Catherine

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.

The day I found out I was pregnant was the same day I learned my three-year relationship was a meticulously crafted lie. I rushed to surprise my perfect fiancé, Anthony Holden, only to overhear him talking to his twin brother. "I've endured three years of this farce," he said, his voice cold. "Not once did I touch the woman." My entire life was a revenge plot for his childhood friend, a woman who bullied me relentlessly in college. They left me to grieve my grandmother's death alone, subjected me to tortures designed from my deepest fears, and left me for dead-twice. The man who swore to protect me became my villain, convinced I deserved every moment of pain. On our wedding day, he stood at the altar, ready to deliver his final, humiliating blow. He had no idea I was miles away, about to live-stream his confession to the entire world. My revenge was just beginning.

I was tightening my husband’s tie for the photographers at the gala when my phone buzzed against my thigh. A single notification stopped my heart dead. Julius had just wired five million dollars—capital I had secretly stolen from my father to build his company—to an account named 'K. Drake'. When I confronted him later that night, he didn't apologize. Instead, he lured me to an empty warehouse and detonated a rigged gas line. I woke up in a hospital bed, my body broken and my mind racing. Julius stood over me, checking his watch, looking terrifyingly calm. "The baby is gone," he said dismissively, referring to the pregnancy I hadn't even told him about yet. "But Kenzie needs a bone marrow transplant. You're a match." He was holding our daughter, Ava, hostage. He told me if I didn't give his mistress my marrow, I’d never see my child again. He looked at me with total contempt. To him, I was just a boring, civilian housewife. A prop he had used and was now ready to discard. He had no idea who I really was. He didn't know that the "bank loans" I secured for him were actually laundered syndicate money. He didn't know that the father I "didn't talk to" was Horacio Horton, the most feared Don on the East Coast. I let them take the marrow. I let them believe they had broken me. Then, as soon as Julius left the room, I reached for the phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in ten years. "Papa," I whispered into the receiver. "Send the army." The civilian Florence died in that bed. The Mob Princess had just returned to take her throne.

My mother-in-law, Diane Thompson' s relentless Facebook posts, mocking my inability to conceive and celebrating "real grandchildren," had chipped away at my self-worth for two agonizing years, each jab a sharp reminder of my perceived failure, amplified by my husband, Mark' s, deafening silence as he merely dismissed her cruelty as "old-fashioned." Then, a thick envelope arrived, containing divorce papers already signed by Mark, offering a pittance of a settlement that barely covered a security deposit on a tiny apartment, followed by his chilling phone call casually confirming his colleague Brittany Evans was pregnant and demanding I sign the papers "quickly, no fuss." His cold dismissal, pushing me out of our home for an insulting pittance and a supposed "miracle," left me reeling from years of unacknowledged sacrifice and devotion, as I had quietly carried the heavy secret of his congenital azoospermia, enduring his mother' s endless interrogations about my fertility to salvage his pride. A simmering knot of suspicion tightened, confirmed when I followed his car one night, only to find him lovingly embracing a visibly pregnant Brittany Evans outside a women' s health clinic, proving their orchestrated ploy to utterly discard me for a faked pregnancy. But just as total defeat threatened to consume me, a strange calm descended, ignited by an unexpected phone call from a private investigator revealing my true identity as a wealthy lost heiress, and the shocking discovery of my adoptive mother's sealed envelope containing the undeniable proof: Mark's original medical report, detailing his infertility-the ultimate weapon against their meticulously constructed web of lies.

My fiancé, Connor, and I had a one-year pact. I'd work undercover as a junior developer in the company we co-founded, while he, the CEO, built our empire. The pact ended the day he ordered me to apologize to the woman who was systematically destroying my life. It happened during his most important investor pitch. He was on video call when he demanded I publicly humiliate myself for his "special guest," Jaden. This was after she'd already scalded my hand with hot coffee and faced zero consequences. He chose her. In front of everyone, he chose a manipulative bully over our company's integrity, our employees' dignity, and me, his fiancée. His eyes on the screen demanded my submission. "Apologize to Jaden. Now." I took a step forward, held up my burned hand for the camera, and made a call of my own. "Dad," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "It's time to dissolve the partnership."

