Luo Ye

For two years, I was the invisible force behind tech billionaire Kieran Douglas, convinced that our "private" romance was his way of protecting us from the tabloid spotlight. I managed his mergers, warmed his bed, and waited for a future that didn't exist. The illusion shattered at 6:00 AM when a Page Six alert debuted Kieran's "real" romance with socialite Aspen Schneider. Before I could even process the betrayal, Kieran sent me a cold, professional text: "Order flowers for Aspen. Pink peonies. Her favorite." When I tried to walk away, my own mother called me a disgrace and threatened to lock my inheritance forever unless I married a sixty-year-old businessman to save her failing estate. At a high-society gala that same night, Aspen intentionally crushed my burned hand in front of the cameras, while Kieran stood by and dismissed me as a "mediocre assistant" who had overstayed her welcome. I stood in the cold New York rain, drenched in champagne and humiliation, realizing that every sacrifice I made for Kieran was a joke. I was a ghost in a penthouse that was never mine, discarded the moment his "soulmate" returned. To the world, I was just a placeholder whose time had run out. But Kieran forgot one thing: my father's multi-million dollar trust fund unlocks the moment I legally marry. I didn't need love; I needed a signature and a shield. I walked into a discreet law firm and signed a marriage contract with a man I believed was the city's most notorious, scandal-ridden playboy. I thought I was marrying a degenerate "beard" to buy my freedom and secure my revenge. I didn't realize the man who signed that paper wasn't a playboy at all, but Gaston Collins-the most powerful and dangerous man on Wall Street-and he had no intention of letting our fake marriage stay fake.

For three years, I was a prisoner in my own body, forced to watch helplessly as a series of strangers steered my life into ruin. Then, the system tried to wipe my consciousness entirely to make room for a new host. The pain was blinding, like a steel spike driven through my skull, but I refused to break. I slammed a mental wall of pure spite against the code, forcing the system to retreat and bargain for its own survival. I woke up in a room littered with the debris of a pathetic party girl, my body smeared with cheap makeup and my life in tatters. My father, the patriarch, looked at me with nothing but cold disdain, ready to cut me off for the scandals I hadn't even committed. The people around me—my father, the school bullies, the arrogant Student Council President—all expected the same hysterical, vapid girl who would crumble at a single word. They had no idea that the real Scarlett was back, and I was holding a scalpel to their secrets. Why did they think they could treat me like a disposable toy? And what would happen when the cold-eyed strategist they underestimated started dismantling their empires piece by piece? I walked into the academy, stared down my tormentors, and made a bet that would either crown me as their master or force me to sign away my entire inheritance forever.

After years away, I returned to the Whitley Manor for one thing: my dead mother’s ruby necklace. I found it clasped around the pale, undeserving neck of my father’s new, pregnant wife. But when I put a knife to her throat to take it back, my own family turned on me. My father and grandfather didn't see a daughter defending her mother's memory; they saw a street thug threatening their precious new heir. They accused me of shaming their name and threatened to cut me off completely. To break my will, my father let my younger brother get arrested, hoping I’d come crawling back. Then, they summoned me to the hospital for my grandmother's "heart attack," where my father raised his hand to strike me for simply speaking the truth. He screamed that I was a monster, a cold-blooded killer. The raw hatred in his eyes told me everything. I wasn't his daughter anymore; I was just an obstacle to his new, happy family, a ghost he desperately wanted to erase. After their final pathetic performance, I turned my back on them forever. The Whitley name and its blood-soaked money meant nothing to me. I thought I was walking away alone, but as the hospital elevator doors closed, my brother Julian forced his way in. He had finally seen their masks, and he chose to follow the monster.

I lost my memory. Or rather, I faked it. Conrad Gallagher, the boyfriend I had been secretly dating for five years, effortlessly erased our entire relationship. "You're only fit to be a casual hookup." Then, he announced his engagement to a woman approved by his parents. To save myself from utter humiliation, I faked amnesia, conveniently forgetting no one but Conrad. But when it was time for me to get married, Conrad regretted it. He kidnapped me right out of my wedding and spirited me away: "Don't marry him, okay?"

