The Artist's Betrayal, A Love Lost

The Unwanted Omega: Rise Of The White Wolf

I was the brilliant mind behind the Thorne Pack's defenses, yet as an Omega, I was treated worse than a servant. My "Chosen Mate," Alpha Marcus, used my blueprints to build his reputation while I scrubbed his floors. Everything changed the day the elevator cable snapped. It wasn't an accident; it was a silver-coated trap set by Isabelle, the woman Marcus was parading around as his new favorite. As I lay in the hospital, silver poison scorching my veins, the doctor begged Marcus for the antidote authorization. Without it, my wolf would die. But Marcus didn't even look up from his phone. "Not now," he dismissed, stroking Isabelle’s hand. "Isabelle scraped her knee when the building shook. She's terrified. Eleanor is tough; she'll survive." He walked away, leaving me to endure surgery without anesthesia. I screamed until my throat bled, feeling every cut, every stitch. In that agony, the foolish girl who loved him finally died. When he returned days later, expecting me to beg for his attention, I didn't bow. I stood up, my eyes glowing with a power he had never seen. "I, Eleanor Vance, reject you." The bond snapped with a thunderous crack. As Marcus fell to his knees in shock, the door opened. Julian Croft, the Alpha King, stepped in. He looked past my ex-mate writhing on the floor, locked his golden eyes on mine, and smiled. "I believe," he rumbled, "the lady is finished with you."

The Price Of His Twisted Love

Eight years ago, my husband, Greyson, framed me for a car accident that cost me my legs, my parents, and my unborn child. He did it all to protect another woman, his political prodigy friend, Isla. He threw me in prison for three years, using my mother's fragile life as leverage to keep me silent and compliant. I was his puppet, a broken ballerina whose only escape was the phantom ache of a dance I could no longer perform. After I was released, broken and alone, he knelt before me on my comeback stage, confessing everything to a live audience. He admitted he faked the explicit photos that ruined my name and that Isla was the one who hit me with her car. He said he did it all for love, a twisted, possessive love that destroyed everything it touched. But his confession had a price. He had already killed Isla. And as he was sentenced to death, he had one last request: to see me.

He Chose Lies, I Chose Leaving

I went through many trials and tribulations and finally found my husband's long-lost younger sister. But by the time I found her, she was on the brink of death. In my haste to get her to the hospital, I accidentally crashed into a red sports car. The female driver demanded that I apologize, as well as pay a million for repair costs. I argued, "It was clearly your reckless lane changing that caused the accident. Why should all the blame fall on me? Besides, in a life-or-death situation, can't you let me take the injured to the hospital first?" The woman ruthlessly pushed me to the ground. "Shut up, you low-life! My husband just bought this car for me today, and running into people like you is such bad luck! My husband is the heir of the Blakely family, the wealthiest family in the city. We wouldn't care if it cost a dozen lives!" I was stunned for a few seconds. The heir of the Blakely family? So, this arrogant woman in front of me was my husband Nixon's mistress? Should I just walk away from his sister? But her grandfather had been desperately searching for her

From Fiancée To Fortune

Our engagement party was everything I had dreamed of, bathed in the warm glow of chandeliers, my heart full as I squeezed Ethan' s hand. Five years, finally official. We were the perfect couple. But then, a piercing wail shattered the perfect facade. Ethan' s ten-year-old niece, Lily, pointed a trembling finger at me, accusing me of "indecent" behavior-a simple kiss. His sister-in-law, Chloe, twisted the narrative, claiming Lily was traumatized, and shockingly, Ethan walked right past me to comfort her, leaving me humiliated and frozen. The man I was about to marry, the man who was supposed to be my partner, was prioritizing a carefully staged tantrum over my feelings, over us. When the sacred symbol of our commitment, my engagement ring, was purposely dislodged and he allowed Lily to "retrieve" it as a family ritual, I began to see the cold, hard truth: I was an outsider in his life, and he was choosing them. Then, walking into the suite that was supposed to be ours, I found it filled with Chloe and Lily' s belongings, our master bedroom claimed, and a lacy nightgown that wasn't mine. The realization hit me: this wasn't just about weakness or family loyalty; it was a deliberate, intimate invasion, a calculated act of displacement before our life even began. My entire world began to crumble as I was accused of embezzlement, my career ripped away, and Ethan called, asking me to confess to a crime I didn' t commit "for the family." Why was I the target? Why was he so willing to sacrifice me? How could the man I loved be orchestrating my downfall? The pieces clicked into place with a screenshot: Ethan had set up the shell corporation. My betrayal was a meticulously planned conspiracy to steal my inheritance. I held my head high as the police arrived to arrest me, knowing I had a fight on my hands, but I was ready.