I made my husband the scallops he'd always loved, a special dinner in the home built from my designs. But when he came home from the firm that runs on my talent, he recoiled from my touch. He sneered at the food, claiming to hate seafood now. He told me I was stagnant, unlike his young intern, Bria, who makes a simple steak. His parents, our dinner guests, agreed. They told me a man's tastes evolve and I needed to keep up. As if on cue, Bria arrived at our door, holding a steak for him. They sat her in my chair, and his mother told her she would make a wonderful addition to the family. In that moment, I understood. After eight years of my name being erased from every blueprint, of being gaslit and belittled, I was being replaced. They didn't see me as family; I was just a tool that had become obsolete. When my husband dismissed my breakdown as a "tantrum," something inside me went cold. After they left, I packed my bags and my encrypted design portfolio. Then I texted his biggest competitor: "I've left Donte. I'm looking for a new job. I have my portfolio."

My hands were my entire career, the key to my life as one of New York's top hand models. My fiancé, Chase, had plucked me from a small town and given me a world of glamour. I thought I owed him everything. Then his high school sweetheart, Karis, gave me a "luxury" treatment at her salon that left my hands with chemical burns, destroying my ten-year career overnight. Chase called it an "accident" and defended her. He told me Karis was so upset she might have to join him on our honeymoon to St. Barts to feel better. At our rehearsal dinner, when Karis suggested I'd hurt myself for attention, Chase publicly shamed me for upsetting her. His bachelor party turned out to be a private date with her. I found the prenup he wanted me to sign: if we divorced, I'd get nothing. But the final blow came the night before our wedding. As he slept, he grabbed my arm and whispered her name. "Karis... don't go." I realized then I was just a stand-in, a warm body in the dark. My love for him had been a survival strategy in a world he built for me, and I was finally suffocating. The next morning, on our wedding day, I didn't walk down the aisle. I walked out the door with nothing but my passport and made a call I hadn't made in fifteen years. An hour later, I was on my way to a private jet, leaving my old life to burn behind me.

My life was perfect, or as close to it as an art student could dream. I was the top candidate for the prestigious Atherton scholarship, a full ride that would launch my career, my paintings getting noticed, my grades stellar. Then my roommate, Chloe, pressed a tarnished silver locket into my palm, a "good luck" charm to secure my future. From that day, my life inexplicably soared, every creative block vanished, every anxiety quelled. Until the day the scholarship was announced. The gallery was packed, my paintings front and center, proud and beaming. And then, a searing pain, blinding and brutal, tore through my abdomen. I collapsed, screaming, the world blurring into a chaotic nightmare of pain and blood. Right there, under the bright lights, I gave birth. The scandal was instant, absolute, splashed across every headline: "Miracle Birth or Immoral Hoax? Art Student' s Public Scandal." The university revoked my scholarship, my parents disowned me, and my friends vanished. My future shattered, the baby taken away, I found myself alone in a cheap motel, walking to a bridge, looking at the dark, swirling water below. I only understood why everything happened after I died. The locket wasn't for luck, but a cursed object. It drained life essence and transferred stolen pregnancies. And the mastermind was Chloe, consumed by envy, orchestrating my downfall to claim my scholarship and my baby' s wealthy father. My soul screamed with a rage that transcended death. Then, a violent pull. I gasped, my eyes flying open. I wasn' t falling into cold water. I was back in my dorm room, the smell of oil paint thick in the air. Chloe stood before me, hand outstretched, the antique silver locket gleaming. "For good luck," she said, her voice dripping with the poison I could finally hear. I was back, and this time, the ending would be different.

