Reborn From Betrayal: A Mother's Vow

The Discarded Wife Is A Billionaire

The DNA test in my hands felt like a death sentence. 0% match. After three years of marriage to billionaire Joseph Villarreal, the truth was out: I wasn't the heiress everyone thought I was. My mother-in-law, Buna, marched into the study with a team of lawyers and threw the divorce papers at me. "You're a fraud, Giselle," she sneered. "The Woods family has cut you off. You are a parasite we are finally removing." I looked at Joseph, praying for a spark of the man I loved. But he just sat there, cold and immaculate, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke that felt like a wall between us. "Sign it," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This marriage was a business transaction. The product I purchased was fraudulent." They didn't just take my home; they stripped me of my dignity. They forced me to hand over my anniversary necklace and yank the wedding ring off my finger, claiming the stone belonged to the "real" daughter, Clydie. Joseph watched with total indifference as I was kicked out into a torrential storm. I collapsed in the mud halfway down the driveway, clutching a broken suitcase, twenty-three years old and completely alone. I didn't understand how three years of devotion could be worth zero to him. He didn't even hate me; he just saw me as a depreciated asset. As I sobbed in the rain, I realized the man I had given my heart to never existed. But Joseph didn't know that the "fake" he threw away was actually the long-lost daughter of the Hines global empire. Six years later, I am no longer the girl crying in the mud. I am Dr. Mandy, the world's top neurosurgeon and a billionaire in my own right. When a little boy with Joseph’s espresso-colored eyes approached me in the hospital and begged me to save his father, I realized the man who ruined me was finally in my hands.

The Rejected Omega Is Actually The Lycan Princess

For three years, I scrubbed tables as a "wolfless runt," hiding my identity as the Lycan King's daughter. It was a test for my fiancé, Alpha Connor. I wanted to see if he loved the girl, or just the crown. He failed spectacularly tonight. His mistress, Jaden, deliberately knocked a tray of drinks onto me during the dinner rush. The liquid wasn't alcohol. It was concentrated silver. My flesh hissed and bubbled as the poison ate through my skin, blocking any ability to heal. I fell to the floor, clutching my melting hand, while Jaden faked tears and claimed I attacked her. When Connor finally answered the video call, he saw my mangled hand. He smelled the burning flesh. He knew it was silver. But he didn't help me. He looked at his watch, annoyed that I was interrupting his business meeting with investors. "Apologize to Jaden," he ordered, using his Alpha Command to crush me into submission. "On your knees. Now." The pain was blinding, but the betrayal cut deeper. He was forcing his Fated Mate to bow to the woman who tried to maim her. My knees bent under the pressure, but my Royal blood refused to break. I looked straight into the camera lens. "No," I whispered. I reached into my apron, bypassing the notepad, and pulled out a black satellite phone I hadn't touched in years. "Code Black," I said to the King on the other end. "Send the Guard." Connor thought he was disciplining a waitress. He didn't know he just declared war on the Royal Family.

His Twisted Game, Her Rebirth

The fluorescent hum of the deserted office was my constant companion, a symphony to my late-night grind as an architect, building dreams one blueprint at a time. Then, out of nowhere, text shimmered in the air, a chilling heads-up display only I could see: "[Target acquired: The Architect. She' s working late again. Perfect.]" My blood ran cold as more lines appeared, taunting me with plans for a "Chivalry Challenge" at a $5,700 prize. It finally clicked-Mark Johnson, that slimy social media influencer who' d turn women' s fear into profit, had found me. He came, smooth as ever, with a drugged coffee, mocking me while I fought through a fogged mind, my desperate calls for help swallowed by his practiced lies to the security guard. My brothers came back for me, their faces illuminated by flashing lights, my last-ditch effort to crash his car paying off just as I succumbed to the drug. But the nightmare wasn' t over; Mark walked free, his lawyer spinning tales of my "manic episodes," leaving my brother Chris to face assault charges for defending me. The injustice burned, fueling a rage that cleared the haze: he wouldn't win, not if I could help it. "This isn't over," I declared, my voice steady, eyes fixed on my brothers, ready to dismantle his empire. Then Michael sent me the link-Mark' s new video, painting me as the aggressor, a "crazy" woman. Scrolling through the venomous comments, one caught my eye: "DesignDiva88," my colleague Lisa Chen, claiming she' d told him to "back off." She was complicit, a willing accessory, and with that, I knew exactly how to begin.

