Cinderella's Sister

I went to the family lawyer for a routine travel clearance. Instead, I was handed a divorce decree. The ink was three years old. While I had been playing the role of the dutiful Capo's wife, Dante had secretly divorced me the day after our fifth anniversary. Twenty-four hours later, he legally married the nanny, Gia, and named her cruel-eyed son as his heir. I returned home to confront him, only for the boy to throw boiling tomato soup on me. Dante didn't check my burns. He cradled the boy and looked at me with pure, drug-fueled hatred, calling me a monster for upsetting his "son." The final blow came in a parking garage. A car sped toward us. Dante didn't pull me to safety. He shoved me into the vehicle's path, using my body as a human shield to protect his mistress. Lying broken on the asphalt, I realized Aria Vitiello was already dead to him. So, I decided to make it official. I arranged a private flight over the Atlantic and ensured there were no survivors. By the time Dante was weeping over the wreckage, realizing too late that he had been poisoned against me, I was already in France. The Canary was dead. The Reaper had risen.

I thought my pregnancy was the culmination of our love. But it was just a calculated move in my husband's political game. A surrogacy agreement on his laptop revealed the horrifying truth. The contract stated that after his election, custody of my baby would be transferred to my unstable sister, Britni. I overheard them all-my husband, my sister, and even my own parents-discussing the plan. They called me a "walking incubator," a strategic asset with "perfect genetics" for their campaign narrative. My life wasn't a love story; it was a transaction. They had turned my body into a political tool and planned to steal my child. The trusting woman I was died that night, replaced by a cold, calculated strategist ready for war. They thought they had me trapped, a perfect prop for their perfect family. But they made a fatal mistake. I walked into a clinic and made a choice that was mine alone, severing the last tie that bound me to their monstrous ambition. Then, I picked up the phone and called the one journalist who could burn their entire world to the ground.

My throat was closing up, anaphylactic shock setting in from the peanuts my half-sister, Kecia, had hidden in the macaron. But Jonathan didn't call 911. He rolled his eyes, called me "dramatic," and handed Kecia my late mother's vintage Cartier bracelet-the one heirloom I had left-just to comfort her. I woke up in the ER alone, only to find my father had sold me off to save his company. I was forced to marry Gage Sawyer, the "Sleeping Prince," a man rumored to be in a permanent vegetative state. Jonathan stayed with Kecia, believing her lie that she was his childhood savior. He didn't know I was the one who saved him years ago. He didn't care that she tried to kill me. But on my wedding day, as I stood by the altar ready to sign my life away, my comatose groom suddenly squeezed my hand. Gage Sawyer was wide awake, and he wanted revenge just as much as I did. When Jonathan finally learned the truth and crashed the wedding begging for forgiveness, I looked him dead in the eye. "You're trespassing, Mr. Chavez." "I'm Mrs. Sawyer now."

Five years ago, I poured my rare Silver Essence into Alpha Damien’s dying body, nearly sacrificing my own life to stitch his fatal wounds. But when he woke up, Seraphina was the one sitting by his bedside with a wet cloth. He assumed she was his savior, and she never corrected him. Now, three weeks before our Mating Ceremony, Damien brought her into our home. She was pregnant, and she was wearing his bite mark. "It is a Life Debt, Isla," Damien told me, his voice devoid of warmth. "She saved me. The Elders invoked the statute. You will accept this." He moved her into the penthouse meant for us. He demanded I use my healing gifts to tend to his mistress and their "miracle" heir. I became a ghost in my own pack, forced to watch my Fated Mate shower her with the love that belonged to me. He even ordered me to publicly apologize to her for my "jealousy." But as I reviewed her medical file, I found the truth he was too blind to see. The fetus was six weeks old. He had only marked her three weeks ago. And her energy levels? Non-existent. She didn't have a drop of healing magic in her blood. Damien thought I was preparing for our wedding. Instead, I picked up a red marker and crossed out the date on the calendar. On the morning of the ceremony, while he waited at the altar, I answered his frantic call. "I, Isla, reject you, Damien." It was time he learned exactly what he had thrown away.