I returned to the Hamptons after six years, believing I had finally outrun the ghosts of my past. As a surgeon, I had spent years stitching others back together, yet I remained a collection of jagged shards held together by secrets. I thought I could survive one family dinner, but the moment I stepped inside, the air turned to lead. Then I saw him. Damon Hansen stood in the archway, looking more lethal than the man I’d once loved. When our eyes met, he shattered the crystal glass in his hand with such raw force that blood stained the pristine rug. It was a silent, violent declaration of the rage he’d been nursing since the night I vanished without a word. The dinner was a battlefield. Damon sat across from me with his new girlfriend, Campbell, draped possessively over his arm. He used every word like a blade, mocking my "escape" while secretly ordering the only food I could stomach. He didn't know that I hadn't just run away six years ago; I had crawled away to survive a miscarriage that nearly took my life, a trauma that still made my hands shake at the sight of a child. I fled to Seattle for a clean slate, only to find Damon waiting in the rain. He had traded his business empire for a firefighter’s uniform, joining the city's most dangerous station just to force his way back into my world. When he ended up on my trauma table, soot-stained and broken, he gripped my wrist with a heat that almost broke my resolve. "I'm yours, Adria. Do whatever you have to do." I almost let my walls crumble until the hospital doors swung open. Campbell burst out, throwing herself into his arms and claiming him in front of the entire staff. I didn't stay to hear his excuses. I turned my back on the man who had followed me across the country just to break my heart again, finally realizing that some wounds are too deep for even a surgeon to heal.

My husband Jeremy crashed a wedding for his ex, Donnie, and the video went viral. I was at home, pregnant and making his favorite lasagna, when I saw him screaming about saving her from the groom. This wasn't the first time. Three years ago, his obsession with playing her hero cost me our first baby. He swore it would never happen again. He had promised to be there for my prenatal check-up, but he abandoned me to rescue her instead. When he finally came home that night, he fell to his knees, crying and begging for another chance, just like he did before. He looked pathetic. But this time, I felt nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness. The woman who loved him was already dead. I looked him straight in the eye and calmly delivered the final blow. "I had an abortion today. The baby is gone." "Sign the papers, Jeremy."

For ten years, I lived as a powerless Omega, my only joy being my brilliant daughter, Michelle. I had bound my true nature—a powerful White Wolf—to protect her from my family's enemies. When she won a coveted internship at the International Council, I thought our quiet life was finally secure. But a week later, I found her crumpled in a corner of her school, bound by silver ropes that burned her skin. Her dreams were being torn apart by Lacey, the daughter of our pack's Alpha. "This little nobody thought she could steal my spot," Lacey sneered. "The internship my Alpha father secured for me." My world shattered. The Alpha was my husband, Vincent—my fated mate of ten years. When I reached out to him through our sacred bond, he dismissed my panic with sweet lies, even as I watched Lacey and her friends torture our child for sport. The ultimate betrayal came when his mistress, Ivy, flashed the Alpha's Mate card—"my" card, which he had given to her. He arrived only to deny knowing me in front of everyone, a sin that shattered our bond. He called me a trespasser and ordered his warriors to punish me. As they forced me to my knees and beat me with silver, he just stood and watched. But they all underestimated me. They didn't know about the amulet I'd given my daughter, or the ancient power it held. As the final blow landed, I whispered a name into a hidden channel, calling in an oath my family made generations ago. Seconds later, military helicopters swarmed the building, and the High Council Guard stormed the room, bowing to me. "Luna Harper," their commander announced, "The High Council Guard is at your command."

