Her Heart, His Cruel Game

The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge

I haven't spoken a word in three years. As a professional art restorer, I spent my days fixing seventeenth-century Dutch oils and playing the role of the perfect, silent wife to billionaire Arno Rutledge. I thought our marriage was a cold but stable arrangement, a gilded cage I had accepted to keep my father’s medical bills paid. That illusion shattered when I found a VIP hospital pass in Arno's suit pocket. Following the trail, I discovered my husband was keeping a woman named Serena on life support in a restricted wing. He wasn't just paying for her care; he was micromanaging her vitals from a tablet like a volatile stock portfolio, obsessed with controlling her every breath while lying to me about late-night board meetings. When I confronted him at the hospital, the mask of the refined businessman slipped. He didn't offer an apology; he offered a violent shove. I crashed into a glass display case, the shards slicing deep into my dominant hand—the hand I used to restore history. As blood pulsed onto the white tiles, Arno didn't even look back. He was too busy cradling the other woman’s hand, leaving me to stitch my own mangled flesh together with industrial glue in a public restroom. Back at the penthouse, the nightmare only escalated. When I tried to pack my bags, Arno froze my bank accounts and reminded me that he controlled the ventilator keeping my father alive. He dragged me into my studio, snapped my custom sable brushes in front of my face, and forced himself on me atop my own workbench. "You’re an asset, Edlyn," he whispered against my skin. "And right now, you’re underperforming." He told me that since my hands were now "broken equipment," I had to find other ways to compensate for my lack of value. He thought he had successfully liquidated my soul, leaving me a hollow shell trapped in his high-rise fortress. But Arno made one fatal mistake. He thinks because I am mute, I am also blind. He thinks because he broke my hand, I have lost my touch. He doesn't realize that a restorer’s greatest skill isn't her hands—it's her ability to see the hidden rot beneath the surface. He wants to treat me like a line item on a balance sheet? Fine. I’m about to show him exactly what happens when an asset decides to set the entire portfolio on fire.

I Revealed a Terrible Secret After my Daughter's Place was Take Away

After completing a top-secret mission for the government, I received a call from my daughter, Michelle Harper. "Mom! I got the offer from the UN Secretariat Department as an intern! I have worked hard to apply for it for a whole year!" Her voice on the other end was trembling with excitement. She immediately started preparing her visa documents and sent me three voice messages asking what she should prepare. However, a week later, her location watch remained fixed at the third floor of the administration building of their college. I secretly went to her college, only to find her tied up cruelly in the corner. The culprit, Lacey Palmer said with disdain, "How dare you, a nobody, take the position at the UN Secretary Department that my father helped me get? Are you courting death?" Even the advisor chimed in obsequiously, "Lacey's father is the richest man in the country, and her mother is a top expert. That position is meant for Lacey." I was stunned. The position at the UN Secretariat Department? It was the position Michelle worked so hard to win. They clearly talked about me and my husband, who was married into my family, by mentioning the top expert and the richest man. I immediately dialed a familiar number and asked, "I heard you have an illegitimate daughter. Is that true?"

When Love Turns to Vicious Control

"I need the money, Jaida. My mom's in the hospital." My plea was met with a sneer from my ex-fiancé, Kirk Knapp, who then dropped a thick file on the table, detailing every single dollar he'd spent on me during our relationship. Then it got worse. "One box of tampons, $8.99. One pack of birth control pills, $50. A lace nightgown from Victoria's Secret... $78." He announced I owed him $200,000, which he generously reduced to $150,000 since I was trying to collect a debt from his niece. My humiliation was a spectacle for his wealthy friends, who then suggested I "work it off on my back." Kirk, enjoying my torment, offered an alternative: drink ten bottles of whiskey for the money. I did it, desperate for my mother's surgery. I rushed to the hospital, cash in hand, only to be told by the doctor, "An hour ago, we received a call from Mr. Knapp. He instructed us to halt all life-sustaining treatment for your mother. He said you could no longer afford it." My world shattered. I screamed into the phone at Kirk, "Why would you do that?" His cruel laugh echoed, "Because you dared to bother Jaida. This is your punishment, Holly. Her life is on you." My mother was gone. I didn't understand why he would do something so monstrous. Why would he take away my last hope, my last family, for a petty revenge? With nothing left to lose, I accepted an offer to join a national research project, determined to build a new life, free from his shadow.

