JESSICA KIRK

My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.

I returned to the manor after four years, handing Marcus Thorne an invitation to my wedding. He looked at me with cold eyes, his arm around his fiancée, Chloe—the woman I was molded to look like. But the real blow came at lunch. A waiter tripped, sending three mugs of scalding coffee flying toward us. Marcus didn't move to protect me. He lunged to grab his phone from the table because Chloe’s face was on the screen. The boiling liquid splashed across my chest, burning my skin instantly. While I screamed in agony, Marcus simply checked his notifications. "I have to go," he said, stepping over me as my fiancé, David, desperately poured ice water on my burns. "Chloe broke a nail. She's hysterical." He walked out of the restaurant without looking back, leaving me writhing in pain. At the hospital, the doctor dropped another bombshell: I was pregnant. Marcus didn't know. He didn't know I was carrying another man's child. Just like he didn't know about the baby of his I had lost three years ago—the one I miscarried while he ignored my calls to close a business deal. I wiped my tears and looked at David. "Get the plane ready," I whispered. "We leave tonight." When Marcus finally came looking for me, all he found was a medical report of the child he killed with his neglect, and a note saying I was gone forever.

The bomb strapped to my chest had less than a minute on the timer. I called my husband, begging him to save me. "Kevin, please. This is real. I'm going to die." But Kevin just sighed, his voice dripping with annoyance. "Stop the drama, Michelle. Violet is having a panic attack because her cat is stuck in a tree. I don't have time for your jealousy games." He hung up. Moments later, the warehouse exploded, and I was gone. But I didn't cross over. My spirit was tethered to Kevin, an invisible spectator to his life. I watched him roll his eyes at my mother’s frantic calls. I watched him perform the autopsy on my charred body, convinced I was actually hiding in a hotel to punish him. It wasn't until he returned to the blast site and found my wedding ring in the ash that he finally broke. He fell to his knees, screaming my name. I thought his remorse would free me. But then he discovered the truth: Violet had orchestrated my murder. He cornered her, his grief mutating into a violent, obsidian hatred. I tried to drift away, but the invisible chain binding me to him suddenly tightened, crushing my soul. I realized with absolute horror that the truth hadn't set me free. His hatred was an anchor, heavier than his love ever was. I wasn't just a ghost anymore. I was his haunting, and I was never leaving.

I was trapped in a cage made of pure silver, my skin sizzling against the bars, while my Fated Mate stood outside checking his watch. "Not yet, Elena," Damien said coldly. "Victoria's son must be born first to secure the prophecy." I was in active labor, but he pressed a button on a remote. A magical collar clamped around my neck, seizing my muscles and forcing my unborn baby to stay inside, suspending the birth in agonizing tension. I screamed through our Mind-Link, begging him to save our son, but he severed the connection. He called our child a mongrel and walked away to be with his brother's wife. While I lay dying in a pool of black and gold blood, poisoned by his sister, Damien was next door celebrating the birth of another man's child. When the doctor told him I was flatlining, he told them to save the power for Victoria. He didn't know I wasn't a rogue. I was the daughter of the Alpha Prime, the King of all wolves. He killed his true son and his True Mate for a lie. My father saved my body, but my heart died in that cage. One year later, I returned as the CEO of the company holding all of Damien's debt. He knelt before me, weeping, begging for his Luna back. I stepped on his hand with my stiletto heel and smiled. "Your Luna died in the basement, Alpha. I am just here to collect what you owe."

I spent eight years of my life trying to warm a statue. For six years, I chased Brooks Kane, the "Saint of Wall Street," and for two more, I lived in a hollow, unconsummated marriage, believing my love could melt his icy heart. I was wrong. The truth wasn't another woman; it was a doll. I found my husband in a secret chapel, praying to a life-sized doll with the face of his adopted sister, Chastity. He confessed his forbidden love for her, calling our marriage a cage he had to endure. When I tried to leave, Chastity smashed a bottle over my head. I woke up in the hospital with twelve stitches, but Brooks wasn't there. He was comforting her, tending to a scratch on her cheek while I bled. He even used his power to make my police report disappear, calling it an "unseemly family matter."