A Debt of Time and Tears

The flickering cursor on my screen was the only constant; my life, a developer' s dream turned broke reality, spiraled with every line of code that built debt instead of worlds. My wife, Chloe, a sharp, cold woman, shared my last name but not my life, her presence in our sterile home a constant reminder of everything we' d lost. Then, a black box popped up on my monitor, a simple command prompt with a blinking green line: "Cosmic Stream Initialized. Observing Universe C-782." It showed a live feed, grainy and unstable, of a college dorm room, and in it was Chloe, ten years younger, radiating an idealism I hadn' t seen since our own college days. My fingers trembled. Was this a hack? A cruel prank? I typed a desperate message, witnessing her jump, then her young voice calling out from my speakers, "Who's there? Is this a prank?" Overwhelmed, I learned I could see and talk to her, across a decade of time. I couldn' t tell her who I was: her future husband, about to be ground to dust. No, I had to be something she could trust. "I am a System," I typed, the words feeling foreign and powerful, "A guidance protocol designed to help you achieve your optimal future." She challenged me, "Prove it." I dredged up a memory, a story about her childhood dog, Rusty, about her hidden copy of "The Last Unicorn." Her face paled, then tears welled. She believed me. This young, trusting Chloe, the one the world hadn' t broken yet, believed in me. A terrifying, exhilarating sense of power washed over me. I had a chance, a chance to undo everything. I had to start with the man who would poison her soul and my life. My first directive to Past Chloe: "A man named Mark will approach you within the week... Do not, under any circumstances, trust him."