My husband, a Mafia Underboss, built me a perfect life. I was the Chief Resident at a top hospital, the accomplished Dr. Falcone. But my world shattered when a woman brought her four-year-old son to my clinic. The boy had a rare genetic allergy—one that runs only in my family. On his intake form, his father’s name was listed as "Emilio Thomas," my husband's secret middle name. Then, my husband’s voice came through the woman’s phone, and I saw him pick them up from my office window, a perfect, secret family. That night, at our family's most important gala, the boy ran up to me, screaming, "You're the bad lady trying to take my daddy away!" The crowd turned on me, whispering that I was the other woman. On the boy's wrist was the custom bracelet I gave my husband on our first anniversary. When I reached for it, Emilio shoved me. I hit my head on a table, and a sharp pain ripped through my abdomen as blood soaked my dress. I lost the baby I didn't even know I was carrying—the legitimate Moretti heir. My husband turned his back on me, leaving with his other family as I bled on the ballroom floor. He never visited me in the hospital. His mistress, Hayden, did. She gloated that she’d planned it all, and that Emilio swore he'd never have another child after their son was born. I was just a barren, placeholder wife. But this was more than a betrayal; it was a declaration of war. That night, I stared at two pink lines on a pregnancy test I’d taken before the gala. I was six weeks pregnant with the true Moretti heir, and now, I had a weapon.

For fifteen years, I was the destined mate of the formidable Alpha, Dustin Powell. He called me his Anchor, the only one who could soothe the beast within him. But our perfect world shattered when I felt his betrayal through our psychic bond: the scent of another woman, a flash of her red nails on his thigh. My inner wolf howled in agony. He lied about urgent pack business on my birthday, but I found a single bleached-blonde hair in his car. At the restaurant where we first met, I discovered his secret phone and saw the explicit texts from his assistant, Jami. *“Are you with her now? Is it as boring as you say?”* she taunted. Then came the picture message: Jami holding a Tiffany's box he’d bought for her. *“Can’t wait for you to put this on me tonight, Alpha.”* The poison of his betrayal made me physically sick. My pack's Healer confirmed my illness wasn't food poisoning but a "Soul-Rejection"—our bond was so contaminated by his affair that my very soul was rejecting him. That night, Jami sent me a final, vicious psychic attack: a picture of her positive pregnancy test. *“His bloodline belongs to me now. You lose, old woman.”* I had been his anchor, but an anchor can also choose to let go. I called my lawyer. "I want nothing from him," I said. "Not a cent. I want to be free." This wasn't an escape; it was a carefully planned retreat. His world was about to collapse, and I was going to be the one to light the match.

I was a good architect, overseeing my dream project, until a fire on the 45th floor burned my life to the ground. I saved a man, but in return, the flames took my face and my future, leaving me a disfigured monster. Then he appeared like a savior—Carter Long, the brilliant plastic surgeon I’d secretly loved for years. He promised to restore me. He promised to protect me. He even married me. After two years of painful surgeries, the day the final bandages came off, he handed me a mirror. The face staring back was a beautiful stranger's. He showed me a photo of an influencer, a woman named Gia. "My one true love," he said, a wistful look in his eyes. I had been sculpted into her perfect replica. His plan was monstrous. I was to be her body double, a living shield to protect her from scandals. "You are my masterpiece," he said coldly. "You owe me." I stared at the man I had married, the man who promised to save me. He threatened to release photos of my burned face if I disobeyed. He wasn't my savior; he was my creator and my jailer. My reflection mocked me. I wasn't Alysha Jones anymore. I was a copy, a counterfeit trapped in a gilded cage built on his obsession. And I had no way out.

I stared at my phone, Liam's name glowing on the screen. For five years, I was his secret, his on-again, off-again lover, hidden from everyone, especially his sister, my best friend. Then, two weeks ago at a tech gala, he introduced another woman as his girlfriend, dismissing me with a cold, small nod, as if I were a distant acquaintance. My heart shattered as he laughed away my five years of devotion as just "fun." I finally typed a reply to his persistent messages: "I'm getting married, Liam." His immediate, angry calls followed, demanding to know who. I'd accepted David Chen's quiet, respectful proposal, a life where I wouldn't have to hide. When Liam discovered it was David, he accused me of marrying for money, blaming me for his mistakes. It was infuriating. How could he possibly misunderstand so profoundly, believing my escape was still about him, still a game to manipulate his attention? But I was finally free. I blocked his number, ready to paint my own picture on a blank canvas.

