgotten number and dialed. A man's voice answered.
"My name is Kyra Moore," I choked out. "I think you might be my father. They're going to take my baby." The Neglected Wife's Spectacular Comeback
Modern My best friend is pregnant with my husband's child. An hour ago, she stood in my living room, holding a positive pregnancy test and a grainy ultrasound photo that felt like a death sentence to my world.
But the true nightmare began when my mother-in-law swept in, praised my friend for "doing the family a great service," and moved her into our home to care for the "Patton heir."
My husband, the man who swore my infertility didn't matter, called her a mere "vessel" for our family. He then orchestrated an "accident" that shattered my hand, ending my career as a cardiothoracic surgeon.
He didn't stop there. He sacrificed my father's life-saving heart transplant for my friend's brother and left me for dead in a landfill when I discovered the truth.
I was a brilliant surgeon who could hold a life in my hands, yet I was blind to the fact that my own life was being systematically destroyed by the two people I trusted most.
After faking my death and disappearing for two years, I've built a new life, a new face, and a new love.
But now, he's found me. And this time, he's not just trying to control me-he's trying to bury me. The Don's Wife's Sweetest Revenge
Mafia For fifteen years, I was Isabella Moretti, the perfect wife to the city's most powerful Don. We were a power couple, a carefully curated masterpiece of influence and affection. Our life was flawless.
That masterpiece shattered on our anniversary when a burner phone lit up with a picture of his assistant’s hand on my husband's thigh.
Soon, I found his second phone and discovered the full scope of his betrayal. His mistress, Sofia, was pregnant. He lied to my face about "work emergencies" while she began a campaign of terror, sending me photos of them together, a grainy ultrasound, and a video of her parading in my silk robe, bragging about becoming the new Mrs. Moretti.
I was supposed to endure it in silence. That's the rule for a Don's wife. But all the pain hollowed out, leaving only a cold, chilling certainty.
He truly believed I was nothing without him. "Where would you go, Bella?" he'd once laughed, his voice dripping with condescension. "Everything you have, everything you are, is because of me. You wouldn't last a week."
He thought it was a game.
"I'll take that bet," he'd said.
So while he was away on a final "business trip" with her, I made my move. I liquidated our assets and hired movers to strip our mansion bare, erasing every trace of my existence. I walked out forever, but not before leaving two gifts on the empty mattress where we once slept: the signed divorce papers, and the melted, grotesque slug of gold that used to be my wedding ring. From Fake Love to True Bliss
Romance For six years, our life together with Ashley was a perfectly curated social media feed: beautiful, aspirational, and utterly fake.
I, Ethan Miller, the indie filmmaker, thought we were finally building something real, meticulously picking out wedding invitations with my social media influencer fiancée.
Then, a bombshell. "I need to postpone the wedding," Ashley announced, tears welling up in a performance worthy of an Oscar.
Her childhood friend Liam' s dying mother, she claimed, had one last wish: to see Ashley marry her son.
Not only did she steal the wedding rings I designed for us to marry Liam, but Ashley-the woman I was supposed to spend my life with-also callously mocked my own dying mother for being too desperate to get married.
The betrayal clawed at me, but the horror deepened when I returned home to find Liam and Ashley cozy on our couch, with my belongings being boxed up by her bodyguards.
I was a prisoner in my own home, a "harmless" man she could discard at will.
When I tried to leave, Liam's hired thugs abducted me in my own lobby, while Ashley' s bodyguards stood by, watching.
I woke up to Ashley and Liam staging a sick charade, falsely accusing me of assaulting Liam' s "dying" mother.
"You monster! How could you?" Ashley screamed, before violently slapping me.
Then, with a chillingly calm expression, she grabbed my wrist and twisted. I screamed as I heard the sickening crack. My wrist was broken.
"Don't ever get in my way again," she hissed, leaving me broken and alone.
She even tried to buy my silence, threatening to ruin my career if I ever spoke the truth.
But her theatrical sorrow, the stolen rings, the staged kidnapping, the deliberate injury-it all solidified into a cold, hard resolve within me.