The first sign of trouble wasn't a call or a whisper. It was a photograph. I was in my office, lights of downtown LA sprawling beneath me, when I saw it: my pop princess wife, Olivia Reed, wrapped around a notorious talent manager, Liam Stone. His hand was possessively splayed on her bare waist, his thumb stroking intimately. "It' s just for the cameras, Ethan," she' d said, dismissing my concern with a shrug when she finally came home hours later. But the image of his touch burned hotter than the city lights outside. Then came the anonymous message. Five words, a blank profile, and a grainy photo: Olivia and Liam, leaning in, their faces inches apart, his hand high on her thigh. This wasn't smoke and mirrors. This was raw, undeniable betrayal. When I confronted her, she sneered, "I'm suffocating. I'm married to a man so insecure, so boring, he can't handle his wife being successful." She accused me of sabotage, of jealousy, and then dropped the bombshell: "We need to talk about a divorce." My world crumbled. Everything I' d built, every memory in our home, tainted. But the devastation quickly hardened into a cold resolve. She wanted a war? She wanted to ruin me? Fine. Let her try.

The air still reeked of scorched metal and something sickly sweet, even as I stood on the gantry, watching the heat waves rise from the test pit below. My husband, Liam, stood beside me, his face impassive as he held out a pen. "Sign the papers, Ava," he demanded, his voice flat. Suspended beneath us, held by a massive industrial claw, were my parents-pale, terrified, and renowned NASA scientists. Liam' s new mistress, Scarlett, was pregnant, and he needed a "real home" for his new family. I had laughed, a raw, broken sound, when he told me, then confronted him, only for him to offer divorce papers and a blank check. "Take it. It' s more than you deserve," he' d said. My refusal led to broken legs, a vicious smear campaign, and then, he took my parents. Now, he offered the pen again: "Sign. Or they' re gone." My parents' eyes screamed, though their mouths were taped. My father shook his head, a desperate plea for me not to comply. But I couldn' t let them die. My own life was already over. "I' ll sign," I whispered, tasting ash. "Just let them go." Liam nodded to the operator, but the claw didn' t rise. It opened. My parents fell, their screams swallowed by an inferno. The stench of burning flesh hit me, and I vomited. Liam watched, his eyes empty. The world dissolved into grief and fire. There was nothing left. I turned, and with a final look at the man I once loved, I threw myself into the flames. And then I woke up. My legs were whole. The date on my phone was yesterday. It wasn' t a dream. It was a second chance.

The sterile scent of disinfectant was my daily reminder: my parents were gone, killed in a car crash, and my brother, Alex, was paralyzed. Just seventeen, his vibrant blue eyes had dimmed, and our tiny apartment reeked of medical bills we could barely afford. I, Lily Reed, a waitress barely making rent, was all he had left. Then, like a mirage, Mark Thompson reappeared. Alex' s childhood best friend, vanished since the accident, now a polished, wealthy man. He swept into our lives as a savior, moved us to a luxurious apartment, hired nurses, paid our debts. His charm was intoxicating; I believed he was everything I needed, everything I thought I wanted. So, when he proposed, I said yes, feeling like the final piece of a perfect puzzle had fallen into place-a second chance at a real family, a real life. But at our wedding reception, a low, drunken conversation twisted my stomach: "He had to... it was the only way to keep her quiet about the accident. He owed her." Then, a whisper from Mark on a balcony, meant for his former girlfriend, Sarah: "This marriage is just a means to an end... I got rid of the obstacles, just like I promised." Obstacles. My parents. Alex. The world crashed around me. It wasn't an accident. It was him. My husband, the man I' d given everything to, was the monster who had destroyed my family. I had willingly walked into my own gilded cage. Rage, cold and sharp, ignited within me. He thought he had bought my silence, that I was a naive fool to be gotten rid of. He thought he had won. He had no idea what he had just unleashed. I would play his game, be the perfect wife, and wait. And when the time was right, I would destroy him.

