Westley Curlin
6 Published Stories
Westley Curlin's Books and Stories
The Billionaire's Ego: My Ruthless Divorce
Horror I had been a "decoration piece" for Kenton Parker for three years, a contract wife bought to pay off my father’s gambling debts. I lived in a cold penthouse, making his coffee and answering his phones, while he treated me with the clinical indifference of a stranger.
On our third anniversary, I waited alone at the city’s most exclusive restaurant, only to see a news alert flash on my phone. Kenton wasn't coming. He was caught on camera at a hospital, looking at his "friend," ballerina Blanca Donovan, with a raw, frantic worry he had never once shown me, not even when I fell down a flight of stairs.
I finally snapped and filed for divorce, citing his "irreversible erectile dysfunction" just to destroy his massive ego. I thought I was free, but Kenton retaliated with a cruelty that left me breathless. He froze every bank account I owned and had his secretary smash the last photo I had of my mother. He reminded me of the five-million-dollar penalty in my contract—money I didn't have.
"You don't get to leave until I say so," he roared, dragging me into his office. He used my father’s life as a leash, forcing me to play the part of a doting wife at his family’s Hamptons estate to please his sick mother. He wanted to starve me out until I crawled back to his side.
I couldn't understand how a man could be so heartless. He didn't want my heart, yet he refused to let me go, treating my life like a line item in a corporate merger. He wanted to keep me as his prisoner while he spent his nights with another woman.
But Kenton made one fatal mistake. He thought I was just a broke, submissive secretary with nowhere to turn. He didn't know that I was "Vee," a world-renowned art restorer with a secret legacy and a six-figure commission waiting for me.
As we shared a bed in the Hamptons and he pulled me against his chest, whispering that I was "his," I didn't feel comfort. I felt the cold, hard spark of a woman who was finally ready to burn his contract to the ground. The Betrayed Man's Unexpected Wife
Romance My life had quickly unraveled. For seven years, Emily, my fiancée, had been my world. But then Mark Miller arrived, claiming he'd saved her from a hotel fire. He and his young son, Billy, quickly moved into Emily's life, and ours, consuming every space until I became an intruder in my own home.
Emily, once so brilliant and driven, transformed. Anything I suggested was met with "Mark says," or "Billy wants." My career was sidelined as I supported her, only to find myself watching her plan picnics with another man's son for "the investor meeting can wait, Billy is more important."
The final straw came when Billy, in my study, broke my grandmother's music box, my most precious possession. Mark casually dismissed it as "just an old box." When I got angry, Billy screamed I pushed him, and Emily, without a second thought, decided to side with them. "Mark and Billy are staying here tonight. Billy can have your bed. You can sleep in the guest room." She was literally kicking me out of my own life, one room at a time.
I was suspended from my job based on Emily's false accusations and locked out of my apartment by changed locks. This betrayal meant I couldn't reach my dying grandmother, missing her final moments. I was left with nothing but the cold, hard realization that Emily didn't care.
With Emily sharing a picture online, calling me "negativity," and cozying up with Mark in our favorite restaurant, I knew I had to act. It was time for a real change, a new beginning. I called Sarah Jenkins. "I'm ready," I told her. "Let's do it. Tomorrow, if you can." The Wife He Destroyed Returns
Romance The world tilted, then fell away, the polished marble floor rushing up to meet me. One moment, I was adjusting lights for my new art exhibit, the next, a sickening crack left me in darkness, my legs gone.
Awakening in a hospital, the rhythmic beeping of machines and a strange, mechanical ticking from my chest were my only companions. My fiancé, Mark, was just outside the door, his voice low and urgent.
"Is it done, Mr. Henderson? Is everything taken care of?" he asked the gallery owner.
"The ladder was tampered with, just as you instructed," Henderson replied, his voice gravelly. "It was a tragic accident. No one will suspect a thing."
Then I heard the doctor: "The legs were unsalvageable. The damage to her heart was severe. We had to implant the synthetic unit. She'll live, but she'll never walk again."
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect," Mark laughed, his voice stripped of all warmth. My private collection, my legacy, was the "real prize" he needed for his gallery, and their deal included securing a scholarship for Emily, his protégé. This was all for Emily.
Panic clawed at my throat. My art, my life' s passion, was stolen, and the man I was going to marry, the father of the child growing inside me, had orchestrated it all. For money. For his gallery. For another woman' s career.
The pain from my body raged, but it was nothing compared to the cold, dead void that opened inside me. I was a machine, my heart ticking like a clock counting down a life I no longer wanted.