For five years, I was the Alpha's mate, but my husband, Mark, saved all his affection for another woman. At a grand pack gala, our fragile charade came crashing down when a massive crystal chandelier tore from the ceiling, plummeting towards the three of us. In that horrifying second, Mark made his choice. He violently shoved me aside-not to safety, but directly into the path of splintering debris. He used his own body as a shield, but only for Isabella, his mistress. I woke up in the infirmary, my body shattered and my connection to my wolf spirit crippled for life. When he finally visited, it wasn't with remorse. He stood over my bed and performed the ultimate betrayal: the rite of severance, brutally tearing our sacred bond in two. The spiritual agony was so profound it stopped my heart. As the monitor flatlined, the pack doctor burst in, his eyes wide with horror as he looked from my lifeless body to Mark's cold face. "What did you do?" he screamed. "By the Moon Goddess, she's carrying your heir."

My name is Jennifer Smith, and for eight years, I believed I was the luckiest woman alive. I was marrying Ethan, the charismatic musician who' d promised to be my rock, the one who saw past my severe stutter. At our rehearsal dinner, my parents gifted us millions: a trust fund and a historic Beacon Hill brownstone. Then, Ethan' s mother, loud and sharp, mocked my stutter, questioning my ability to speak my own vows. Before I could even react, Ethan, my supposed protector, brazenly addressed my parents. He claimed that due to my "condition," managing such assets would be overwhelming. He suggested all wedding gifts be put under his name, for my own protection and to prevent anxiety that triggered my stutter. My father roared, slamming the table, refusing to make his daughter a business deal. The stress and betrayal were too much; he clutched his chest, gasped, and collapsed onto the floor. My father suffered a heart attack. While he fought for his life in the hospital, Ethan' s mother posted a viral video, painting us as cruel rich people who gave my father a heart attack for refusing to give them money. This malicious lie, going viral as #JusticeForEthan, reached my father's tablet. He saw it, and his heart gave out. In that moment, I knew. They killed him. Grief consumed me, but underneath it, a cold, hard fury solidified. I saw Ethan in the hospital, smirking, already plotting his next move to exploit my father' s death for gain. But he didn't know the game had just fundamentally changed. My father' s funeral would be the beginning of my war.

The sound of shattering glass was the first thing I heard, a familiar prelude to years of belittlement and control in my own home. My husband, Ethan, his voice cold and cutting, threatened to take our children and leave me with nothing, casting me onto the street. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law snickered from the couch, reinforcing the lie that I was worthless, just as they always did. His words, his family's disdain, echoed the desperate, lonely motel room where I would die, twenty years from this very moment, abandoned and full of regret. But this time, as I stood there, watching my life unravel, I felt an icy calm replace the rage, because I knew this was my second chance.

My hands, my father' s legacy, were destined for culinary greatness. I was just days away from the Golden Whisk competition, a scholarship to Le Cordon Bleu within reach, my dream of becoming a master pastry chef about to ignite. And Caleb Scott, the man I loved, my seemingly devoted partner, was supposed to be my biggest supporter. Then, with a sharp click, the heavy industrial mixer door slammed shut, my hand trapped inside. A white-hot explosion of pain, a raw scream. Caleb stood before me, his eyes cold, resolute. "Molly' s father died for me, Gabby. I owe her this." In an instant, he shattered not just my bones, but my future. My career was over before it began. Staring at my mangled hand, then at his impassive face, I couldn' t comprehend this monstrous betrayal. He offered to "take care of me," an insult layered on top of the injury. Molly, his childhood friend, later visited me in the hospital, feigning sympathy, holding the trophy I should have won. His mother then offered me a fortune – a bribe to disappear and erase me from their perfect narrative. I took the money, feeling my spirit crush under the weight of their callousness. How could the man who claimed to love me orchestrate such a cruel, calculated act? What kind of debt repayment costs another person their entire life' s ambition? Why would he so casually destroy everything I worked for, for someone else' s perceived gain? But as I packed the last remnants of my old life, clutching my father' s recipe book, I felt a new flicker within the devastation. This wasn't the end; it was a forced redirection. I would not disappear. I would reclaim my love for baking, on my own terms.