Thanksgiving was supposed to be quiet this year, just me wrapped in a blanket, the Macy' s Parade playing to an empty house. My mom and brother, Maria and Leo, died a week ago, leaving me utterly alone. Then my phone buzzed. It was Mom's number. I answered, terrified, and a thin, distorted voice whispered, "Sweetheart, we're almost home." And there they were, knocking on the door. Pale, stiff, holding grocery bags. They acted normal, but their movements were jerky, their eyes hollow. They even removed their own memorial photos from the mantelpiece. My dread deepened when they insisted I drink a strange concoction, a glass of cider or eggnog with a sinister black ash residue at the bottom. What was going on? Why were they here, yet so unnerving? Were they trying to hurt me, or was something far more twisted at play? Just as I felt a strange connection fading, a chilling reflection in a window revealed the impossible truth: the reflection wasn't mine. It was the face of the boy who killed me. It wasn't their accident. It was mine. And they had brought me back.

A sharp gasp. Cold air filled my lungs as my eyes snapped open. I was in the familiar leather armchair of the Vanderbilt library, sunlight streaming in. June 10th. The day I was to choose my bride. Just moments ago, or so it felt, I was pushed from a penthouse balcony. The rain slicked my face; Seraphina' s sneering expression, Leo' s hands, then her final, venomous whisper: "You shouldn't have chosen me, Ethan. You were always too weak." Then, darkness swallowed me whole. I remembered every manipulated moment-the fake accidents, the endless lies, the plundered fortune, my shattered heart. I had chosen her, Seraphina Ashworth, only to be left a hollow shell, betrayed by the woman I loved and her conniving lover. To die such a humiliating, lonely death. Why was I back? Was this some cruel trick of fate, an unfathomably twisted joke from the universe? Could I really be reliving the very day my misery began, the day I picked the woman who would destroy me? The bitterness was overwhelming, the injustice absolute. But my hands, strong and steady now, confirmed it. I was reborn. And this time, I wouldn't be weak. I wouldn't be a fool. I would choose differently, decisively, and ensure my betrayers paid every last penny.

It was our seventh wedding anniversary. Seven cars, seven apologies, one for each endless week she spent with him. My wife, Olivia, hummed, zipping up a suitcase clearly packed for Julian. "Don't forget to check out the new car, Ethan. It's a beauty," she said, her usual dismissive, cool kiss brushing my cheek. But this year was different. Julian called, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. He explained Olivia had cut their trip short because he was "unwell." Then, he flashed his phone at me: Olivia, sun-kissed and laughing, vigorously rubbing sunscreen onto his bare back on a yacht. The date stamp on the photo? The exact day I was in the hospital with a stab wound and a concussion, after waiting hours for her to call. She was unreachable, I now knew, because she was with him. Every shiny apology car, every yearly 'trip' she took, suddenly felt like a cruel, calculated mockery. I wasn't her husband. I was her conveniently understanding placeholder. A gilded cage, built around my dreams of freedom. Yet, this time, there was no sting, no usual pain, just a flat, dull line. Three months ago, I' d booked a one-way ticket to Austin. Divorce papers lay signed on the dining table, waiting for her. My new life began the second her Uber pulled away.

For three quiet, patient years, Christina kept house, only to be coldly discarded by the man she once trusted. Instead, he paraded a new lover, making her the punchline of every town joke. Liberated, she honed her long-ignored gifts, astonishing the town with triumph after gleaming triumph. Upon discovering she'd been a treasure all along, her ex-husband's regret drove him to pursue her. "Honey, let's get back together!" With a cold smirk, Christina spat, "Fuck off." A silken-suited mogul slipped an arm around her waist. "She's married to me now. Guards, get him the hell out of here!"

Elliana, the unfavored "ugly duckling" of her family, was humiliated by her stepsister, Paige, who everyone admired. Paige, engaged to the CEO Cole, was the perfect woman-until Cole married Elliana on the day of the wedding. Shocked, everyone wondered why he chose the "ugly" woman. As they waited for her to be cast aside, Elliana stunned everyone by revealing her true identity: a miracle healer, financial mogul, appraisal prodigy, and AI genius. When her mistreatment became known, Cole revealed Elliana's stunning, makeup-free photo, sending shockwaves through the media. "My wife doesn't need anyone's approval."