His Betrayal, Her Unstoppable Rise

I was gone for two years. When I returned, my world had moved on without me. It felt more like a funeral than a welcome-home party, with my fiancé, Liam, walking in with another woman, Ava, on his arm. She was a cheap copy of me, and everyone, including my own brother, Mark, seemed to adore her. I pretended to ignore them for ten minutes, then confronted Ava. "Tell me, did you run out of your own face, so you decided to borrow mine?" She then staged a fall, splashing wine on a senator, and screamed, "Elara, why would you push me?" Liam grabbed my arm, furious. "You're a monster! Apologize to her! Apologize to everyone!" Mark, my brother, rushed over, yelling, "What the hell is your problem?" I watched as Liam and Ava continued their performance, framing me as the villain. I didn't flinch. I just slapped Liam across the face, the sound like a gunshot. "Don't ever touch me again." I then announced, "Our engagement is over. The Vance family does not associate with fools." They thought I was having a breakdown, but I had a plan. I pulled out my phone and played a video of Ava deliberately tripping herself. "The internet is going to love this." And as for everyone else, "I have two years of receipts on every single person in this room who smiled in my face and then stabbed me in the back. Cross me again, and I will burn your entire world to the ground."

Betrayed Heart, Rewritten Fate

My life was perfect, capped off by being named "Young Architect of the Year." A loving family, a devoted boyfriend, a loyal best friend-I had it all. Then my distant cousin, Ashley, arrived – an orphan in need. Suddenly, my perfect world cracked. On my 25th birthday, the crack shattered into a million pieces. My family, my boyfriend, my best friend-they abandoned me, throwing a surprise party for Ashley instead, while I waited alone. The betrayal cut deep, but it was just the beginning. The scholarship I' d worked for, my reputation, my sense of self-all systematically destroyed by Ashley' s hidden machinations and their inexplicable complicity. Sick and alone, cast out of my home, I stumbled upon a mysterious bookstore. There, I found a leather-bound book titled "The Rise of Ashley Green," revealing I was merely a villain in someone else's story, destined for a tragic end. But I refused to be a pawn in a pre-written tale. If my life was a book, I' d be the author. I chose my own ending, faked my death, and quietly disappeared. Four years later, I returned, a phoenix from the ashes. With a new fiance and unwavering resolve, I walked into the city' s most anticipated gala, ready to reclaim my narrative and expose the truth to the world. The show was just beginning, and this time, I was writing the script.

