He Promised Forever, Then Left Me

My Celebrity Therapist's Cruel Deception

On my tenth wedding anniversary, I found my celebrity therapist husband naked with our housekeeper. He called it "somatic therapy." I was pregnant with our miracle baby and secretly battling a brain tumor. But when his lover faked a fall and a miscarriage, framing me for it, he chose her. The fall caused me to lose my actual baby. As I lay bleeding on the floor, my husband scoffed, "Don't play games, Alexis," and rushed her to the hospital. He then had me committed to a psychiatric facility, publicly painting me as delusional to protect his reputation and his affair. He thought he had gotten rid of me forever. But he didn't know my sister would break me out. He didn't know I would fake my own death to escape. Now, I'm back. And I'm about to teach the good doctor a lesson in consequences.

From Rejected Rogue to the Supreme Alpha's Queen

Three years after being rejected for having "no wolf," I returned to my old pack's territory. I wasn't the pathetic human girl anymore; I was the Luna of the Supreme Alpha. But to test them, I wore plain grey clothes and blocked my scent. My ex-mate, August, took the bait instantly. He cornered me at the Alpha Summit, mocking my appearance. "We need a nanny to wash diapers," he sneered in front of the dignitaries. "Since you're a starving Rogue, I'll offer you the job. You can sleep in the servants' quarters." When I refused, he turned his venom on my three-year-old son, calling him a "bastard." My son bit him in defense. That was when August’s new mate grabbed a lethal silver knife and lunged at my child. I threw myself in front of the blade. It pierced my shoulder, the silver burning like acid. August laughed, thinking he had just rid the world of a weak human. He didn't know he had just drawn the blood of the legendary White Wolf. The entire hall fell silent as the ground began to shake. My husband, the Supreme Alpha, kicked open the doors, his eyes glowing with murderous intent. He didn't look at the trembling Council. He looked at the knife in my shoulder. "You drew Royal blood," he whispered, the sound terrifyingly low. "Close the doors. No one leaves alive."

Goodbye To A Toxic Love

My seven-year marriage to Olivia Hayes, a powerful CEO, seemed perfect from the outside. But then, a single photo on social media shattered everything: my wife, laughing intimately with her much younger personal assistant, Liam Thorne, proudly wearing the platinum cufflink I designed for our fifth anniversary. When I confronted her, Olivia felt no shame, dismissively claiming it was "just a cufflink" and proposing an "open arrangement" where I could find someone else. The humiliation deepened when I went to Hayes Enterprises, the company I helped build, only to be ambushed by Liam. He taunted me, flaunting his new status and claiming my office, before having me assaulted by security while Olivia watched, choosing to protect her lover' s image over mine. My world crumbled as the video of the assault went viral, and Olivia, facing public backlash, demanded I sign over my company shares to Liam as an "apology" for my "unhinged behavior." The sheer audacity and betrayal left me hollow, but I refused to be manipulated. I tore up the share transfer agreement, signed the divorce papers, and walked away from everything, planning to start anew in New York. But Olivia, ever the master manipulator, convinced me to stay for a "truce," only to publicize her affair with Liam at a family gala, where he cruelly tricked me into stepping into hot coffee. The final straw came when Olivia fussed over Liam's fake injury, then dismissed my actual second-degree burn with a casual "Go home and put some toothpaste on it." I drove straight to LAX, bought a one-way ticket to New York, and left everything behind-my marriage, my company, and the toxic remnants of a life that was never truly mine. Little did I know, this agonizing end was just the beginning of reclaiming my true self and finding a love I never thought possible.

When Family Destroys, Love Redeems

The air in the Miller family living room was thick and heavy, like quicksand under my worn-out sneakers. My adoptive brother, Brandon, looked at me with feigned pain, gesturing to expertly forged documents accusing me of selling company secrets. "This is a mistake," I croaked, the first words I' d said in ten minutes. My adoptive father, Richard, rumbled about betrayal and corporate espionage. Sarah, my ex-fiancée, ripped off the ring I'd saved two years for, calling me a "traitor" and a "common thief." Then Chloe, my adoptive sister, held up her phone, live-streaming my humiliation to millions. It was a perfectly orchestrated execution. Brandon whispered, "You were always in the way," before shoving me down, my wrist screaming as I fell. My adopted mother, Eleanor, looked at me with pure revulsion, demanding I be removed. Richard declared me disowned, my shares forfeited. They sentenced me to a "wellness retreat" indefinitely, a "death sentence" they called it. But I smiled. A strange, serene smile. "A wellness retreat?" I asked, my voice steady. "Away from all of this? No work? No family obligations?" I looked Richard straight in the eye. "Thank you," I said, my smile widening. "Honestly. Thank you." The silence in the room was sharp, crackling with their disbelief. "This isn' t a vacation, Alex," he snapped, his composure slipping. "I know," I said. "It' s better. It' s freedom." They thought they were sending me to prison, but they just handed me the key. They thought they were punishing me, but they had no idea they' d just given me the greatest gift of all.