Left To Die: Now The CEO Begs

On our third anniversary, my husband Marcus walked out on our dinner because his "best friend" Izzy had a crisis. That was the ninth time he chose her call over my presence. According to the sick bet I made with her years ago, it was game over. But the true end didn't come in a restaurant. It happened inside a plummeting elevator. When the cable snapped and the emergency brakes slammed us to a halt, I lay trapped under debris, my leg fractured and head bleeding. Izzy, terrified but scratched-free, screamed for help. Marcus didn't even look at me. He stepped over my broken body to scoop her up. "I've got you, Iz," he whispered, carrying her out to safety while I lay alone in the dust, gasping his name. He left me to die in that metal box. Later, when I confronted him, he called me "unstable" and "jealous." He claimed I was a burden, a placeholder he married just to pass the time until Izzy was ready for him. He even shoved me into a freezing lake to protect her from a confrontation she started. He thought I would always be there, the pathetic wife waiting in the shadows. He thought his love was a prize I would endure any torture to keep. He was wrong. I signed the divorce papers, threw my ring into the ocean, and vanished without a trace. Three years later, I returned to New York as a celebrated artist, with a man who treated me like a masterpiece, not a prop. Marcus, now ruined by Izzy’s lies and stripped of his fortune, found me. He knelt in the rain on the city street, weeping, begging for one more chance to fix us. I looked down at the husband who had let me drown. "There is no 'us', Marcus," I said calmly. Then I turned my back on him and walked into my future.

Her Cruelty, His Quiet Fury

The scent of charcoal and happy laughter perfectly painted our Saturday afternoon, a beacon of the quiet life I' d built for my daughter, Lily, after everything we' d been through. Suddenly, a black sports car screeched into our driveway, and my wife' s brother, Leo, stormed into our backyard, followed by two thuggish friends. He sneered, mocking my life, calling me a "freeloader" and a "parasite," even striking me. My wife, Sarah, appeared, but instead of defending our terrified Lily, she sided with her brother, calling me a "failure" and demanding I leave. Lily, hyperventilating from fear, whimpered, "Mommy... please... make them stop," but Sarah dismissed it, her eyes fixed on Leo. How could the woman I' d sacrificed everything for, the mother of my child, choose this violence, this betrayal, this cruelty? In that shattering moment, as Sarah chose her vile brother over our trembling daughter, I knew I had to unleash the man I' d buried for ten years.

When the Small Town King Met a Space Queen

I used to think my biggest challenge was building life support systems for astronauts, but then I came home. My quiet Ohio hometown, the one I' d escaped with an MIT scholarship and a secret burning desire for a bigger life, felt smaller than ever. I was back for a high school reunion, reluctantly, to face Matthew Scott, the boy who' d relentlessly bullied me and now owned half the town. He thought I was still "just Gabby," a wash-up struggling with a boring data entry job, a lie I carefully maintained to protect my parents and my classified work at NASA. The reunion quickly devolved into the public humiliation I expected, with Matthew and his sycophants cornering me, pouring wine on me, and trying to extort money. But then, he crossed a line far more dangerous than he could ever comprehend. He snatching my phone, oblivious that it held top-secret national security data, and used it to call his corrupt sheriff buddy, thinking he had finally trapped me. He thought he was calling in local backup to finish off his high school rival, but in reality, he had just triggered a security alert that would bring the full force of the federal government crashing down on his little kingdom. He had no idea that in his arrogant attempt to destroy my life, he had just detonated his own, and mine was about to get a surprising new chapter.

Abandoned Luna: Now Untouchable

For eight years, Cecilia Moore was the perfect Luna, loyal, and unmarked. Until the day she found her Alpha mate with a younger, purebred she-wolf in his bed. In a world ruled by bloodlines and mating bonds, Cecilia was always the outsider. But now, she's done playing by wolf rules. She smiles as she hands Xavier the quarterly financials-divorce papers clipped neatly beneath the final page. "You're angry?" he growls. "Angry enough to commit murder," she replies, voice cold as frost. A silent war brews under the roof they once called home. Xavier thinks he still holds the power-but Cecilia has already begun her quiet rebellion. With every cold glance and calculated step, she's preparing to disappear from his world-as the mate he never deserved. And when he finally understands the strength of the heart he broke... It may be far too late to win it back.