Love's Final Betrayal: A Fading Star

On the day of my funeral, Chloe was getting married. That' s the simplest way to put it, the starkest truth that defined the end of my story and the beginning of hers. While a handful of people who genuinely loved me gathered under a gray, weeping sky, she was bathed in sunlight and applause, standing under an arch of white roses. But before that quiet end, there was a loud, painful beginning. It started the day Mark Johnson came back, pulling up to our small, rented house in a car that cost more than I made in three years. That night, the air in our little house felt tight, suffocating. Chloe stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, not looking at me, but at a future I clearly wasn't a part of. "We need to talk, Ethan." Her voice stripped of warmth, cool and measured, delivered the blow. "Mark is back. He' s offered me a position at his firm. A real career. A chance to have the life we' ve talked about." The "we" felt like a lie. "I' m saying I can' t do this anymore," she finally met my eyes, her gaze hard. "I can' t keep waiting for you to make it. This game of yours… it' s a hobby, Ethan. It' s not a future. I need security. I need more than what you can give me." Each word landed like a physical blow, a deep ache starting in my chest. What she didn' t know, what I hadn' t told anyone, was why I was always tired, why I was losing weight, why I coughed. A month ago, a doctor used words like "inoperable" and "palliative." I had chosen to finish my game, my legacy, rather than waste away in a hospital. Chloe saw my silence, my gaunt frame, and my tired eyes, and she misinterpreted it all. She saw weakness. "Look at you," she said, her voice laced with new cruelty. "You' re always tired. You' re letting yourself go. Is this what you want? To just waste away in front of this computer screen?" The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. I just turned back to my screen, my fingers finding the keyboard. "Are you even listening to me?" she snapped, frustration boiling over. "This is what you always do! You just retreat into your little fantasy world and ignore reality! I' m talking about our future, and you' re playing with your stupid game!" The pain in my chest turned sharp, a real physical thing. "I' m sorry, Chloe. I' m sorry I couldn' t be what you needed." I considered telling her, a desperate plea, but imagined the pity, her ambition chained to a dying man. I loved her too much to burden her. She took my apology as failure. "It' s too late for sorry, Ethan." She walked out, the front door closing with a soft, final click. The sound echoed in the sudden, crushing silence. I was alone. The pain in my chest exploded. My breath caught. I slid from my chair, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The last thing I saw was my glowing monitor, a testament to a love she had just thrown away. I woke up in a new kind of silence, hovering weightless, looking down at my own still body. I was dead. The silence was broken by Sarah, my best friend, slumped in the hospital chair, shaking with silent sobs. Her grief was immense, a storm. In the days that followed, I watched her, heartbroken, as she handled my final affairs. She grew thinner, hollow-eyed, fueled by pure will. She found my favorite hoodie, inhaling its scent. "What do I do, Ethan?" she whispered to the empty room. "I don' t know how to finish it without you." Then, her phone rang. Chloe. Sarah' s thumb hovered. "Hello?" Her voice was flat. Chloe' s voice was unnaturally cheerful. "Sarah! Hi! I know things were… tense… the other day, but I wanted to put that behind us. Mark and I are getting married!" Sarah' s muscles tightened. "We' re having the ceremony this Saturday. It' s at the Botanical Gardens. It would mean a lot to me if you came. As a sort of… peace offering." Saturday. This Saturday. Sarah' s eyes darted to the calendar. Next to it, one word: Funeral. The phone slipped from her hand. Chloe' s voice tinny from the floor, "Sarah? Are you there?" Sarah stared into space, a horrifying mask of disbelief and dawning rage. My funeral and Chloe' s wedding. The same day. She picked up the phone, ended the call. She looked at my game icon, then at the hoodie. "Oh, Ethan," she whispered, a sound half-sob, half-laugh. "She' s getting married. On the day we bury you, she' s getting married." I floated there, helpless. The tragedy was written. On Saturday, Sarah stood in front of her mirror, not in simple black, but in a stark, severe goth dress. She looked like an avenging angel of grief. She was going to the wedding first. No, Sarah, don' t. My silent scream from my ethereal prison. Just let it go. Let me go. But she couldn' t hear me. The Botanical Gardens buzzed with happy chatter. When Sarah walked in, a hush fell. People stared. Chloe saw her, annoyance clouding her bridal radiance. "Sarah, what in the world are you wearing? Is this some kind of sick joke? You look like you' re going to a funeral." Sarah' s voice was unnervingly calm. "That' s because I am." Chloe stared, uncomprehending. "After this, I' m going to a funeral. It' s at two o' clock. It' s for Ethan." Chloe' s face went slack with shock, then hardened with disbelief and anger. "That is not funny, Sarah. That is