My instincts led me to my stomach, now flat and soft. The tiny life, a secret meant for Mark, was a lie. When a nurse mentioned prenatal care, I choked out, "Cancel it. I want to schedule an abortion."
My tears were the last I would shed for the life he had stolen. Mark' s performance for the outside world was flawless, but I saw the ugly, rotten canvas beneath his beautiful lies. He hadn' t loved me; he' d loved my assets.
Days blurred into pain and physical therapy. Mark brought Emily to visit, her feigned sympathy twisting knives in my gut. He even boasted that she was cataloging my stolen collection. He was replacing me, in every possible way, and flaunting it.
When he proposed a "documentary" to exploit my broken body, I knew I was trapped. He' d built this cage deliberately. He' d stolen everything, leaving me with nothing. But a different appointment awaited.
They found a body by the river, a white shoe, and a note, leading Mark to believe I had taken my own life. Emily' s hysterical accusations that I was faking it turned his fury on her. He spun a tale of tragic loss, cementing his image as the grieving fiancé.
Mark grieved not for me, but for his ruined scheme. He cast me as a villain-a cheater, pregnant with another man' s child-to absolve himself.
But as David Chen, my kind friend, stood at my grave, his heart heavy, I sat alive in his living room in Norway. "He cried," David said, his voice thick.
"He also told me you were pregnant with another man's child."
The plan was desperate, conceived from the ashes of that day. David, the only one I trusted, had helped me fake my death, swap my body with a Jane Doe, and build a new life as Anna Jensen. My escape was flawless.
David loved me, not for what I had, but for who I was-scars, synthetic heart, and all. He saw the woman, not the wheelchair. He understood. And in that moment, a fragile seed of hope began to sprout.
Two years passed. I became a renowned art restorer, and with David, co-founded Chen-Miller Restorations. Then came the opportunity of a lifetime: a project in New York, my old home. I was tired of hiding.
I was strong. I was loved. I was whole.
At the Harrison Foundation' s gala, I saw him again. Mark. Thinner, haggard, staring at me as if I were a ghost. "Sarah?" he whispered, hoarse. "You're dead."
"Reports of my death were, as you can see, greatly exaggerated."
He begged for another chance, blaming his failures on my supposed death, clinging to pity. "I know you still love me. You have to."
I laughed, cold and dismissive. "Love you? Mark, I don't even know you."
He grabbed my arm, his old anger surfacing. "You owe me an explanation! Prove you're her!"
"She doesn't have to prove anything to you," David' s calm, steady voice cut through the tension as he stepped protectively to my side.
I held up my hand, my diamond catching the light. "This is David Chen, my partner and my fiancé."
Mark stared, defeated. I looked him straight in the eye: "The Sarah Miller you knew, the one you tried to destroy, is dead. You killed her. Let her rest in peace. You and I, Mark, are done."
I walked away, leaning on David, leaving Mark a relic of a past I had finally, completely overcome. Emily was arrested for fraud, Mark' s gallery liquidated, and he faded into obscurity. David and I married, surrounded by loving family.
My story was a testament to resilience, healing, and a love that empowered, called me whole. I found my true masterpiece: a life built on truth, love, and unshakable self-worth. I was home. My Fiancé Believed Her Lie
Romance The sharp sting across my cheek snapped my head back, my hair flying. It came from Chloe, the young intern, whose hand was still raised, her eyes wide with a calculated fear that twisted into a perfect lie.
"Ava, I'm so sorry," she whispered, staging a stumble that sent her crashing dramatically to the floor as Leo, my fiancé, burst into my office, his face a mask of thunderous rage.
He didn't even glance at me, rushing straight to Chloe' s side, cradling her as she sobbed a manufactured tale of my jealousy.
His mother's smug voice suddenly echoed from his phone, "Leo, I told you she was unstable. Not fit to be part of our family."
And then, his command, "Apologize to Chloe." Followed by a terrifying countdown, leveraging my younger brother Finn's fragile mental state against me.
I swallowed the humiliation and forced the words out, "I'm sorry, Chloe."
My hand, resting on my stomach, trembled as a cold dread washed over me-the faint flutter of life I' d felt last week now a lead weight. This couldn't be happening. My perfect life, shattering around me, and I knew, with horrifying certainty, this was only the beginning. The Mother's Second Chance
Modern I was a devoted mother, my world revolving around my precious baby girl, Lily.
All I wanted was to keep her safe, to give her the best life possible, despite living under my in-laws' roof.
But my mother-in-law, Karen, was a monster of penny-pinching cruelty.
Her idiotic refusal to pay for proper medical care for Lily's jaundice, choosing a blazing hot lamp instead, was just the beginning.