Tonight was supposed to be perfect, our fifth wedding anniversary, and I, Ava Monroe, was glowing, a secret smile playing on my lips for the news I planned to share with my loving husband, Liam. But then, a strange, unlocked phone in his study revealed a picture: Liam with another woman, Sophia Chen, whose hand clung to his with an intimacy that made my blood run cold. Hidden, I heard his voice, tender and intimate, confirming my worst fears about Sophia and a chilling dismissiveness towards me: "Ava doesn\'t suspect a thing. She\'s probably in the kitchen, playing the perfect wife, just like always." He then spoke of a "real, legally binding" marriage that wasn\'t ours, calling our five years "a beautiful placeholder," a "five-year arrangement that\'s about to end." My perfect life shattered, exposing his carefully constructed deceit. My heart hammered with a terrifying realization: I was pregnant with his child, a child conceived in a lie, while he was secretly married to another woman. Then, at a charity gala, with my arm still bruised from Sophia\'s staged fall and Liam\'s furious accusations, I saw them. Under the table, while he held my hand for the cameras, his other hand stroked hers-a secret, intimate gesture meant for me. The sheer audacity, the cold, calculated performance, didn\'t even hurt anymore; it simply filled me with a profound, soul-crushing boredom. I just wanted out. Suddenly, a searing pain ripped through my body, as I collapsed, instinctively knowing Sophia had poisoned me, and Liam, blinded by his own narrative, walked away, leaving me to my fate. Waking up alone in a sterile hospital room, no longer pregnant, I learned the truth: Sophia had tried to kill me, and Liam' s betrayal went deeper than I ever imagined. I would disappear, but not before leaving behind the unedited truth of his monstrous betrayal.

I woke up with the familiar scent of burnt coffee, seeing my charming boyfriend, Ethan Scott, across from me in our town's diner. He was pitching a blueprint for his "ultimate survivalist influencer retreat," that smile on his face the same one that made everyone swoon. But then, it all crashed back: the blueprint, the diner, the date. Ten days until the solar flare. Ten days until the end. I' d lived this before. In my previous life, I poured my family's everything into building this exact bunker for him. He promised payment, sponsorship. It never came. When the sky turned green and the grid failed, he locked us out-my parents and me, begging at the reinforced window of the shelter we built. He laughed as we died in the chaos. Now, as he spoke, his voice a smooth river of lies, another voice echoed in my head, sharp and clear: his real, sickening thoughts. This wasn't a dream. It was a second chance, and with it, a terrifying new ability to hear the betrayal lurking beneath his words. He took everything from us then. This time, I'm taking it all back. And I' m starting with his ultimate retreat.

My husband, Andrew, came home tonight, and he wasn't alone. Standing beside him was his high-school sweetheart, Sabrina Chavez, her hand resting conspicuously on her swollen belly. Then, he dropped the bombshell: Sabrina would be his public partner, she was pregnant, and our marriage was a mistake. He called me barren, an embarrassment from the mountains, and declared he was being generous by not divorcing me, condemning me to stay unseen. My world tilted, because I was four months pregnant, secretly carrying our child, a truth he dismissed with cruel words. The next morning, his security team dumped my belongings in the cold, damp basement - a place not for living, but for storage. My old illness, the one I got saving him, returned with a vengeance, and a sharp pain told me I was losing our baby. Then I watched them chainsaw down the cherry blossom tree Andrew and I planted, a brutal symbol of our love' s end. Days later, Andrew accused me of making Sabrina miscarry, though I knew it wasn't my doing. He beat me, kicked me until I curled on the floor, and in that agony, my baby was gone. He locked me in the basement, bleeding, broken, but a cold fire began to burn inside me. I mailed the signed divorce papers and left my tiny son, wrapped in cloth, for Andrew to find. Then, I set fire to my old life, burning it all to ashes, and whispered, "I' m coming home. For expansion." I escaped into the night, ready to reclaim my power.