The Unseen Queen

I thought I had New York exactly where I wanted it. As the hidden power behind my half-brother, Caleb, the city's new Don, I pulled all the strings from my penthouse, careful to avoid the chaos that once consumed it. But Caleb' s obsessive love, a sickness I'd nurtured for years, exploded, transforming my gilded cage into a literal one. He kidnapped me, locking me in a lavish fortress to keep me to himself, his madness threatening to burn down the empire I built. Then, a ghost from my past reappeared. Ethan Scott, the man I once loved, returned claiming his rightful place, and with it, me. He orchestrated Caleb's downfall, seizing power under the guise of rescuing me, marrying me to consolidate his reign. Everyone saw a love story, a hero claiming his bride. But kings and heroes were just pawns in my game. What happens when the queen refuses to be a prize? With my wedding gown stained by the blood of the two men who dared to control me, a hidden empire stirred. The city will awaken to a new dawn, under a ruler they never saw coming. Because sometimes, the silent architect is the only one left standing.

When the Queen Returns

I built Liam Carter's political career from nothing, forging him into a powerful Senate candidate. Our engagement gala, a critical fundraiser, was set to crown us as D.C.'s ultimate power couple. But on that perfect night, the doorbell rang. It wasn't the catering staff; it was Brianna, a junior aide, clutches her very pregnant stomach. "It's Liam's," she whispered. Liam burst in, canceling the gala to manage the "crisis," his eyes colder than ice. He ordered me to stay silent, to protect his career, then swiftly blacklisted me from every connection I had built. Even my own parents sided with him, more concerned with appearances than my broken heart, dismissing his betrayal as a "man's needs." Isolated and professionally ruined, I watched my carefully constructed life unravel. The final blow: Brianna flaunted my hand-knitted scarf, a symbol of our struggles, now a dog bed for her new puppy. That scarf wasn't just fabric; it was a piece of my soul. Seeing it desecrated ignited a rage so pure and hot, it shattered any remaining pretense of civility. This wasn't just politics or business anymore; this was about my life, my history, everything I held sacred. I called Liam. "I want you to lose," I told him. " I want you to feel what it's like to have everything you've ever worked for turn to ash." With a new alliance by my side, I walked out, ready to reclaim my name, my power, and rewrite my future, no matter the cost.

The Ghost Wife's Billion Dollar Tech Comeback

Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband’s Maybach usually idled was empty. When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn’t find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn. Caden didn’t even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father’s legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn’s party without a second glance. Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara’s health and managing every detail of Caden’s empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room. How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice. I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I’d drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause—if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for. I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I’d forgotten.

After Divorce: My Arrogant Ex Regrets Calling Me Trash

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.

Too Late For Regret: The Genius Heiress Who Shines

Blinded in a crash, Cary was rejected by every socialite—except Evelina, who married him without hesitation. Three years later, he regained his sight and ended their marriage. "We’ve already lost so many years. I won’t let her waste another one on me." Evelina signed the divorce papers without a word. Everyone mocked her fall—until they discovered that the miracle doctor, jewelry mogul, stock genius, top hacker, and the President's true daughter… were all her. When Cary came crawling back, a ruthless tycoon had him kicked out. "She's my wife now. Get lost."

Reborn Rich, My Vengeance Rises

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.

Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."

The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire

I woke up in a blindingly white hotel penthouse with a throbbing headache and the taste of betrayal in my mouth. The last thing I remembered was my stepsister, Cathie, handing me a flute of champagne at the charity gala with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Now, a tall, dangerously handsome man walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips. On the nightstand sat a stack of hundred-dollar bills. My stepmother had finally done it—she drugged me and staged a scandal with a hired escort to destroy my reputation and my future. "Aisha! Is it true you spent the night with a gigolo?" The shouts of a dozen reporters echoed through the heavy oak door as camera flashes exploded through the peephole. My phone lit up with messages showing my bank accounts were already frozen. My father was invoking the 'morality clause' in my mother’s trust fund, and my fiancé had already released a statement dumping me to marry my stepsister instead. I was trapped, penniless, and being hunted by the press for a scandal I hadn't even participated in. My own family had sold me out for a payday, and the man standing in front of me was the only witness who could prove I was innocent—or finish me off for good. I didn't have time to cry. According to the fine print of the trust, I had thirty days to prove my "rehabilitation" through a legal marriage or I would lose everything. I tracked the man down to a coffee shop the next morning, watching him take a thick envelope of cash from a wealthy older woman. I sat across from him and slid a napkin with a $50,000 figure written on it. "I need a husband. Legal, paper-signed, and convincing." He looked at the number, then at me, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. I thought I was hiring a desperate gigolo to save my inheritance. I had no idea I was actually proposing to Dominic Fields, the reclusive billionaire shark who was currently planning a hostile takeover of my father’s entire empire.