Sarah Miller believed her life was perfectly on track: a thriving career as a marketing associate, a loving fiancé, Mark, and a dream engagement vacation to Napa Valley just days away. But her world abruptly shattered with a discreet email about company restructuring, quickly followed by the brutal news that her position had been eliminated without warning. Then, her fiancé, Mark, dropped an even more devastating bombshell: the company's ruthless CEO, Victoria, was pregnant with his child, and he chillingly admitted he had personally arranged Sarah's layoff, shamelessly calling it "strategic" and "for their shared future." Reeling from this double betrayal, Sarah found herself not just fired, but publicly humiliated by Victoria in her own home, with Mark betraying his true, mercenary nature and choosing his mistress over her. The ultimate insult came when she found the cheating pair flaunting their affair at the very Napa resort meant for her engagement, only for Victoria to then stage a public ambush, falsely accusing Sarah of corporate espionage and pursuing Mark. How could the man she loved so cruelly scheme against her, destroy her career, and then, with twisted logic, claim it all "to protect her," utterly oblivious to her own true, powerful identity as the secret heiress to a multi-billion dollar empire? The bitter irony of his "sacrifices" festered, fueling a quiet rage. But as Victoria prepared for her final, public mockery, she had no idea the "broke nobody" she was attempting to shame was about to unleash a truth bomb that would not only reclaim her stolen dignity but spectacularly dismantle their entire corrupt kingdom.

The rejection letter for Danny' s after-school program landed like a physical blow. I just wanted a safe, affordable spot for my sweet five-year-old. But the reason shocked me: the spot was taken by "another child" of Sergeant First Class Tom Barnes – my husband. Tom admitted it was for Kyle, son of "Gold Star widow" Crystal, claiming he needed to help them for his promotion, casually dismissing Danny's needs. He then offered to take Danny to his duty station, "unofficially," to keep him out of Crystal's hair. Foolishly, I agreed, putting my boy on a Greyhound bus, his little backpack and beloved rocket ship t-shirt packed. Three days later, the call came: Danny was abducted. Tom arrived not with comfort, but screaming blame: "If you hadn't fussed... if you were stronger, this wouldn't have happened." He told me to "move on," then vanished back to Crystal and Kyle, leaving me in a silent, empty house, clutching a single, tattered piece of Danny' s blue t-shirt. The crushing guilt and unbearable emptiness drove me to swallow pills, praying for oblivion. How could the man I loved, the father of my son, so easily destroy our lives and then blame me? Why did I believe his lies, sacrificing my child for his career and his affair? The thought that I might have prevented it, if only I' d known the truth, was a tormenting torture. Then, one morning, I awoke in my own bed, the calendar reading May 15th-Danny' s application day. "Mommy? Are you awake?" That small voice, the sight of Danny, alive and whole, brought tears and a rush of crystal-clear memories. This time, I wouldn't be a victim. My fingers flew to the phone, straight to the Department of Defense Inspector General.

For years, I, Alyssa Peterson, worked tirelessly as a firefighter, striving for the approval of my father, Battalion Chief Michael Peterson, and my brother, Captain Eric Peterson, while constantly eclipsed by my adopted sister, Chloe, their undeniable favorite. Then, during a ferocious wildfire, a critical warning identifying an imminent, life-threatening flare-up was deliberately withheld from my crew by my father and brother, a decision made solely to protect a "distressed" Chloe, who was safely removed from any real danger far from the front lines. My team and I miraculously survived, coughing and scorched, only for my family to coldly dismiss our near-fatal ordeal, prioritizing Chloe’s dramatic performance over our genuine trauma, making it painfully clear they’d sacrifice me and my crew without a second thought. How could the very people sworn to protect, my own family, so cruelly abandon me and my fellow firefighters to near-certain death for the sake of a melodramatic, manipulative girl who had never truly accepted me? Realizing I was and always would be disposable in their eyes, I ripped myself free, moved out, and meticulously filed explosive complaints with Internal Affairs and OSHA, defiantly recording their furious threats to blacklist my career, prepared to burn down their carefully built empire and forge my own path.