For forty years, I stood by Carroll Baxter's side, building his legacy from a junior state representative to a man whose name echoed with respect. I was Helena Cook, the elegant, intelligent wife, the perfect partner. Then, one afternoon, I saw him in a cheap cafe downtown, sharing a luridly green smoothie with a young woman, Kandy Mays. His face was lit with a joy I hadn't seen in twenty years. It wasn't just a fling; it was an emotional desertion. He was a man in his seventies, obsessed with an heir, and I knew he was looking for a new life in her. I didn't make a scene. I walked away, my heels clicking a steady rhythm that betrayed none of the chaos inside me. He thought I was a fragile art history professor he could discard with a small settlement. He was wrong. That evening, I made his favorite meal. When he came home late, the food was cold. He wanted to talk, to deliver the final blow. I pulled a folder from my desk and looked him straight in the eye. "I have cancer, Carroll. Pancreatic. Six months, maybe less." His face drained of color. It wasn't love or concern; it was the sudden destruction of his plan. A dying wife couldn't be divorced. He was trapped. The weight of his public image, of his carefully constructed reputation, was a cage he had built for himself. He retreated to his study, the click of the lock echoing in the silent room. The next morning, my nephew Jared called. "He kicked her out, Aunt Helena. She was crying her eyes out on the sidewalk."

For seven years, my husband Kerr Chapman' s every cruel word and cold shoulder was translated by a mysterious "Mind-Link Notification" as a twisted expression of love. It told me his dismissals were "tests of obedience," his neglect a sign of "profound commitment." I believed it, sacrificing my dignity and self for a love I thought was just hidden. Then, after he kicked me out late one night, I crashed my car. Lying injured in the hospital, I expected him to finally break. Instead, he arrived with my university rival, Gina Parker, who openly mocked me and claimed Kerr had been with her. Kerr stood by, defending Gina, even as she deliberately broke a cherished drawing of my deceased mother and then fabricated a story that I attacked her. He carried her out, leaving me alone, his words echoing: "It's a thing, Chloe. You hurt a person over a thing." The Mind-Link notification flashed, trying to justify his betrayal as "a test of my unconditional love." But for the first time, its words felt like a monstrous lie, a sick justification for his cruelty. I stared at the blue box, the words blurring through my tears. The love it described wasn't love. It was a cage. And I finally, finally saw the bars. I had to get out.

My life was supposed to be a fairytale, growing up in the Thompson mansion, caught between the unwavering devotion of Mark and David. I believed their affection was the most stable thing in my life. But on my 25th birthday, when I finally gathered the courage to tell them I wanted marriage and a family, David smirked and called our twenty years together "just a bit of fun," and Mark dismissed me, citing his career. The next day, at my birthday party, they publicly humiliated me by simultaneously proposing to Sarah, the housekeeper's daughter. David then cruelly forced a strong drink into my hand, knowing I had a sensitive stomach, causing internal bleeding. As paramedics wheeled me away, they shielded Sarah' s eyes and muttered I was "just trying to get attention" with a "fake illness." Back at the mansion, my belongings were piled in the hall to make room for Sarah, and my job was given to her. David, to amuse Sarah, ripped apart my childhood teddy bear, throwing its head at my feet. Later, Mark slapped me, and David kicked my ankle, leaving me in the mud. I didn' t understand why their love turned to such cruelty, why they had so easily discarded twenty years of my life for a new obsession. What had truly changed? Lying in the hospital, my decision hardened: I would marry Mr. Sullivan, the man my mother had arranged, and finally choose myself.