I thought I lived a romance, me and Rex, King of The Devil' s Brigade. He saved me and my best friend, Clare, from a highway ambush years ago, my knight in shining armor. We found love, safety, cherished trophies in his clubhouse. But one night, Rex' s whisper shattered everything. He confessed the "ambush" was a staged setup, a cruel trap, for a shadowy woman named Silas' s amusement. Every tender touch became a malicious lie; he even subtly poisoned me, causing our child' s loss. Clare watched Marcus, the man she loved, systematically destroy her, culminating in him handing her most cherished locket to Silas. Broken, Clare erupted, igniting the workshop in a fiery inferno, consuming Silas and herself in a defiant, deadly embrace. My world crumbled into betrayal and icy rage. How could the man I loved orchestrate such a monstrous game, feeding our pain to a woman who reveled in our torment? The injustice felt like a physical wound. The naive Amy died with Clare in that fire. Only vengeance remained, cold and precise. I meticulously planned their destruction, orchestrating a final, bloody scene, only to wake in a hospital bed, Clare alive beside me. Everything was a terrifying, comatose nightmare. But was my world of pain, betrayal, and revenge just a figment, or something insidious trailing into my reality?

July Fourth. I promised my twins, Leo and Lily, a trip to the new Apex Park. My husband, Ethan, assured them the fireworks would be the best. Perhaps it was just a shadow of Daniel, the man I truly loved, smiling back at me. Inside the bustling park, Ethan’s phone rang. His face changed when he heard her name: Chloe. He muttered about a medical emergency and vanished, leaving me alone with our children. Then the sky opened, pouring rain, thunder booming, chaos erupting. In the frantic panic, amid the screaming crowds, I lost my little boy, Leo. Hours later, soaked and desperate, I found Lily, silent and traumatized, clutching her doll. But Leo… I found only a torn piece of his favorite blue jacket near a broken ride. At the hospital, the doctor’s grim words echoed: "He didn't make it. Mangled." My world shattered, one piece for every broken promise. Outside, a TV screen flashed: "Ethan Ainsworth celebrates with Chloe Vance, announces pregnancy." My phone buzzed with Ethan's text: "Kids shouldn't wander off. Stop overreacting, Sarah. It’s always drama with you." Then his voice on the phone, cold and angry: "If that defective kid is dead, just get him cremated. Fast. I don’t want any more fuss." Defective kid. My son. His son. How could a father abandon his children, mock their passing, and then celebrate a new life? As the words "defective kid" echoed, a cold, hard resolve settled in my heart. With nothing left to lose, and my mother-in-law Eleanor by my side, I knew one thing. He would pay. The charade was over, and the fight had just begun.

My future was meticulously planned: Columbia University, an SAT score above 1550 – the Winston way. Then, a notification: an anonymous link led to an auction site displaying hundreds of twisted deepfakes of my private life. The seller: "CB_Blackwood." – Caleb. Caleb Blackwood, the boy my father had saved, was auctioning my dignity. I frantically bid my trust fund, but Ashley Jenkins, Caleb’s vapid girlfriend, always outbid me. Caleb then demanded my 1550 SAT score as the ultimate stakes. In desperation, I bid it all. I ‘won’ the auction, but the next morning: my bank accounts empty, my SAT score zero. Ashley received my 1550 and Columbia scholarship, while my deepfakes were everywhere. The shame was a physical weight. As I fell from my balcony, a chilling truth hit: Caleb used a "Contract Auction System"—legally binding. His goal was not just money; it was my future, total destruction. Then, a gasp. I sat upright in bed. April 15th. Weeks before. I was back. The horror was fresh, but a cold, hard new emotion burned: revenge.

Teresa didn’t expect her whole world would crumble apart because of a secret she learned. As a happy-go-lucky girl, she returned home solely to participate in a jewelry designing competition. On this unfortunate day, she got targeted by Jerome, the most cunning man she ever met. "What...what...what do you want from me?" Teresa asked as she watched him step closer to her. Seeing the fear in her eyes, a sneer appeared on his handsome face. "Well, you’ve found out my secrets, so..." he faltered, waiting to get her reaction. "So what?" "I want you to take responsibility!" His voice echoed in the room. “Fo.. for what?" she stammered. In a swift motion, he took out a marriage agreement. Leaning closer, he whispered, "Marry me or I’ll see you in court. It’s your choice."

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.