My life was a greasy blur: taqueria shifts, a rundown trailer, and a dad who mostly slept or muttered about bad luck. Mom supposedly left with my twin, Kendra, when Dad’s investments went south. That’s what I believed for six long years. Then a rare message from Kendra, cryptic and laced with a link, shattered everything. My fingers fumbled as I tapped it, splitting my phone screen. On one side, my grime-covered existence. On the other: Mom, Dad, and Kendra, laughing in a mansion, beneath a banner blaring: “Double Track Lives: The Texas Sisters' Growth Experiment. Subscribers Only.” My stomach churned. This wasn't just a show; I was the show. I was the “control group,” the struggling poor one, while my family manufactured their wealthy lives from my very real pain. Every tear, every struggle, even the staged debt collectors who demolished my fifty-cent birthday cupcake – all for views. My father, who claimed illness, stole my grandmother’s keepsake and flaunted it on stream, saying it taught me ‘sacrifice.’ The betrayal burned colder than any Texas night. How could they? How could my own family turn my life into a spectacle of poverty, milking my hardship for their luxury? My despair hardened into an icy resolve. They thought they had me scripted for a big family reunion on graduation day. But as I walked off that stage, clutching my MIT acceptance letter, I wasn't walking to them. I was walking away, with a new purpose and a stack of loans taken in my father’s name. This experiment was about to go off-script.

Trapped in the shackles of a lonely marriage. A never ending void of monotony. Charles had her by his side but one thing he didn't have was her heart. Yet, he wasn't bothered. As long as he had her around, he convinced himself that he would one day win her over. Life doesn't always work out though. He never wanted to see his wife's crush come back into her life but it seemed that it was meant to be. Jealousy engulfed him, Charles completely lost all control. Lies, doubt, and desperation gradually filled their marriage. This life was not one to live anymore, she finally divorced him and left. However, her life didn’t reset as she expected. Charles came back and he was a man on a mission.

I went to the City Clerk’s office for a routine copy of my marriage license to finalize a trust fund audit. I expected a simple piece of paper, but the clerk’s pitying look told me my entire life was a lie. "The license was never finalized, Ms. Oliver. In the eyes of the state, you are single." The three-hundred-guest wedding at the Plaza and the Vogue features meant nothing. My husband, Gray Cooley, had intentionally filed the documents with a "procedural defect" so he could discard me without a legal divorce. Moments later, an iCloud invite titled "Our Little Secret" popped up on my screen. It was a photo of my best friend, Brylee, holding a positive pregnancy test at our Hamptons estate. Gray’s text to her was the final blow: "Happy anniversary, babe. This baby is the best gift. Once the trust unlocks today, we’re done with the charade." I soon discovered they were even stealing my career, reassigning my architectural masterpiece to Brylee while preparing my eviction notice. Gray's mother called me a "barren mule" in a leaked recording, mocking the infertility I suffered after saving Gray’s life in a construction accident. I wasn't a wife; I was a three-year placeholder used to secure his inheritance. How could the man I bled for treat me like a disposable prop? How could my best friend carry his child while pretending to comfort me through my darkest moments? The betrayal burned until it turned into a cold, hard stone of fury. I didn't cry. Instead, I walked into the penthouse of the Barretts, the Cooleys' most powerful rivals. I signed a marriage contract with Kane Barrett, the man the tabloids called the "Beast of Wall Street." "I want a wedding," I told his father, my voice steady and lethal. "Bigger than the one I had with Gray." If they wanted me gone, they would have to watch me become the woman who owns their world.