I was done playing her game. "Can you find me a new bride?" I asked my sister, and then, a name from my past surfaced: Chloe Peterson. Beyond Betrayal: Her Unbreakable Spirit
Billionaires The first sign was a receipt, a flimsy piece of paper I found in my husband Julian' s coat pocket.
It was for an obscure art supply store, in a part of the city he had no business being.
My husband, the CEO of the world' s most powerful tech firm, saw art as a frivolous asset.
My heart went cold.
Five years I' d spent as the perfect wife to a man more machine than human, managing his life with detached efficiency.
I believed he was incapable of emotion, of passion.
I was wrong.
The private investigator' s report came back a week later.
Pictures. Julian, my ruthless Julian, with a young artist named Lily Chen.
The look on his face wasn' t love. It was absolute possession.
He followed her, bought her groceries, paid her student loans.
He streamed her security cameras directly to his private server, watching her relentlessly.
The man who forgot my birthday had memorized a stranger' s life.
My confrontation at the Zenith Tech Gala was a mistake.
"Julian Vance," I announced, taking a spare microphone on stage. "Innovator. Husband. Adulterer."
I held up photos of his obsession for the world to see.
He didn' t flinch. His eyes, cold and dark, locked onto mine.
"My wife is unwell," he told the stunned crowd, before having security escort me off stage.
That night, he slid divorce papers across the marble island in our kitchen.
"Sign them," he commanded. The settlement was obscenely generous.
"No," I said.
"Don' t be a fool, Scarlett. Take the deal. It' s more than you deserve."
"I want an apology. I want you to admit what you did."
He laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Sign the papers."
"Never."
The next day, my family' s AI firm was hit with a hostile takeover.
Julian was dismantling my life, piece by piece.
"Stop it," I pleaded. "You can have the divorce. I' ll sign. Just leave my family alone."
"It' s too late for that," he said, then hung up.
Two days later, my parents disappeared.
"I have them, Scarlett. In a safe place," he said that night, my mother crying in the background.
"What do you want?" I whispered.
"The papers are on your desk. Sign them, and bring them to me. Your parents will be home by morning."
"And if I don' t?"
The silence was terrifying. "Don' t test me, Scarlett. You have one hour."
I found the papers. My hand shook as I signed, surrendering everything.
He met me at an abandoned warehouse. My parents were there, tied to chairs, hooded.
"Mom? Dad?"
He removed their hoods. Bruised and terrified, my father screamed, "Scarlett, run!"
"I promised they would be home by morning," Julian said to me, his eyes never leaving mine. "I never said they' d be alive."
He nodded to his men. The gunshots were deafening.
My parents, executed in front of me. The world went black.
I awoke with a gasp, in my bed, in the sterile mansion.
The date was the day I found the receipt. The day my world began to end.
This time, it would be his end.
I knew the monster I was married to.
No confrontation. No public scenes. No desperate pleas.
This time, I would disappear.
And I would watch him descend into the madness he deserved. Wife's Revenge: A Sweet Dish
Modern I was scrolling through an anonymous forum, a niche corner of the internet, when a thread titled "The Grand Escape Plan" caught my eye.
My husband David, the man I' d loved for five years, came home that very moment, beaming.
He announced he' d found a private orphanage, and we were finally going to adopt, a dream we' d chased through years of medical treatments and mounting strain.
But as he spoke, his words chillingly echoed the forum post I'd just read, a detailed, grotesque plan by a user "Wanderer77" to adopt a child, leave it with his "barren" wife, fake his death, and disappear with his "true love" and their "little surprise."
Suddenly, his excited talk of adoption and "a real family" twisted into something sinister.
The man I' d married transformed into Wanderer77 before my eyes, and a wave of nausea, more than just shock, washed over me – a premonition of a truth I was too terrified to confirm.
That night, my trembling hands held a pregnancy test: two bright pink lines.
I was pregnant, but my husband didn't know, and he was already plotting my abandonment, leaving me with another woman's child.
The love for him evaporated, replaced by cold resolve.
He thought he was setting a trap for me, but the game had just begun; he was about to walk into his own. My Father's Daughter: Unmasking the Deceit
Modern The black Escalade pulled up to the Hughes family ranch, ready for me to finally claim my heritage as a country music star and the long-lost daughter of Howard Hughes.