For three years, I was Julian Davenport's shadow – his bodyguard by day, his lover by night. Our routine was a carefully guarded secret, a stolen rhythm of illicit nights and cold mornings. Then, in the pre-dawn chill, his voice, flat and emotionless, sliced through the quiet: "It's over, Ava." He was marrying Chloe Vanderbilt, the perfect political match, and I was just… practice. He tossed my birth control pills onto the bed, a cruel reminder not to complicate his future. The worst came later, when Chloe, his fiancée, ordered me to my hands and knees, using me as a footstool to avoid dirtying her gown, while Julian watched, saying nothing. I' d taken a knife protecting her just hours before, and his only concern was her safety, not mine. I was called "sloppy." That was the moment my heart finally gave up. How could the man I protected, the man I loved, strip away my dignity so completely? Was three years of my life truly just a rehearsal? I walked away from the Davenport estate, leaving the shadow behind. But when Julian, now Governor-elect, tracked me down and tried to drag me back into his gilded cage, I knew I had to make my final stand.

My dying grandfather, CEO of our family' s prestigious wine empire, demanded I choose a husband from four eligible men to secure our legacy. My heart had always belonged to Liam, the golden boy I hoped would finally see me, but by a twist of fate, I chose someone else's wine in a blind tasting. Liam, enraged by my choice and convinced I' d marry him, publicly announced his engagement to his social media influencer girlfriend, Savannah, shaming me across every platform. His final cruel blow came with a public declaration: "She can have the leftover grapes." I was shattered, humiliated, and reduced to a punchline in a love story that wasn't even mine. But then, he abandoned me to die beneath a falling chandelier, choosing his mistress instead, and something inside me snapped. My future was decided in that moment, not by a wine, but by a cold, hard rage that would finally set me free.

My life was a laundry cycle of servitude. A straight-A student, yet at home, I was just the maid, my younger brother Kevin' s muddy jersey a constant reminder. My parents, Karen and Rick, lived through his fleeting athletic glories, barely acknowledging my existence. Then came the Spring Break survivalist trip to the Nevada desert, Kevin's latest TikTok obsession, eagerly championed by my parents. I warned them about the aggressive wildlife, the missing hikers, but my mother's hand found my cheek, silencing me. Deep in the desert, our SUV got stuck, and as darkness fell, a chilling tap on my window turned our ill-fated adventure into a nightmare. A starving mountain lion shattered the glass, its claws tearing into my arm. But the real terror wasn't the beast; it was the cold calculation in my mother's eyes. With a sickening shove, Karen pushed me out of the car, right into the lion's path. The door slammed shut, the lock clicked, and my last sight was their taillights speeding away, leaving me for dead in the dark. Their relief was palpable, and I died knowing they abandoned me without a second thought. I was consumed by the grit of the sand, the tearing pain, the animal' s hot breath, but most of all, the chilling indifference of my own family. How could they? How could my own mother make such a conscious, fatal decision to discard me? Why was I always the problem they needed to eliminate, the buzzkill they had to silence? Then, the familiar smell of bleach filled my lungs. I gasped, eyes flying open, standing in the laundry room, Kevin' s muddy jersey in my hand. I was back, and this time, the cold, hard block settling in my chest wasn't sorrow or fear, but a thirst for revenge. Not this time. This time, they would pay.

Seven years ago, I, Elara Vance, keeper of an ancient family spirit known as The Watcher, saved Marcus Thorne's life. He made a binding promise: betrayal would come at a terrible cost. I believed it was love, a future built on a miraculous second chance. But love turned to ash. Marcus, now a ruthless city mogul, discarded me for a cunning socialite, Seraphina. He publicly shamed my heritage, then, with her connivance, ripped the silver locket - my only control over The Watcher - from my neck. The devastation was swift and brutal. My ancestral home was bulldozed. My beloved Mama Willow, murdered in the process. I was trapped, forced to sacrifice my blood for Seraphina's supposed healing, and then, in a cruel confrontation, Marcus's shove caused me to lose our child. Then Seraphina' s cruel confession shattered everything. She gleefully revealed Marcus faked his near-death seven years ago, a calculated lie to exploit my family' s healing powers. And Mama Willow? She didn' t "fall"; she was pushed, at Marcus' s command. The man I saved, the man I loved, was a monster from the start. In a final act of spite, Seraphina tossed my sacred locket into a roaring fire. As it melted, I felt it: The Watcher, unleashed, roaring free from its chains for the first time in centuries. It chose its target, the one who broke the bonds. And now, they would pay the terrible price.