the most twisted, horrible thing you could possibly say. You' re trying to ruin my wedding day. Did he put you up to this? Is this his pathetic attempt at revenge?" Mark strode over. "Is everything alright, darling?" He sneered at Sarah' s dress. "What is this? Some kind of performance art?" "She' s trying to ruin our day," Chloe said, trembling. "She' s saying… she' s saying Ethan is dead." Mark laughed, a dismissive, ugly sound. "Don' t be ridiculous, Chloe. It' s a pathetic cry for attention. He' s probably hiding in the bushes somewhere, hoping you' ll come running." Chloe looked back at Sarah, her certainty reinforced by Mark. "You need to leave. Now. I' m sorry I ever invited you. I should have known you' d try to pull something like this." She turned to Mark. "I' m sorry, honey. I' ll have security escort her out." Sarah didn' t move, a small, bitter smile touching her lips. The wedding planner called Chloe' s name. It was time. Chloe gave Sarah one last, withering glare, then stopped. A flicker of doubt, of pure, cold fear, crossed her face. But the music was starting. Her future awaited. Chloe turned her back on Sarah, on the truth, and walked away to become Mrs. Mark Johnson. As Chloe walked down the aisle, a wave of memory hit me. Our cheap wine, designing her wedding dress on a napkin. Her laughter filling our small apartment. Now, she was a stranger in a dress I didn' t recognize, walking toward a man I despised. Sarah stood alone, a solitary figure of grief. "I' m the one who introduced them, you know," she murmured. "I' m so sorry, Ethan." The ceremony reached its peak. "Do you, Chloe Davis, take Mark Johnson…" Sarah turned to leave. "Wait." Chloe' s voice, quiet but clear. The officiant paused. Mark turned, confused. Guests murmured. Chloe wasn' t looking at Mark. She was looking at Sarah' s retreating figure. "Sarah, wait," she called again, voice stronger. Sarah stopped. Chloe took a shaky breath. She turned to Mark, pale. "Mark, I… I' m sorry. I have to… there' s something I have to do. I have to know." "Chloe, what are you talking about?" Mark hissed, grabbing her arm. "The whole world is watching." She pulled her arm away powerfully. "I don' t care. I have to know if she' s telling the truth." She lifted her gown and started running down the aisle, away from the altar, away from Mark. She was leaving her own wedding. She was going to my funeral. I watched her go, a storm of confusion. Mark' s face was a thundercloud of fury. The perfect day shattered. The cemetery was quiet, a stark contrast. A small group around freshly turned earth. My parents, a few friends, cousins. Then, a second figure appeared. A woman in a brilliant white wedding dress, now stained. Chloe. Her arrival sent a shockwave. My father' s sadness hardened. "What is she doing here?" he growled. My cousin, David, took a step. "You have no right to be here! Get out!" Chloe didn' t seem to hear them. Her eyes were fixed on the simple, polished granite headstone. Ethan Miller. Beloved Son and Friend. 1995 - 2023. When she read the words, a dry, choked gasp escaped her. She reached out a trembling hand, tracing my name. The cold, hard reality finally broke through her denial. She fell to her knees, a raw, animalistic cry escaping her throat. It was the sound of a world breaking apart. I watched, stunned. This was not the reaction of a woman who never truly loved me. My mother shrieked, pointing. "You! This is your fault! You did this to him! You broke his heart and you killed him!" "Helen, stop," my father said, but his eyes burned cold. "Leave. If you' re just here to make a scene, to show off your wedding dress at my son' s grave, then you can leave." Chloe didn' t respond. She was on her hands and knees, clawing at the dirt, trying to dig me up. "No," she sobbed. "No, it' s not real. Ethan! It' s not real!" Sarah rushed forward, grabbing Chloe' s arms. "Chloe, stop it! Stop! You' re making it worse!" "Let go of me!" Chloe screamed. "He can' t be gone! He can' t!" Another car screeched to a halt. Mark Johnson stormed up the hill, face purple with rage. "Chloe! What the hell are you doing?" he yelled, shoving Sarah. "Get your hands off my fiancée!" He tried to pull Chloe up, but she fought him off. "He' s gone, Mark!" she wailed. "Ethan' s gone!" Mark looked from her hysterical face to my grave, then to my angry family. "This is insane," he spat, pointing at Sarah. "This is your fault! You filled her head with this nonsense and dragged her here!" David stepped up to Mark, fists clenched. "She came on her own. And you need to back off. You' re not welcome here." "I' ll go where my fiancée goes," Mark sneered. My father, a man I' d never seen lose his temper, walked up to Mark. "She is not your fiancée here. Here, she is the woman who destroyed my son. Now get off this sacred ground before I have you removed." The air was thick with hate. My quiet funeral had become a battlefield. Chloe stood amidst the shouting, pale and streaked with tears and dirt, clutching a piece of her wedding dress. Mark tried to pull her away. "Chloe, let' s go. We can fix this. We' ll go on our honeymoon, forget any of this ever happened." She shook her head, pulling her arm from his grasp. "No," she whispered, a new, terrible finality in the small