My agent was frantic, but I ignored him; this was where I' d been broken and driven to suicide in my past life.
Then, Nicole Lester, the adopted daughter, emerged, mocking my "trashy" outfit and status, daring me to step foot on "their" property.
In my previous life, her words, and Ethan' s subsequent career sabotage, had completely shattered me, leaving me desperate for their hollow approval.
But this time, I wasn't the intimidated girl who'd fallen for their mind games or felt unworthy.
I stepped out of the car, a chilling calm washing over me as I realized their cheap tactics wouldn't work on the woman who was reborn to burn their world to the ground. The Alibi of Justice
Modern The stale smell of forgotten dreams filled the New York yellow cab as rain blurred the city outside, a scene hauntingly familiar.
In my last life, this exact ride took me straight to the Pulitzer jury, to the beginning of my catastrophic downfall.
My own daughter, Gabrielle, systematically dismantled my life, using my name and reputation to peddle fake insider trading tips to desperate writers.
When her scheme inevitably imploded, she seamlessly shifted blame onto me, painting me as a corrupt public figure, a "whistleblower" feeding lies to the hungry online mob.
I lost everything: my esteemed career, my freedom, and ultimately, my life, succumbing to a stress-induced heart attack in a lonely apartment, hounded by strangers and forever disgraced.
The betrayal was a cold, bitter knot in my stomach-how could the child I raised inflict such immense pain and ruin?
But then, a jolt: I was back in this taxi, on this very day, with the chilling clarity of a second chance.
This time, this ride wouldn't lead to my destruction; it would be the first step in my meticulous plan to save myself and dismantle her cruel charade. The Quantum Heiress: Rewriting My Destiny
Romance I died in a federal prison, framed for corporate espionage.
My last sight was the man who put me there, Ethan Scott, laughing on a TV screen, celebrating his new life with my stepsister, Stella Chadwick.
He' d stolen my inheritance, my freedom, and my future, leaving me to rot for a crime I didn' t commit.
Every breath I took in that cell was laced with a hatred so profound, it almost tasted metallic.
But then, I gasped, sucking in the scent of expensive leather instead of stale concrete.
I was back, seated at the head of the boardroom, staring at the corporate empire that was my birthright.
Ethan Scott stood there, smug and charismatic, ready to play his old game.
He even brought Stella, holding her hand, demanding a "triumvirate" for a company I inherited from my father.
In my past life, I fell for his lies, his emotional blackmail, his manipulative performance.
I was blinded by a warped sense of love and loyalty.
But not this time.
This time, I felt a cold, sharp clarity.
Because I remembered everything. The Girl Who Cheated Death
Werewolf I was three months pregnant when my Austin penthouse became my tomb.
My boyfriend, Liam, pushed me from the balcony, a fall swift and final.
My death was staged as a tragic suicide, a lie the news readily swallowed.
They didn't know the real reason: Daisy, a coyote pup I'd rescued, could shift into a beautiful woman.
Liam couldn't let that secret out, and now I watched my killers, my spirit haunting the home I' d paid for.
He pulled Daisy into his arms, sharing a passionate kiss right where my lifeless body had fallen.
"She's gone," Liam whispered, "It's all ours now."
They slandered my name, seized my family' s oil fortune, and buried me in a cheap wooden box.
Then, on my family ranch, over my desecrated grave, Liam confessed: "I only dated her to give you this life, Daisy. Chloe owed you this."
I burned with a rage so consuming, it felt like my very soul was on fire.
And then, I woke up, back in my Range Rover, the Texas storm roaring outside, faced with Daisy once more. The Jilted Bride's Strategic Upgrade
Billionaires My engagement party to Preston Hawthorne III was meant to be the social event of the season, a strategic fusion of my family's political power and his corporate empire.
The grand ballroom of the Four Seasons glittered with D.C.'s elite, all gathered to witness my seemingly perfect future.
Then, a trashy tabloid reporter ambushed me, thrusting a phone displaying a dramatic suicide note from Chloe, Preston' s supposed "fragile" childhood friend.