My son Kevin' s scholarship was his one chance, his only way out of this dead-end town and into a brighter future. Then, they stole it. Chad Smith, the new girlfriend' s spoiled son, got it instead. My ex-husband Mike, the local "National Guard hero," used every dirty trick to ensure his stepson won, flaunting his influence. I lived this nightmare once. My first life was a disaster. I remembered the public humiliation: Mike' s charming lies at the town hall, painting me as the crazy ex-wife, Brenda dabbing fake tears. Kevin' s shame, the injustice. It broke him. He spiraled into darkness. He died. Suicide. My world ended. But I woke up. It was that same morning, weeks before the worst happened. A second chance. I swore I wouldn't let it happen again. Yet, I walked right back into their trap. At Mike' s house, I watched him dismiss Kevin' s pain, saw his petty new family destroy my son' s cherished memories. Then Brenda spilled coffee on herself, shrieked, and Mike' s accusations rained down: "You' re unhinged! Chad does deserve it more! Kevin doesn't deserve anything with you as a mother!" The words hit Kevin like a punch, and I saw the last bit of hope die in his eyes. He looked at me, "Mom, I get it now. He doesn't care." My heart shattered. No. Not this time. My father' s medals, the commendation from Colonel Peterson-a spark of defiance ignited. I had a new path.

Emily Miller was living the perfectly normal life she always wanted. An heiress incognito, I had a good job, a loving fiancé Kevin, and our Miami honeymoon was booked, sealing our happy future. But then, my boss, Victoria Sterling, fired me out of the blue. Hours later, Kevin came home, glowing about his promotion to Miami... with Victoria. Then, I saw the lipstick on his collar and the prenatal vitamins. Victoria was pregnant. With Kevin's child. He admitted it, claiming Victoria, my boss who just fired me, had "seduced" him and orchestrated my downfall. In one brutal swipe, I lost my job, my fiancé, and our shared home, replaced by the woman who betrayed me. Victoria, not content, smeared my name, turning friends distant and painting me as unstable. I was left utterly alone, heartbroken and humiliated. How could they do this? How could the man I loved discard our future then revel in my destruction? The raw pain burned, but a cold, furious anger ignited within me. Then, in Miami, our honeymoon destination, they brazenly showed up, flaunting their "babymoon" bliss and trying to chase me away. I refused to hide. I wouldn't be their victim. Drunkenly, impulsively, I approached a familiar stranger at the bar and offered him $10,000 to be my fake adoring boyfriend – a desperate act that unknowingly set off a chain of events far bigger than I could ever imagine.

Eleanor Vance, the quiet matriarch of the powerful Vance family, cherished her secluded cottage life, preferring peace to the family' s lavish estate. Her son, Michael, CEO of Vance Holdings, fiercely adored her, his protective loyalty legendary. But on the night of Michael' s extravagant engagement gala, his fiancée, Tiffany, stumbled upon Eleanor' s home. Mistaking the esteemed matriarch for a "vagrant," Tiffany, fueled by cruel arrogance, unleashed a shocking assault. She brutally murdered Eleanor' s loyal housekeeper, Sarah, and then turned on Eleanor herself. Eleanor was beaten, her hair savagely cut, her limbs broken, and her lips grotesquely stitched shut. Then, she was stuffed into a canvas bag and brought to the gala. Unknowing of its contents, and in a blinded rage over a perceived insult to his mother, Michael kicked the bag and ordered the "vagrant" disposed of-thrown to the estate's ferocious Dobermans. How could her own son unknowingly condemn her to such a horrific fate? The searing pain of her body was nothing compared to the agony of his unknowing betrayal, born from a twisted, protective rage. But when Michael confronts the horrific truth in the kennels, realizing the "vagrant" is his beloved, mutilated mother, his world shatters. This revelation unleashes a vengeance so dark and absolute it will consume all involved, forever altering the fate of the Vance empire and forging an unexpected queen.