Then came her ultimate act of malice: swapping Lily's vital probiotic with her lethal pesticide, Bora-Kill.
My baby, my sweet Lily, died a horrific, agonizing death.
My husband, Mike, blamed me, calling it an accident, while his father, Frank, backed them both up.
Consumed by a rage so pure it burned, I ended it all, taking them with me in a fiery gas explosion.
The last thing I remembered was the sweet, cloying scent of gas, and a chilling satisfaction.
Then I opened my eyes, not to death, but to the familiar, dingy floral wallpaper of Karen' s living room.
Disbelief warred with a crushing wave of horror: I was alive, somehow, back in the very moment the nightmare began.
And I heard it again – the piercing cry of my baby.
This time, there would be no mistake.
No more weeping for a broken life.
I had the foresight, the memory of every single treacherous move they would make.
My grief now fueled an unstoppable resolve: I would protect my Lily, and I would make every single one of them pay. My Husband's Old Flame Gave Me My Daughter, Then Stole My Son
Modern My picturesque New England life shattered the moment the school nurse called. Lily, my bright, artistic daughter, AB-positive? Impossible. I'm O-negative.
The doctor's genetics lesson was a punch to the gut: Lily couldn't be mine.
Then, the real earthquake hit. Overhearing Grant, my devoted husband, revealed a sinister conspiracy. Bea Baker, his old flame, was back, and Lily was her daughter through a twisted surrogacy plot. Grant was secretly bankrolling her silence.
The betrayal deepened. He'd been drugging me, keeping me from conceiving. My 'perfect' life was a lie, meticulously crafted by a man I barely knew. He'd even developed Bea's family farm into a soulless mall, crushing her family in the process.
Fury and disgust warred within me. Bea knew too much about my 'miscarriage.' She hinted at Northwood Pharma, experimental testing and my stolen baby used for science. Grant's face, smiling, taunting, haunted me.
He was meeting Bea tomorrow. The affair was current, not just old history. He wants her to live with us! This charade ends now. My quest for truth had just begun. How deep does this rabbit hole go? And what happened to my own baby? Retribution is coming. You might like
The Lie My Fiancé Created
Adelheid Rufo For three years, I believed my fiancé, Daryl, was my savior. He rescued me after a brutal attack-secretly orchestrated by my own sister, Kenisha-shattered my hands and my dreams of being a concert pianist. He gave me a perfect, protected life.
Then I discovered the truth on his laptop. I wasn't his beloved; I was "Asset: FB-01." A walking collection of prime organs, being groomed until my sister needed a new heart. My heart.
The man I loved became a monster. He forced me to take five pregnancy tests, snarling that he'd "get that thing out" of me himself if I compromised his investment. He locked me in the trunk of his car and later abandoned me on a collapsing rope bridge.
To finally break me, he drowned the stray kitten I'd rescued in the washing machine. "You hurt my Kenisha," he roared. "Now you'll know what it feels like to lose something you care about."
My entire life with him had been a lie. I was just livestock being fattened for slaughter, and my hands-the ones he once called magic-were just a "non-essential component."
After he drained my blood for the sister who wanted me dead, I went home and buried my cat. Then I packed a single bag, booked a flight to London, and vanished. They had created a monster. Now, they were about to meet her. The Garage Held His Secrets
Gavin Six months into our marriage, my husband Adam declared our garage off-limits. He called it his "creative space," but it was my house, bought with my inheritance, and his sudden coldness felt like a violation.
Soon, the secrecy became a prison. He began handcuffing me to our bed at night, chaining me up like an animal so he could sneak down to his precious garage while I slept.
When I confronted him, he tracked my phone, punched me in the face, and threatened to take half my house in a divorce. He was a monster wearing my husband's face, and I was trapped with him.
One night, after picking the lock, I crept downstairs and heard voices. It was Adam and his fugitive brother-a man who had killed an entire family in a hit-and-run. I heard his brother threaten to "handle" me.
The next morning, I smiled and made my husband his favorite breakfast. But as I served him his pancakes, I added a special ingredient-a powerful laxative, enough to send him straight to the emergency room. He thought he had me cornered. He had no idea I was about to burn his entire world to the ground. A Mother's Sin, A Son's Reckoning
Sumner Upsdell The crystal glasses clinked in our opulent gallery, a melody of my mother Olivia's engagement party. I was her protégé, her son, her heir-everything I ever had, she gave me.
But watching her laugh with David, his arm possessively around her waist, a familiar knot tightened in my chest: a suffocating need for her sole focus.
In a desperate, childish search for comfort, I buried my face in her scarf in her private suite, only to hear her voice, "What are you doing?"