The Price of His Ambition

The dust and the agony were my first sensations-my right leg a grinding hell, Lily clutched tight against my chest as growls surrounded us. Then, the thumping. A helicopter, David' s face. He knelt, his suit dirty, grief etched on his face as he saw our daughter, limp in my arms. I woke to the sterile hospital, a dull throb where my leg had been. And then, I heard voices from the hall-David and his mother. "The leg is gone," David said, his voice cold, stripped of sorrow. "It' s cleaner this way. She' ll live." "It solves the problem," his mother, Eleanor, agreed, devoid of sorrow. "The inheritance is secure." My blood ran cold as I heard David whisper the chilling truth: "I needed a legitimate reason to get rid of Sarah. Her injury allows me to bring Monica into the picture, making everything look legitimate." Monica, his new assistant? His fiancée? "And the girl?" Eleanor' s voice was even colder. "Lily was just collateral damage. Honestly, it' s for the best. Now, it' s just Monica' s child to think about." My heart monitor screamed. The man who had sobbed over our daughter, who had held my hand, had orchestrated this. He had fed us to those dogs. Lily was my world, sacrificed for money. The love, the trust, the family-all shattered. He hadn' t rescued me; he had inspected his work. The matriarch confirmed it: "No one will question it." This was their plan. My daughter' s death, a business solution. I was utterly alone, surrounded by monsters. Eleanor brought Monica, who beamed with practiced pity. Then David announced the final blow: "She' s pregnant." An heir. My Lily, extinguished to make way for this celebration. A raw sound tore from my throat. David rushed to me, feigning concern, reaching out. I flinched from his fire-like touch. "I want to see her," I rasped, my voice a dry whisper. "Lily," I choked out. "I want to see my baby." He hesitated, then gave in, still playing the doting husband. My agreement wasn' t a victory; it was another move in his sick game. But I needed to see my girl. The next morning, he brought a small wooden box. "This is her," he said. I clutched it, raw sobs tearing through me. He feigned sorrow, but I knew. Eleanor had chosen the park, a remote spot. A trap. I remembered the glint of binoculars on the ridge-He had watched. He hadn' t been in a board meeting. He was my enemy. And I had to survive him. Monica returned, carrying soup, her voice dripping with false care. She watched David fuss over her, then poured the soup down the sink. "You don' t really think he wants you to recover, do you?" she purred, stripping away her mask. "Your little 'injury' ... he made sure saving it wasn' t a priority." "What are you talking about?" I whispered. She ripped back the blanket. Where my leg should have been, there was only empty space, bandaged tightly. He hadn' t just let me get injured; he' d had it removed. He had dismembered me. "It' s just some dog' s ashes," Monica scoffed, gesturing to the box. "There is no body. The dogs he trained… they were very hungry." My Lily, torn apart. Buddy, our loving dog, used as live bait. My body trembled with pure, white-hot hatred. David walked in. Monica cried, "She tried to attack me!" "Why didn' t you just die in that park?" he snarled. "It would have made everything so much easier." The truth. No pretense. No grief. Just his selfish wish for my death. Eleanor entered, fussing over Monica, ignoring me. "You could have harmed my grandchild." I was surrounded: the perpetrator, the accomplice, the mastermind. All judging me. The last flicker of the woman I was died. "She won' t bother you again," David growled, leading Monica away. "The whole attack was to clear the way for you. For us. It' s tragic, it' s romantic. It' s perfect." He laid out the conspiracy like a corporate takeover. Lily' s death, a necessary plot point. My dismemberment, a convenient excuse. We were liquidated assets. A strange calm washed over me. The love was gone. The hurt transformed into something hard and sharp. He was my enemy. And I had to survive him. Monica, radiant in a new dress, taunted me. "A simple girl like me could give him the one thing you never could." I stared, my resolve firm. At Lily' s memorial, I sat numb in a wheelchair, a prop in David' s performance. In the town car home, the plan was in motion. The park ranger, already suspicious of David, had given me a burner phone. The car swerved, plunged into the ravine. Blackness. "Missing?" David roared at the scene, refusing to believe my body was gone. Days he searched, his voice raw. "She' s gone," Monica snapped, "We need to move on." "Get away from me!" he spat. Her cold cruelty finally disgusted him. The first crack. His paranoia spread. Monica, impatient, had bribed a guard to orchestrate the crash and invent an affair. "It was Monica!" the guard finally confessed. "The pregnancy… it' s fake!" David stood frozen. He had murdered his family for a lie. Eleanor slapped Monica. "You made us kill my granddaughter for nothing!" David, emotionless, ordered them taken to the hunting cabin. A death sentence. "Sarah knew!" Monica shrieked, dragged away. "She heard everything! She played you!" His show of grief, a mockery. The shame, a poison. He fell to his knees, utterly broken. He offered millions, haunted. "Please, just one more day," he' d beg, clutching Lily' s photo. But I was alive. Pulled from the wreck by a kind RV couple, three years passed in quiet peace, my past a blank. They called me Jane. Then, in Arizona, he walked in. Three years had ravaged him. Our eyes met. A lightning strike. The dogs, Lily' s face, the ashes, Monica' s taunts-all flooded back. I nearly collapsed. "Sarah?" he breathed, disbelief, hope, horror on his face. "You' re alive." I recoiled. "Don' t you touch me." "I' m so sorry," he stammered, tears in his eyes. "I was a monster." "You murdered our daughter," I said, cold. "You had my leg cut off. You are just evil." Jack, my new father, stepped in. "You need to leave." David fell to his knees. "Please, forgive me!" He held a letter opener to his leg. "A leg for a leg!" "You want to make it up to me? You can' t," I said. "Your punishment, David, is to live, every single day, with the knowledge of what you did. You will never be forgiven." I turned, walked away with Jack, and never saw him again. Months later, David Miller, disgraced CEO, drove off the same ravine. No escape. His company collapsed. Karma. I continued my life on the road. Sometimes, in the desert sunset, I feel Lily' s warm presence. She' s free. And so am I. The world is vast, and I am ready.