My five-year-old daughter was dying in the ICU, her heartbeat replaced by the continuous, electronic scream of a flatline. I gripped her cold hand, my throat sealed shut by a terror so absolute I couldn't even cry out. I dialed my husband Grayson's private number, the one reserved only for me and his assistants. He declined the call instantly. A second later, a text buzzed against my palm: "In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling." Five miles away, Grayson was at a luxury gala, adjusting his silk tie and laughing with Belle Escobar. He told her I was just being "dramatic" and using our daughter's "fever" as an excuse to avoid the event. He had no idea Effie's heart had already stopped. When I finally reached our penthouse, soaked from the rain and carrying Effie's small socks in a plastic bag, Grayson didn't even look at me. He snapped at me for ruining the hardwood floors and asked if I'd left Effie with the nanny just to "feel sorry for myself." Three days later, while I buried our daughter in a small, lonely ceremony, Grayson was at the Hamptons. Belle posted a photo of him golfing with the caption: "A mental health day with the boys." He didn't even attend the funeral, but he returned home demanding I clear out Effie's room to make a study for Belle's son. The injustice burned through me until there was nothing left. I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, desperate to join my daughter. But instead of the darkness, I woke up to blinding lights and the scent of Grayson's expensive cologne. I was standing in a ballroom, wearing a blue silk dress I had already burned. Above me, a banner read: "Happy 5th Birthday Kaiden & Effie." I was back, exactly one year before the tragedy. This time, I wasn't going to be the grieving wife. I was going to be their worst nightmare.

I spent three years building my husband, Axel Farrell, into Silicon Valley's ultimate "family man." As his lead PR strategist, I carefully managed his public image, making sure the world saw him as a perfect, devoted husband while I worked in the shadows of our estate. The illusion shattered when he came home one night smelling of sandalwood and roses, with three deep fingernail scratches carved into his back. When I tried to check his phone, the passcode we had used for years-our wedding anniversary-had been changed. The betrayal got worse the next morning when his mother called me a "defective product" and tried to force me into a fertility clinic. Axel didn't defend me; instead, he shoved me against a marble bar at a public gala to protect his mistress in front of the world's elite. By the time I tried to leave, Axel had frozen my bank accounts and filed a forged legal petition to have me declared mentally incompetent. He planned to have me legally kidnapped and locked in a private psychiatric ward just to stop me from filing for divorce. He even blocked every major law firm in the city from taking my case, leaving me with no money, no identity, and no one to turn to. I couldn't understand how the man who "saved" me from the mud years ago could be the same monster now trying to legally erase my existence. Was our entire marriage just a grooming process to exploit my genius for his billion-dollar empire? As the deadline for my forced commitment approached, I stopped crying and opened my laptop. I leaked the video of his affair to every tech journalist in the country, watching his stock price crash in real-time. "Axel thinks starving me out will make me crawl back to him," I whispered as I walked into the headquarters of his biggest rival. "But he forgot that the most valuable part of his company is in my head." I was no longer the abandoned wife; I was the one who was going to take his throne and burn it to the ground.

For two years, I was the invisible force behind tech billionaire Kieran Douglas, convinced that our "private" romance was his way of protecting us from the tabloid spotlight. I managed his mergers, warmed his bed, and waited for a future that didn't exist. The illusion shattered at 6:00 AM when a Page Six alert debuted Kieran's "real" romance with socialite Aspen Schneider. Before I could even process the betrayal, Kieran sent me a cold, professional text: "Order flowers for Aspen. Pink peonies. Her favorite." When I tried to walk away, my own mother called me a disgrace and threatened to lock my inheritance forever unless I married a sixty-year-old businessman to save her failing estate. At a high-society gala that same night, Aspen intentionally crushed my burned hand in front of the cameras, while Kieran stood by and dismissed me as a "mediocre assistant" who had overstayed her welcome. I stood in the cold New York rain, drenched in champagne and humiliation, realizing that every sacrifice I made for Kieran was a joke. I was a ghost in a penthouse that was never mine, discarded the moment his "soulmate" returned. To the world, I was just a placeholder whose time had run out. But Kieran forgot one thing: my father's multi-million dollar trust fund unlocks the moment I legally marry. I didn't need love; I needed a signature and a shield. I walked into a discreet law firm and signed a marriage contract with a man I believed was the city's most notorious, scandal-ridden playboy. I thought I was marrying a degenerate "beard" to buy my freedom and secure my revenge. I didn't realize the man who signed that paper wasn't a playboy at all, but Gaston Collins-the most powerful and dangerous man on Wall Street-and he had no intention of letting our fake marriage stay fake.

