Reborn To Ruin Them

The Discarded Husband's Spectacular Comeback

I spent three hours searing the perfect wagyu steak and chilling a bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon for our anniversary. My wife, Evelin, texted me saying she was stuck in a late board meeting. "Don't wait up." But a bank alert on my phone told a different story: a $5,600 charge at a VIP lounge in the Meatpacking District. When I tracked her down, I didn't find her in a boardroom; I found her sitting on my business partner's lap, laughing as he fed her chocolate-covered strawberries. When I confronted them, Evelin didn't even look guilty. She called me hysterical and a "prude" for interrupting their night. Hank mocked me to my face, calling me a pathetic "trophy husband" who was probably home ironing napkins while they were out having real fun. When I finally snapped and defended my dignity, my own wife slapped me across the face and had her security throw me out like trash. "You are nothing without the Carney name. You're a stray I picked up." By the time I hit the sidewalk, she had frozen all our joint accounts and blacklisted my name from every major firm in the city. I had spent ten years managing her family's billions and fixing the books her lover messed up, only to be left with ten dollars in my pocket and a suitcase full of dusty law books. She thinks I'm a broken man who will come crawling back to beg for mercy just to afford a meal. I realized then that our marriage was just a corpse I'd been dragging around, and she was the monster who had killed it years ago. I felt the sting of her slap and the weight of her betrayal, wondering how I could have been so blind to the person I shared a bed with. Standing in a cramped apartment in Queens, I blocked her number and called a "shark" lawyer I hadn't spoken to since law school. "I'm the biggest shark in the tank, Dom. Let her try to ruin you." Evelin thinks she took everything, but she forgot one thing: I'm the one who knows exactly where the bodies are buried in her family's ledgers. The war has just begun.

Signed Away: His New Wife

In my past life, I died alone in a sterile hospital bed while my fiancé, Dyllan, comforted his "foster sister" Heather through a fake panic attack. He missed the birth and death of our child because Heather was "too delicate" to be left alone. Even as I took my last breath, he was wiping away her crocodile tears, ignoring my desperate calls. I sacrificed my dreams, my money, and my life for him, only to be a forgotten footnote. But when I opened my eyes, I was back at the City Hall counter, the marriage license waiting. Dyllan tapped his foot impatiently, checking his phone. "Hurry up, Ivy. Heather called. She' s having an episode. She needs me." The old Ivy would have trembled and obeyed, desperate for his approval. But I just smiled, a cold, calculated expression he didn't recognize. "Go to her," I said, pushing him toward the door. "I'll handle the paperwork. Family comes first, right?" He rushed out without a backward glance, relieved to be the hero again. Left alone with the official document, I didn't write my own name on the bride's line. With a steady hand and a heart full of vengeance, I wrote Heather Rosales. Congratulations, Dyllan. You're legally married to the burden you love so much. And I am finally free.

The Alpha's Unwanted Omega Medicine

For three years, I was Alpha Kaelen's secret. My touch was the only cure for the silver-poison curse that wracked his body with agony, and he promised that if he hadn't found his fated mate by my twenty-fifth birthday, he would choose me. On my twenty-fifth birthday, he brought home another woman. He demanded the key to his penthouse back and tossed a limitless credit card on the bed. "This is for your service," he said coldly. His new love, Lila, was a master manipulator. When she framed me for kidnapping her, Kaelen nearly drowned my sick mother in a swamp to force a confession out of me. When she framed me again for pushing her grandmother, he slapped me in front of the entire pack and demanded I kneel. I couldn't understand how the man who once protected me could become my greatest tormentor, blinded by a conniving she-wolf. The final straw came when his curse flared up. He tried to force himself on me, only to accuse me of trying to trap him when Lila walked in. That day, I severed our bond and left for a rival pack, where my childhood friend—my fated second-chance mate—had just woken from a six-year coma.

My Husband's Twisted Secret Life

My husband took me to a secluded villa for the weekend to honor the fifth anniversary of his sister's death. But I found her alive, laughing on the patio with him and my parents. They were bouncing a little boy on their laps-a boy with my husband's hair and his "dead" sister's eyes. I heard Mark call me his "dutiful, grieving wife," laughing about how easy I was to fool. My own mother looked at Annelise with a love she had never once shown me. My entire five-year marriage was a performance designed to keep me occupied while they lived their real lives in secret. He didn't just confess; he told me I was nothing but a "convenient solution." Then he revealed their final plan: they had already arranged to have me involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital, using my fabricated "grief" as the reason. I ran. After setting a fire as a diversion, I hid in a ditch by the main road, my life in ashes. With nowhere else to turn, I made a desperate call to the one person I knew my husband feared: his biggest rival.