word. Sarah stepped between them, deeply exhausted. "You should go, Chloe. He wouldn' t have wanted this. He wouldn' t have wanted to see you like this." The words finally reached Chloe. She looked at my grave one last time, body shaking with a suppressed sob. Without another word, she turned and walked away, a ghost in a ruined wedding dress. As I watched her disappear, a sense of peace settled over me. It was over. The storm had passed. The truth, in its brutal way, was out. I felt the ties that bound me to her, to the pain and the love, finally loosen. I was free. In the weeks that followed, life, for the living, began to move on. My parents, heartbroken but practical, offered my game studio to Sarah. "We want you to have it, Sarah," my father said, voice thick with emotion. "It was Ethan' s dream. You were a part of that dream. We want you to carry it on." Sarah initially refused. "I can' t. It wouldn' t be right." "He would have wanted you to have it," my mother insisted. "Please." Sarah looked around the studio, at the concept art, my empty chair. She finally nodded, tears filling her eyes. "Okay. For Ethan. I' ll do it." A new fire lit in her. She threw herself into the work, determined to make my last game, "Chloe' s Star," a success. One night, looking for a file, she found a 'Personal' folder. Videos. Candid clips I' d taken. Me and her, years ago, laughing at an arcade. Us pulling an all-nighter in college, arguing playfully. Dozens of them. A hidden library of our friendship. "You saved all these?" she whispered to the empty room, a sad smile. "You nerd." Her phone rang, jarring her. The cemetery caretaker. "Ms. Clark? I' m sorry to bother you so late. But you need to come down. There' s been a problem at Mr. Miller' s grave. It looks like someone tried to… dig it up." Sarah' s car tore through the night, headlights cutting through darkness. Her knuckles white, face a mask of cold fury. At the cemetery, under harsh security lights, the scene was worse than imagined. My grave was torn up. A shovel discarded. And standing there, in the middle of the mess, were two figures: Chloe and Mark. Chloe looked lost, eyes vacant, clothes disheveled. Mark held a second, smaller shovel, his suit rumpled. "What in God' s name do you think you' re doing?" Sarah' s voice was a low growl. Mark had the audacity to look indignant. "We' re paying our respects! Chloe wanted his ashes. We were going to move them to a proper family mausoleum. A place of honor." "A place of honor?" Sarah laughed, harsh and bitter. "You mean a place where you could control his last remains? You think there' s some inheritance, don' t you? You think this struggling game developer was secretly a millionaire, and you want to get your hands on it." Her furious gaze turned to Chloe. "And you. I almost felt sorry for you. I almost thought you understood. But this? To do this with him? How could you?" Chloe shook her head, muttering, "I had to… I had to have him near me." That was the last straw for Sarah' s promise. "You want to know about honor, Chloe?" Sarah' s voice trembled with rage. "You want to know about the man you threw away? Let me tell you about him." She stepped closer. "Two years ago, your father' s company was about to collapse. A mysterious benefactor paid off all his debts. Anonymously. Do you know who that was, Chloe?" Chloe just stared, confused. "It was Ethan," Sarah said, words landing like hammer blows. "He sold everything his grandparents left him. Every last cent. That was the 'failed investment' he told you about. He chose to look like a failure in your eyes rather than let you see your family' s shame. That' s the money you accused him of wasting. That' s the man you said was holding you back." Color drained from Chloe' s face. Vacant eyes replaced by dawning, soul-crushing horror. "No," she whispered. "No, that' s not true." "It is true," Sarah said, relentless. "And you want to know about the man you chose instead?" She pulled out her phone. "I did some digging after the funeral, Mark. You' re not as careful as you think you are." She turned the screen to Chloe. Photos. Mark, kissing another woman. Screenshots of damning texts from before the wedding. Chloe looked from the phone to Mark. The final piece of her shattered world crumbled. "You…" she whispered, a strangled gasp. She launched herself at him, grief and rage finding a target. She beat at his chest, screaming. Mark, shocked, shoved her hard. "Get off me, you crazy bitch!" Chloe stumbled backward, her heel catching on the disturbed earth around my grave. She fell, her head hitting the corner of my granite headstone with a sickening, final crack. She lay still. A dark pool spread from her head. Mark stared, panicked. Sarah screamed. In the ensuing chaos of sirens and flashing lights, I felt my purpose fade. The truth was out. My legacy safe with Sarah. My name cleared. As they covered Chloe' s body, just as they had covered mine, I felt a lightness. The pain, love, betrayal-all dissolved into the cool night air. My game, "Chloe' s Star," released by Sarah, became a global sensation. My name, a symbol of a legacy that triumphed in death. And me? I was finally at peace. I turned from the living, from the wreckage, and faded into the quiet, starlit darkness.