"Ellie, is it true Preston has been having an affair with his adopted sister?" the blinding camera flashes and relentless questions began.
My fiancé, Preston, instead of defending me, rushed over only to stammer a pathetic excuse about Chloe needing him and fleeing the scene.
He confirmed his betrayal and abandonment publicly, letting the vultures with their cameras feast on my humiliation.
Left standing alone in the center of the storm, the hot wave of mortification threatened to drown me.
How could the man I was to marry choose a manipulative girl over duty, honor, and our powerful alliance?
I was Senator Vance's daughter, and this was more than embarrassment; it was a public declaration of war by a weak, spineless fool.
His monumental mistake, however, wouldn't be my downfall.
Just as I composed myself, Preston Hawthorne II, the true titan, proposed an unthinkable solution to salvage generations of power.
"You will not marry Preston," he stated, "You will marry my other son, Caleb, a real man who understands duty."
I would not be a discarded bride; I would turn this public humiliation into the ultimate display of strength.
My only condition: "I want to meet him. Alone."
This wasn't a setback; it was an unexpected and powerful upgrade. You might like
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. 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. 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. 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. Broken Ring, Billionaire Secrets: Watch Me Shine
Cornelia I sat on the edge of the examination table, the crinkle of the sanitary paper sounding like thunder in the sterile room. The doctor didn't even look at me as he confirmed the news: the pregnancy was over. My husband, Keyon, didn't answer my call. He just sent an automated text: "In a meeting."
When I returned to our cold mansion, I found his iPad glowing with a message from his "muse," Katina. He was throwing her a secret gala tonight-on our third wedding anniversary. He told her he couldn't wait to escape the "boring" and "draining" atmosphere I created at home.
Keyon didn't stumble in until 3 AM, smelling of Katina's perfume with a smear of red on his collar. When I handed him the divorce papers, he laughed in my face. He called me a "glorified housekeeper" with no skills and no future, promising I'd be back in three days begging for a subway ticket. He even bet his friends ten thousand dollars that I wouldn't survive a week without his name.
He had his assistant cancel my credit cards and block my gate access before I even reached the end of the driveway. He wanted me to starve. He wanted me to crawl. He sat in his office, mocking the "desperate" woman who pawned her three-million-dollar wedding ring for scrap metal just to pay for a meal.
I stood on the rainy curb, watching the man I had protected for three years treat my life like trash. He didn't know about the ultrasound I just threw in the bin. He didn't know that while he was calling me "dull," I was the one secretly writing the code that kept his billion-dollar empire from collapsing.
As I slid into a cheap Uber, I opened a hidden, encrypted app on my phone. The screen refreshed to a dashboard for an account Keyon didn't know existed. The balance was ten figures long-the accumulated wealth of "Solaris," the world's most elusive tech genius. Keyon thinks he just evicted a parasite, but he's about to find out he just declared war on the only person who can hit "delete" on his entire life. My Husband's Blindness, My Sweet Revenge
Winnie Suchoff The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand.
Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn.
She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back. 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.
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. The Billionaire's Cruelty, My Secret Daughter
Rabbit The thunder cracked over the Hamptons, but it was nothing compared to Elena Sharp's scream. She lay twisted on the marble foyer, accusing me of trying to kill her baby. My husband, Julian, walked in, saw the scene, and his eyes froze me out of his life forever.
He didn't listen, shoving a separation agreement across the desk, accusing me of murder. Stripped of my name and home, I was thrown out, left with nothing but my clothes and a terrifying secret growing inside me.
My accounts frozen, I ended up in a crumbling Philadelphia row house, forced to pawn heirlooms. During a fire, my water broke, and I delivered our premature daughter, June, whose lungs were damaged. I stole formula to feed her, facing massive medical bills.
Accused of destroying an heir, I was exiled while carrying his true legacy, fighting for every breath. The injustice burned, but June's life was my only fight.
Three years later, June needed life-saving surgery. Julian's dying grandmother called me back with the funds, forcing a cruel charade with the man who hated me, a man still oblivious to his daughter. 
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