I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

When I was eight, Dante Moretti pulled me from the fire that killed my family. For ten years, the powerful crime boss was my protector and my god. Then, he announced his engagement to another woman to unite two criminal empires. He brought her home and named her the future mistress of the Moretti family. In front of everyone, his fiancée forced a cheap metal collar around my neck, calling me their pet. Dante knew I was allergic. He just watched, his eyes cold, and ordered me to take it. That night, I listened through the walls as he took her to his bed. I finally understood the promise he’d made me as a child was a lie. I wasn't his family. I was his property. After a decade of devotion, my love for him finally turned to ash. So on his birthday, the day he celebrated his new future, I walked out of his gilded cage for good. A private jet was waiting to take me to my real father—his greatest enemy.

I was the "Caged Canary" of the underworld, a biological asset designed to merge two crime families. My fiancé, Bryant Barnes, didn't love me. He loved the power I brought, and he loved his mistress, Kalia. The night Kalia broke into my penthouse and stomped on my hand, crushing the bones and my fashion career, Bryant didn't help me. He told the police she was my guest and warned me not to embarrass him with a cast. That was just the beginning. When Kalia lied about feeling unsafe, Bryant dangled me off a balcony. When she faked a kidnapping, he locked me in an industrial freezer for six hours until I turned blue. And when I fell into the marina, he swam right past me to save her, leaving me to drown in the freezing water. He destroyed my body and my dignity for a woman who was stealing my designs and faking a pregnancy. He thought I was just a broken obligation he could discard. But he made a fatal mistake. He didn't make sure I was dead. I dragged myself out of the water and made a call to his greatest rival. On the night of our grand merger, I walked onto the stage wearing royal blue instead of white. I rolled up my sleeve to reveal the scars he gave me, looked him dead in the eye, and grabbed the microphone. "I hereby terminate my engagement to Bryant Barnes. And I am proud to announce my betrothal to the true King of this city."

I stood alone at the center of my art gallery opening, clutching a glass of warm champagne, while the guests whispered behind their hands. My husband, the Capo of the Chicago Outfit, wasn't there. A breaking news alert on my phone explained why. It was a high-definition photo of Dante shielding his mistress, Isabella, from the rain. He was touching her with a protective possessiveness he had never once shown me. Then came his text: "Isabella needed me. Go home." That was the moment the cage door unlocked. I didn't go home to cry. I went to his office the next morning with a stack of papers disguised as "gallery insurance forms." While Isabella sat on his desk, mocking me for being a boring housewife, Dante was too annoyed to read the fine print. He just wanted me gone so he could get back to her. He signed the divorce decree. He signed the asset dissolution. Most importantly, without looking, he signed the irrevocable relinquishment of parental rights. I walked out with my freedom, but fate had a cruel sense of humor. That night, I stared at a positive pregnancy test. I was carrying the Sovrano heir he had always demanded. And he had just legally signed away his right to ever know his child. I fled to the Swiss Alps, vanishing into the snow to raise my baby away from his world of blood and bullets. I thought I was safe, until six months later. Dante hadn't just sent men to look for me. He had burned his own shipping empire to the ground, destroying his status as King, just to prove he would trade it all for the wife he threw away.

I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York. To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen. But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table. It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test. "Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture." I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking. He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago. He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy. He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go. He was wrong. I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don. And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy. I wanted to erase him. I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built. Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa." It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul. On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial. When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth. He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife. Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.

For nine years, I was the perfect mafia wife. I laundered Marcus Thorne’s money through my design firm, smiled at his dinners, and ignored the lipstick stains on his collars. I believed in the Omertà of our marriage. I thought my loyalty was my armor. I was wrong. On the night of our anniversary gala, a car lost control and barreled straight toward us in the parking lot. Marcus didn't look at me. Not once. He lunged for his mistress, Izzy, tackling her to safety behind a concrete pillar. I was left standing in the open. The impact threw me like a ragdoll. I lay bleeding on the cold asphalt, my body broken, watching through the haze as my husband frantically checked his mistress for scratches. "My ankle," she whimpered. Without a backward glance, he picked her up and carried her to his limousine, leaving me to bleed out on the pavement. He didn't leave me because he panicked. He left me because I was just a shield he used to protect what he actually loved. As darkness crept in, a shadow fell over me. It wasn't Marcus. It was Julian Croft, his sworn rival. I looked at the empty spot where my husband should have been and made a choice. "Get me to the hospital," I rasped, staring into the eyes of the enemy. "And then help me burn his empire to the ground."