Flash Marriage To My Best Friend's Father

I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector. That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world. The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor. The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist. Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch—a titan of industry and my best friend’s father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared. "Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb. Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen. "Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back." I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

Once The Bride He Discarded, Now The Love He Can't Forget

Five years of devotion ended when Brynn was left at the altar, watching Richard rush to his true love. Knowing she could never thaw his cold heart, Brynn walked away, ready to start over. After a night of drinking, she woke beside the last man she should ever cross-Nolan, her brother's arch-enemy. As she tried to escape, he caught her, murmuring, "You kissed me all night. Leaving isn't an option." The world saw Nolan as cold and distant, but with Brynn, he indulged her every desire. He even bought her a whole village and held her close, his voice low, deep, and endlessly tempting, his robe falling open to reveal his toned abs. "Want to feel it?"

Marrying Her Was Easy, Losing Her Was Hell

"Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. She torched their wedding portrait at his feet while he sent flirty messages to his mistress. With her chest tight and eyes blazing, Stella delivered a sharp slap. Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, and left him a hidden bombshell. On launch day she vanished; that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered. When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged. With a smirk, she said, ""Out of your league, darling."

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.

My Luna Became An Alpha After I Rejected Her

My Luna became an alpha after I rejected her : she was my Luna. I rejected her. Now she's stronger than ever and she has my son. Amelia's world shattered the day her daughter died-and her mate, Alpha Aiden of the Red Moon Pack, divorced her to reunite with his ex-girlfriend. Cast out, disgraced, and accused of poisoning her own child, Amelia was stripped of her title and driven from her pack. The next morning, her lifeless body was found at the border.They all believed she was dead.But she wasn't. Far from the ashes of betrayal, Amelia rebuilt herself-rising from rejection and ruin to become the first female Alpha of Velaris, the most powerful and respected pack in the realm. She also carried a secret Aiden never discovered:She was pregnant-with his son.Years later, fate brings them face to face once more. A deadly disease is spreading through the packs, and the only one who can stop it is the renowned doctor they thought had died. When Aiden sees the boy at her side-his eyes, his blood-he realizes the truth.He didn't just lose his Luna. He destroyed the mother of his child.And now, she's everything he's not-stronger, wiser, untouchable. Will she heal the pack that betrayed her?Will she ever let him near her heart again?Or is his punishment simply living with the consequences?

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."