"Let's get a divorce. She's pregnant and deserves a place in my life." He once promised to protect Claire forever, yet when his first love returned, he cast her aside. For three years, Claire dimmed her brilliance, living quietly as the obedient wife behind him. When he handed her divorce papers to give his pregnant mistress a place, Claire no longer hid her talents. The woman he had overlooked was a legendary healer, racing prodigy, and a genius designer. After the divorce, she reclaimed her glory. When he pleaded, "Honey, let's remarry," another man pulled her close. "She's my wife now. As for you... Someone, take him out and give him what he deserves!"

"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."

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!"

My husband of three years, Arthur Vanderbilt, came home smelling of his mistress's perfume and threw divorce papers on our marble kitchen island. He demanded I sign away all rights to our assets for a five-million-dollar "severance," calling me a leech his family picked up from the suburbs to solve a temporary PR crisis. When I refused and demanded my four percent equity in the Vanderbilt Group, he and his mistress, Serena, launched a vicious smear campaign. They planted false stories on Wall Street forums, accusing me of laundering money for an Eastern European crime syndicate. They tried to force my hand with a check for five hundred million, which I tore up and threw in his face. To them, I was just a trophy wife they could easily discard. They had no idea that the "leech" they so despised was the anonymous investor who had secretly bailed out their entire company three years ago, saving them from bankruptcy. Their final move was to hire an actress to publicly accuse me of fraud in the lobby of the most powerful law firm in Manhattan. They didn't realize I was there to retain the firm's most ruthless lawyer. After security threw them out, I looked my replacement in the eye and made her a promise. "Prepare for an FBI probe into perjury and corporate defamation."

Ashley gave Nicolas ten years of love and five years of loyalty as his perfect housewife, only to be repaid with betrayal, humiliation, and death at the hands of him and his mistress. After being reborn, she vowed to make them pay. She tore apart the mistress, kicked her useless husband aside, and returned as the heiress of a top-tier family. Surrounded by billions, luxury, and a parade of elite bachelors, Ashley became the woman everyone wanted-including a cold, powerful tycoon. When Nicolas came begging for forgiveness, she smiled coldly. "Fuck off! My man is worth a hundred of you."

I stood in the darkest corner of the Pierre Hotel’s ballroom, my cheap polyester dress itching against my skin while my wristband buzzed with a DARPA Priority Red alert. In front of the city’s elite, my fiancé Bryce Calloway took the stage, not to toast our future, but to publicly end our engagement and announce he was with my sister, Chloe. The room turned on me instantly, a hundred pairs of eyes pinning me down with pity and disgust as they physically backed away like I was contagious. When I returned home, my mother shattered a crystal vase at my feet, screaming that I was a humiliation and a "dropout" who didn't deserve a cent of the family fortune. Chloe and Bryce mocked me, laughing when I told them I had a mission with the National Security Agency, convinced I was either a pathological liar or a low-level criminal. They watched in horror as a black, unmarked military helicopter descended on our backyard to extract me, yet they still chose to believe I was being arrested for drug trafficking. They saw a pathetic girl who couldn't even parallel park, never realizing I was Dr. Nova Vance, the lead physicist behind the world's first successful fusion reactor. To secure funding for my research and gain a "fortress" of a name, I signed a thirty-day marriage contract with the arrogant billionaire Roman Knight. He treats me like a fraud, convinced I’m a gold-digger who failed out of college, while I quietly run global energy simulations from his guest bedroom. He has no idea that the "loser" he’s forced to live with is the same anonymous grandmaster who has been ruthlessly crushing him in online strategy games for months. "The contract is active," I told him, looking past his expensive suit. "But don't expect me to be your maid."