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.

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.

Revealing My Secret Identities! My Bros Are Speechless!

For seventeen years, I was the crown jewel of the Kensington empire, the perfect daughter groomed for a royal future. Then, a cream-colored envelope landed in my lap, bearing a gold crest and a truth that turned my world into ice. The DNA test result was a cold, hard zero percent-I wasn't a Kensington. Before the ink could even dry, my parents invited my replacement, a girl named Alleen, into the drawing room and treated me like a trespasser in my own home. My mother, who once hosted galas in my honor, wouldn't even look me in the eye as she stroked Alleen's arm, whispering that she was finally "safe." My father handed me a one-million-dollar check-a mere tip for a billionaire-and told me to leave immediately to avoid tanking the company's stock price. "You're a thief! You lived my life, you spent my money, and you don't get to keep the loot!" Alleen shrieked, trying to claw the designer jacket off my shoulders while my "parents" watched with clinical detachment. I was dumped on a gritty sidewalk in Queens with nothing but three trunks and the address of a struggling laborer I was now supposed to call "Dad." I traded a marble mansion for a crumbling walk-up where the air smelled of exhaust and my new bedroom was a literal storage closet. My biological family thought I was a broken princess, and the Kensingtons thought they had successfully erased me with a payoff and a non-disclosure agreement. They had no idea that while I was hauling trunks up four flights of stairs, my secret media empire was already preparing to move against them. As I sat on a thin mattress in the dark, I opened my encrypted laptop and sent a single command that would cost my former father ten million dollars by breakfast. They thought they were throwing me to the wolves, but they forgot one thing: I'm the one who leads the pack.

Secret Baby: The Jilted Wife's Final Goodbye

I sat on the cold tile floor of our Upper East Side penthouse, staring at the two pink lines until my vision blurred. After ten years of loving Julian Sterling and three years of a hollow marriage, I finally had the one thing that could bridge the distance between us. I was pregnant. But Julian didn't come home with flowers for our anniversary. He tossed a thick manila envelope onto the marble coffee table with a heavy thud. Fiona, the woman he'd truly loved for years, was back in New York, and he told me our "business deal" was officially over. "Sign it," He said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He looked at me with the cold detachment of a man selling a piece of unwanted furniture. When I hesitated, he told me to add a zero to the alimony if the money wasn't enough. I realized in that moment that if he knew about the baby, he wouldn't love me; he would simply take my child and give it to Fiona to raise. I shoved the pregnancy test into my pocket, signed the papers with a shaking hand, and lied through my teeth. When my morning sickness hit, I slumped to the floor to hide the truth. "It's just cramps," I gasped, watching him recoil as if I were contagious. To make him stay away, I invented a man named Jack-a fake boyfriend who supposedly gave me the kindness Julian never could. Suddenly, the man who wanted me gone became a monster of possessiveness. He threatened to "bury" a man who didn't exist while leaving me humiliated at his family's dinner to rush to Fiona's side. I was so broken that I even ate a cake I was deathly allergic to, then had to refuse life-saving steroids at the hospital because they would harm the fetus. Julian thinks he's stalling the divorce for two months to protect the family's reputation for his father's Jubilee. He thinks he's keeping his "property" on a short leash until the press dies down. He has no idea I'm using those sixty days to build a fortress for my child. By the time he realizes the truth, I'll be gone, and the Sterling heir will be far beyond his reach.

The Sword Of My Heart: Marrying A Phantom Tycoon

Everyone in town knew Amelia had chased Jaxton for years, even etching his initials on her skin. When malicious rumors swarmed, he merely straightened his cuff links and ordered her to kneel before the woman he truly loved. Seething with realization, she slammed her engagement ring down on his desk and walked away. Not long after, she whispered "I do" to a billionaire, their wedding post crashing every feed. Panic cracked Jaxton. "She's using you to spite me," he spat. The billionaire just smiled. "Being her sword is my honor."