The Billionaire's Secret Twins: Her Revenge

I was four months pregnant, weighing over two hundred pounds, and my heart was failing from experimental treatments forced on me as a child. My doctor looked at me with clinical detachment and told me I was in a death sentence: if I kept the baby, I would die, and if I tried to remove it, I would die. Desperate for a lifeline, I called my father, Francis Acosta, to tell him I was sick and pregnant. I expected a father's love, but all I got was a cold, sharp blade of a voice. "Then do it quietly," he said. "Don't embarrass Candi. Her debutante ball is coming up." He didn't just reject me; he erased me. My trust fund was frozen, and I was told I was no longer an Acosta. My fiancé, Auston, had already discarded me, calling me a "bloated whale" while he looked for a thinner, wealthier replacement. I left New York on a Greyhound bus, weeping into a bag of chips, a broken woman the world considered a mistake. I couldn't understand how my own father could tell me to die "quietly" just to save face for a party. I didn't know why I had been a lab rat for my family’s pharmaceutical ambitions, or how they could sleep at night while I was left to rot in the gray drizzle of the city. Five years later, the doors of JFK International Airport slid open. I stepped onto the marble floor in red-soled stilettos, my body lean, lethal, and carved from years of blood and sweat. I wasn't the "whale" anymore; I was a ghost coming back to haunt them. With my daughter by my side and a medical reputation that terrified the global elite, I was ready to dismantle the Acosta empire piece by piece. "Tell Francis to wash his neck," I whispered to the skyline. "I'm home."

The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

I spent four hours preparing a five-course meal for our fifth anniversary. When Jackson finally walked into the penthouse an hour late, he didn't even look at the table. He just dropped a thick Manila envelope in front of me and told me he was done. He said his stepsister, Davida, was getting worse and needed "stability." I wasn't his wife; I was a placeholder, a temporary fix he used until the woman he actually loved was ready to take my place. Jackson didn't just want a divorce; he wanted to erase me. He called me a "proprietary asset," claiming that every design I had created to save his empire belonged to him. He froze my bank accounts, cut off my phone, and told me I’d be nothing without his name. Davida even called me from her hospital bed to flaunt the family heirloom ring Jackson claimed was lost, mocking me for being "baggage" that was finally being cleared out. I stood in our empty home, realizing I had spent five years being a martyr for a man who saw me as a transaction. I couldn't understand how he could be so blind to the monster he was protecting, or how he could discard me so coldly after I had given him everything. I grabbed my hidden sketchbook, shredded our wedding portrait, and walked out into the rain. I dialed a number I hadn't touched in years—a dangerous man known as The Surgeon who dealt in debts and shadows. I told him I was ready to pay his price. Jackson and Davida wanted to steal my identity, but I was about to show the world the literal scars they had left behind.

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.

A Favor To My Boss

Emma had agreed to pretend to be her boss's girlfriend at an event where his ex-wife planned to show up with the guy she had cheated with. "We'll see how this turns out."

One Night With My Billionaire Boss

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.

The Billionaire's Medicine: His Silent Obsession

My stepmother sold me like a piece of inventory to a man known for breaking people just to plug the financial crater my father left behind. I was delivered to the Morton estate in the middle of a freezing storm, stripped of my phone, and told that if I didn't make myself useful, my senile grandfather would be evicted from his care facility by noon. The master of the house, Adonis Morton IV, was a monster living in a silent mausoleum, driven to the brink of madness by a sensory condition that turned every sound into a physical assault. When I was forced into his suite to serve him, he didn't see a human being; he saw a source of agony. In a fit of animalistic rage, he pinned me to the wall and nearly strangled me to death just for the sound of a shattering teacup. I only survived by using my grandfather’s secret herbal blends and pressure-point therapy to force his overactive nervous system into a drugged sleep. But saving him was my greatest mistake. Instead of letting me go, Adonis moved me into a guest suite connected to his own bedroom by a hidden door. He didn't just want me as a servant; he needed me as a human white-noise machine to drown out the demons in his head. The nightmare deepened when he took the promissory note that defined my freedom and tore it into confetti. By destroying the debt, he destroyed my exit strategy. He replaced my maid’s uniform with a silver silk dress that clung to my skin but did nothing to hide the dark, ugly bruises his fingers had left on my neck. He branded me as his "primary care associate," a title that was nothing more than a gilded cage. I felt a sickening sense of injustice as he forced me to sign a contract that banned me from contacting other men and required me to sleep wherever he slept. He looked at me with a possessive heat, calling me his "medication" rather than a woman. My family had sold my body, but Adonis Morton was intent on owning my very presence, using my grandfather’s medical bills as a leash to keep me within twenty feet of him at all times. Standing in a neglected greenhouse with mud staining my expensive silk, I realized I was no longer a victim waiting for rescue. If I was going to be his medication, I would learn how to be his cure—or his undoing. I began clearing the weeds with a cold, calculated frenzy, determined to turn this prison into my laboratory. He thinks he has trapped a helpless girl, but I am going to pry open the cracks in his stone walls until his entire world comes crashing down.