Olivia' s face, a mask of disbelief, hardened into rage. "You were sniffing my things like some kind of pervert... I take you in, I give you a life, and this is how you repay me? With this… this obsession?"
She advanced on me, eyes blazing. "You need to be cleansed. Go to The Gauntlet. You will stay there until you shed these perverse thoughts!"
The Gauntlet. A brutal, secretive art collective for artists who had committed "grave sins" from which no one returned whole. A prison.
The next morning, Olivia took a heavy metal ruler and brought it down hard across my knuckles, shattering my painting hand.
One year later, a broken shell of the artist I once was, I returned to Olivia. David, her fiancé, reached out to pat my head, a casual, condescending gesture. My body flinched violently, anticipating a blow before I forced myself to submit.
Olivia saw the flinch, the tremor. "Have you learned your lesson?" she asked, her voice cool and measured.
My damaged tongue slurred, "Yes, I understand. I truly do."
I thought my obedience would finally soothe her, but it only made her uneasy. She didn' t see my torture, only my alarming compliance.
Then came the airplane ride, triggering flashbacks of being thrown from cliffs into churning water. Next, the mansion, my home, was empty of my beloved cat Mittens, rehomed due to David' s allergy. I could only nod numbly, fear overriding every other emotion.
A can of soda, offered by Olivia, ignited memories of forced chugging until I choked and vomited. I gulped it down, the searing pain a familiar companion to my terror.
Later, in my old room, Olivia's knocking became the signal for The Gauntlet's "clients," forcing me to prepare for violation. I fumbled frantically, unable to respond, and threw myself at her feet, begging, "Don't hit me! Don't hit me, I'll be quick!"
She slapped me again and again until my face was red and swollen. I was pathetic, disgusting, tainted. She left me on the floor, the video of my begging playing on loop next to my father' s portrait.
I couldn' t love her. I couldn' t even be near her. I raised my own hand and began to slap my face, a desperate plea for self-punishment. "Alex will never love Olivia again…"
I passed out on the cold, hard floor. I just wanted to be free. From Brokenness To Billionaire Bride
William Jafferson My father raised seven brilliant orphans to be my potential husbands. For years, I only had eyes for one of them, the cold and distant Damien Paul, believing his distance was a wall I just had to break through.
That belief shattered last night when I found him in the garden, kissing his foster sister, Eve—the fragile girl my family took in at his request, the one I had treated like my own sister.
But the true horror came when I overheard the other six Fellows talking in the library.
They weren't competing for me. They were working together, orchestrating "accidents" and mocking my "stupid, blind" devotion to keep me away from Damien.
Their loyalty wasn't to me, the heiress who held their futures in her hands. It was to Eve.
I wasn't a woman to be won. I was a foolish burden to be managed. The seven men I grew up with, the men who owed my family everything, were a cult, and she was their queen.
This morning, I walked into my father's study to make a decision that would burn their world to the ground. He smiled, asking if I'd finally won Damien over.
"No, Dad," I said, my voice firm. "I'm marrying Hunter Beach." Her Voice From The Grave
Jing Jing Five years. That's how long I've been dead, my restless spirit clinging to the humid air of Bayou's Rest, a town now filled with an unsettling disquiet. My former love, Michael, now mayor and married to my sister Jessica, dismisses the eerie whispers as 'superstition,' but his fear is palpable. He hired a 'paranormal expert' to cleanse the bayou, unaware he was about to disturb more than mud.
What the expert unearthed wasn't just ancient trash, but a rotted wooden box containing a chilling secret: my skeletal arms. And with them, a leather-bound journal, my own handwriting detailing my deep love for Michael, his sudden coldness, and my sister Jessica's calculated manipulations. The truth, buried deep, was finally stirring.
Michael's face went ashen, but Jessica, ever the perfect actress, shrieked 'Lies!' painting me as 'unstable,' 'vindictive.' My parents, complicit in her charade, shamefully echoed, 'Sarah was never right. Always making things up.' They reinforced a false narrative, trying to bury my truth, and me, once more.
But the journal held a secret far worse than simple betrayal: Jessica's ultimate motive. She didn't just abandon me to starve in that fishing shack; she murdered me because I was pregnant with Michael' s child. Then, she brutally dismembered me, scattering my remains in a dark ritual to forever bind my spirit. My righteous fury, a cold spot in the bayou, demanded justice.
Only Father Gabriel, with eyes that saw beyond the veil, understood the profound injustice that cursed Bayou's Rest. Driven by an unwavering sense of cosmic imbalance, he set out to uncover every last piece of me, both body and truth, determined to confront Michael, Jessica, and the town with the horrifying reality they tried to deny, no matter the cost. ENRAGED SOUL
otu Harriet Laura was a bold, courageous, gorgeous, intelligent young lady who always stood out for herself. She always fought for her right and never allowed anyone to look down on her , her family nor her friends.