A night to remember, of drifting snow, and raging feelings. Nora would never forget it. The soft-touch of Murphy's hand as he proposed to her. "Will you be my girlfriend?" That soft voice would still tickle her today. But fate had other plans. Three years later, Nora is a single mother and worked as Murphy's assistant, who has lost his memories in a car accident. With no recollection of his past, or her, life was going to be hard.

The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world. In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief." But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius. Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be.

Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun. Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos. As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage. The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice. Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her.

My husband, Ethan Vance, made me his trophy wife. My best friend, Susanna Thorne, helped me pick out my wedding dress. Together, they made me a fool. For three years, I was Mrs. Ethan Vance, a decorative silence in his billion-dollar world, living a quiet routine until a forgotten phone charger led me to his office. The low, feminine laugh from behind his door was a gut-punch; inside, I found Ethan and Susanna, my "best friend" and his CMO, tangled on his sofa, his only reaction irritation. My divorce declaration brought immediate scorn and threats. I was fired, my accounts frozen, and publicly smeared as an unstable gold-digger. Even my own family disowned me for my last cent, only for me to be framed for assault and served a restraining order. Broke, injured, and utterly demonized, they believed I was broken, too ashamed to fight. But their audacious betrayal and relentless cruelty only forged a cold, unyielding resolve. Slumped alone, a restraining order in hand, I remembered my hidden journal: a log of Ethan's insider trading secrets. They wanted a monster? I would show them one.

Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.

The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.

Vivian clutched her Hermès bag, her doctor's words echoing: "Extremely high-risk pregnancy." She hoped the baby would save her cold marriage, but Julian wasn't in London as his schedule claimed. Instead, a paparazzi photo revealed his early return-with a blonde woman, not his wife, at the private airport exit. The next morning, Julian served divorce papers, callously ending their "duty" marriage for his ex, Serena. A horrifying contract clause gave him the right to terminate her pregnancy or seize their child. Humiliated, demoted, and forced to fake an ulcer, Vivian watched him parade his affair, openly discarding her while celebrating Serena. This was a calculated erasure, not heartbreak. He cared only for his image, confirming he would "handle" the baby himself. A primal rage ignited her. "Just us," she whispered to her stomach, vowing to sign the divorce on her terms, keep her secret safe, and walk away from Sterling Corp for good, ready to protect her child alone.

The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand. Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn. She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back.

Celeste was married to a Mafia Don, by the name Xenois Kingston on a contract marriage, that would last 6 years. The deal was that Celeste would give him children during that period and after the end of the 6 year contract, he would offer her $100,000,000,000, divorce her and keep the children as his. Celeste, an orphan, abandoned by the orphanage she grew up in at the age of 18 had nothing to lose and agreed to the deal. 6 years later, Celeste is now 24 years and mother to triplets boys; Lake, Troy and Soren. The contract is coming to an end this month and rumors has it that Xenois true love Claudia Hale is returning back to the city after 6 years of absence. Xenois handed her the divorce papers that morning only for him to get into a car accident on the way to the hospital and suffers from amnesia. To Xenois, he's in love with his wife and kids and a very attentive father and husband and is surprised to find out that Celeste planned on divorcing him. He is determined to make his wife fall for him and be a better father to their children. Things seem like a fairytale for Celeste who is desperate to hold on to this illusion after she had fallen for her husband in their third year of their marriage and stayed with an unrequited love. She knows what she's doing is cruel but she wants to enjoy it while it lasts. But Claudia Hale won't rest until she gets rid of the obstacle named Celeste and marries her heartthrob Xenois. Will Xenois recover his memory and better yet, once he does, does Celeste still stand a chance at winning the heart of her husband or would she be accused of having a hand in his amnesia.

Yelena discovered that she wasn't her parents' biological child. After seeing through their ploy to trade her as a pawn in a business deal, she was sent away to her barren birthplace. There, she stumbled upon her true origins-a lineage of historic opulence. Her real family showered her with love and adoration. In the face of her so-called sister's envy, Yelena conquered every adversity and took her revenge, all while showcasing her talents. She soon caught the attention of the city's most eligible bachelor. He cornered Yelena and pinned her against the wall. "It's time to reveal your true identity, darling."