One Hundred Pranks, One True End

For two years, I lived a fairy tale with Liam Hayes, the tech mogul. He' d lost his memory in a terrible accident, but he remembered me, or so he said. I, a struggling artist, bought into his relentless passion. We were building a life, a family even. I held a positive pregnancy test, ready to share our news. Then, I heard my college rival, Chloe Jenkins, speak from his office, her voice like sugar-coated poison. "Two whole years. Ninety-nine times. You promised." My blood ran cold as Liam's sharp, cynical laugh filled the room. This wasn't the gentle man I knew. He confirmed it. My entire relationship had been a cruel game, a "prank" designed to make me look like a fool. They mocked my ruined artworks, my canceled shows, every humiliation I' d endured. Liam had been there each time, comforting me with fake sympathy, while secretly logging his "pranks." Chloe purred, "One hundred pranks, one hundred proofs of your love for me." Liam' s reply, dripping with adoration, shattered me: "She was just a means to an end. A pawn." The pregnancy test in my pocket felt like a block of ice. My love, our life, our future baby-all a sick joke. My fairy tale was a cage, my prince a monster. He wanted one hundred pranks, a century of my pain. When I found his hidden sketchbook, full of intimate drawings of me and a receipt for an engagement ring, a dangerous hope flickered. Had he felt something real? But that hope died when I called a women's clinic. This child was conceived in deceit, an extension of his game. I refused to bring a child into this twisted world. At a yacht party, after my procedure, Liam's friends, at Chloe's urging, forced me to eat poisoned oysters, designed to induce a miscarriage. They knew. "He didn't want a child with her tying him down," Chloe hissed. "He was just waiting for the right moment for the problem to go away. I just provided the opportunity." I bled, the pain excruciating, as Liam, seeing me, yelled for a helicopter. Chloe, cold and final, drilled into my fading consciousness: "Don't you dare forget who you're doing all this for. You love me. Remember?" Liam' s strained reply: "I know, Chloe. I... I know." How could he? How could the man who held me at night, whispering endearments, be the same man who orchestrated my destruction? Why him? Why me? Ava Miller died that day. But Elise Vance was born, and she was coming for them.

Her Cold Eyes, His Burning Revenge

The cold rain mirrored the desolation inside me that day, three years ago, when the company I built from nothing was declared bankrupt. The final, crushing blow wasn't a market crash, but sabotage orchestrated by the three people I trusted most: my sister, Sarah Miller; my fiancée, Emily Davis; and my "best friend," Kevin Chen. I remembered standing in that same rain as a luxury car pulled up, their triumphant smiles confirming my ruin. "You're like a dog!" Kevin had sneered. Sarah's pitying gaze felt colder than the winter rain, and Emily merely looked away. Their laughter echoed, drowning me in despair until everything went black. Why them? How could this happen? Then, I opened my eyes again. The rain was gone. The cold was gone. I was sitting in an auditorium, back in time on the very day it all began, ready to pitch the revolutionary software they stole. This time, things would be different.

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.

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 Mute Heiress's Fake Marriage Pact

I was finally brought back to the billionaire Vance estate after years in the grimy foster system, but the luxury Lincoln felt more like a funeral procession. My biological family didn't welcome me with open arms; they looked at me like a stain on a silk shirt. They thought I was a "defective" mute with cognitive delays, a spare part to be traded away. Within hours of my arrival, my father decided to sell me to Julian Thorne, a bitter, paralyzed heir, just to secure a corporate merger. My sister Tiffany treated me like trash, whispering for me to "go back to the gutter" before pouring red wine over my dress in front of Manhattan's elite. When a drunk cousin tried to lay hands on me at the engagement gala, my grandmother didn't protect me-she raised her silver-topped cane to strike my face for "embarrassing the family." They called me a sacrificial lamb, laughing as they signed the prenuptial agreement that stripped me of my freedom. They had no idea I was E-11, the underground hacker-artist the world was obsessed with, or that I had already breached their private servers. I found the hidden medical records-blood types A, A, and B-a biological impossibility that proved my "parents" were harboring a scandal that could ruin them. Why bring me back just to discard me again? And why was Julian Thorne, the man supposedly bound to a wheelchair, secretly running miles at dawn on his private estate? Standing in the middle of the ballroom, I didn't plead for mercy. I used a text-to-speech app to broadcast a cold, synthetic threat: "I have the records, Richard. Do you want me to explain genetics to the press, or should we leave quietly?" With the "paralyzed" billionaire as my unexpected accomplice, I walked out of the Vance house and into a much more dangerous game.

Reborn And Remade: Pursued By The Billionaire

In her previous life, Kimberly endured the betrayal of her husband, the cruel machinations of an evil woman, and the endless tyranny of her in-laws. It culminated in the bankruptcy of her family, and ultimately, her death. After being reborn, she resolved to seek retribution against those who had wronged her, and ensure her family's prosperity. To her shock, the most unattainable man from her past suddenly set his sights on her. "You may have overlooked me before, but I shall capture your heart this time around."

From Trophy Wife to Scientific Queen

My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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.