She was known as the most brilliant and talented student in her class. This irritated some of her mates and led to the plot of her attack to tame her.
" Hold her, let's see how her intelligence works this time...", Ben exclaimed, landing a huge slap on her cheek.
Patrick and Fred held her tightly, chuckling and teasing.
They molested and bullied her until she passed out.
" Wait, Ben, I think we killed her....", Fred cried
" Shut up, what do you know? She's just doing that to scare us...."
" No, Ben...I think he's right...we killed her..."
" Oh, my God...what should we do..."
Join me on this journey while we find out what they did to her body and the outcome of their action.
ENRAGED SOUL;The revenge of a traumatized girl My Family's Faith, My Bloody Fate
Landslide It started on the one-year anniversary of my return, a day meant for joy.
Instead, my family, devout and God-fearing, brutally murdered me.
My brother, my protector, became a "defiler" screaming monster, my father, a man of God, cut off my hand with a rusty saw, and my mother, once overjoyed, called me an "abomination."
They threw my bleeding body into a silo, sealing the hatch, and as I died, I only had one question: Why?
It was the locket. The small, carved wooden locket my sister, Esther, had given me moments before, a "welcome home" gift that instantly turned my loving family into rabid killers.
Somehow, I woke up. It' s the same day, the same anniversary. Esther is coming up the stairs, the locket in her hand, about to give me the gift that will trigger their bloodlust again.
This time, I refuse. But Esther is cunning, and soon, I'm dodging my family's crazed attacks, desperately trying to expose their dark beliefs to the authorities. They look at me like I' m simply a troubled girl with an overzealous family.
Knowing the law won't stop their fanaticism, I have no choice but to use their own twisted faith against them, no matter the cost, to finally break free. I Tamed the Monster He Sent
Luo Chengfeng The last thing I saw was Thunder’s bloodied jaws, closing in on me.
My daughter, Sophia, lay broken a few feet away, already gone.
Pain, then darkness.
Then, with a gasp, I bolted upright, my heart hammering like a drum.
I was back on the same rough porch, facing the same smug smirk of Old John.
At the end of his chain was Thunder, the Australian Cattle Dog who had butchered my child and me.
“Heard you were back in town, Isabella,” Old John rasped, his voice a cruel mockery of a welcome.
“Brought you a little housewarming gift,” he added, pulling the chain as Thunder whined, straining to reach me, just like that first time.
The memory crashed over me: Thunder’s lunge, the searing agony as his teeth tore my thigh, the hot gush of blood, and then, Sophia’s petrified screams followed by chilling silence as he turned to her.
Old John had known my paralyzing fear of dogs, yet he had specifically brought this hulking beast to torment me.
He had laughed when I pleaded, ignoring the danger, using the dog as his personal weapon.
Every horrifying detail, every agonizing moment of Sophia’s brutal death and my own demise, flooded my mind with chilling clarity.
But this time, as Thunder lunged forward once more, I forced my trembling legs to stop.
No. Not again.
This time, things would be different. Reborn to Reign: A Mother's Fury
ffssg My name is Sarah, and I remember the cold.
Not the chill of winter, but the stainless-steel table against my back.
My sons, Michael and Gabriel, were gone, their screams replaced by silence.
My husband David, blinded by ambition, led us to that abandoned clinic.
His sister, Veronica, craved an heir for her powerful husband, Senator Harrison.
She believed my "Legacy Fertility" and my children's "vital essence" could help her.
A quack "expert" performed monstrous acts on my seven-year-old twins.
Then it was my turn; they brutally harvested my ovarian tissue.
I was left to bleed out on a filthy floor, my insides torn.
I died there, a vow of revenge frozen on my lips.
Later, I saw Veronica on the news, pregnant and glowing with what she stole.
But then, warmth. Sunlight.
My eyes snapped open to my own familiar bedroom.
Michael was on my chest, Gabriel curled beside me, both alive, young, and whole.
The calendar read October 14th—the very day it all began.
The memory slammed into me: David's averted eyes, the isolated building, Veronica's cold voice, Michael's terror, Gabriel's whimper.
This wasn't a dream; this was a second chance.
Veronica, triumphant in my first life, had risen on my family's ashes, her belly swelling with a lie while mine was emptied by her greed.
No. Not again.
This time, I wouldn't just survive.
I would take everything she had, everything she wanted.
Her husband. Her position. Her future.
My revenge would be absolute, and my children would live. The game had begun. 
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