"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."

Linsey was stood up by her groom to run off with another woman. Furious, she grabbed a random stranger and declared, "Let's get married!" She had acted on impulse, realizing too late that her new husband was the notorious rascal, Collin. The public laughed at her, and even her runaway ex offered to reconcile. But Linsey scoffed at him. "My husband and I are very much in love!" Everyone thought she was delusional. Then Collin was revealed to be the richest man in the world. In front of everyone, he got down on one knee and held up a stunning diamond ring. "I look forward to our forever, honey."

Sunlit hours found their affection glimmering, while moonlit nights ignited reckless desire. But when Brandon learned his beloved might last only half a year, he coolly handed Millie divorce papers, murmuring, "This is all for appearances; we'll get married again once she's calmed down." Millie, spine straight and cheeks dry, felt her pulse go hollow. The sham split grew permanent; she quietly ended their unborn child and stepped into a new beginning. Brandon unraveled, his car tearing down the street, unwilling to let go of the woman he'd discarded, pleading for her to look back just once.

After five years of playing the perfect daughter, Rylie was exposed as a stand-in. Her fiancé bolted, friends scattered, and her adoptive brothers shoved her out, telling her to grovel back to her real family. Done with humiliation, she swore to claw back what was hers. Shock followed: her birth family ruled the town's wealth. Overnight, she became their precious girl. The boardroom brother canceled meetings, the genius brother ditched his lab, the musician brother postponed a tour. As those who spurned her begged forgiveness, Admiral Brad Morgan calmly declared, "She's already taken."

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.

Maia grew up a pampered heiress-until the real daughter returned and framed her, sending Maia to prison with help from her fiancé and family. Four years later, free and married to Chris, a notorious outcast, everyone assumed Maia was finished. They soon discovered she was secretly a famed jeweler, elite hacker, celebrity chef, and top game designer. As her former family begged for help, Chris smiled calmly. "Honey, let's go home." Only then did Maia realize her "useless" husband was a legendary tycoon who'd adored her from the start.

Rain hammered against the asphalt as my sedan spun violently into the guardrail on the I-95. Blood trickled down my temple, stinging my eyes, while the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers mocked my panic. Trembling, I dialed my husband, Clive. His executive assistant answered instead, his voice professional and utterly cold. "Mr. Wilson says to stop the theatrics. He said, and I quote, 'Hang up. Tell her I don’t have time for her emotional blackmail tonight.'" The line went dead while I was still trapped in the wreckage. At the hospital, I watched the news footage of Clive wrapping his jacket around his "fragile" ex-girlfriend, Angelena, shielding her from the storm I was currently bleeding in. When I returned to our penthouse, I found a prenatal ultrasound in his suit pocket, dated the day he claimed to be on a business trip. Instead of an apology, Clive met me with a sneer. He told me I was nothing but an "expensive decoration" his father bought to make him look stable. He froze my bank accounts and cut off my cards, waiting for the hunger to drive me back to his feet. I stared at the man I had loved for four years, realizing he didn't just want a wife; he wanted a prop he could switch off. He thought he could starve me into submission while he played father to another woman's child. But Clive forgot one thing. Before I was his trophy wife, I was Starfall—the legendary voice actress who vanished at the height of her fame. "I'm not jealous, Clive. I'm done." I grabbed my old microphone and walked out. I’m not just leaving him; I’m taking the lead role in the biggest saga in Hollywood—the one Angelena is desperate for. This time, the "decoration" is going to burn his world down.

Two years of marriage left Brinley questioning everything, her supposed happiness revealed as nothing but sham. Abandoning her past for Colin, she discovered only betrayal and a counterfeit wedding. Accepting his heart would stay frozen, she called her estranged father, agreeing to the match he proposed. Laughter followed her, with whispers of Colin's power to toss her aside. Yet, she reinvented herself-legendary racer, casino mastermind, and acclaimed designer. When Colin tried to reclaim her, another man pulled Brinley close. "She's already carrying my child. You can't move on?"