MAINUMBY

The first sign I was going to die wasn't the blizzard. It wasn't the bone-deep cold. It was the look in my fiancé's eyes when he told me he had given my life's work-our only guarantee of survival-to another woman. "Kelsi was freezing," he said, as if I were being unreasonable. "You're the expert, you can handle it." He then took my satellite phone, shoved me into a hastily dug snow pit, and left me to die. His new girlfriend, Kelsi, appeared, wrapped snugly in my shimmering smart blanket. She smiled as she used my own ice axe to slash my suit, my last layer of protection against the storm. "Stop being so dramatic," he told me, his voice full of contempt as I lay there freezing to death. They thought they had taken everything. They thought they had won. But they didn't know about the secret emergency beacon I had stitched into my sleeve. And with my last ounce of strength, I activated it.

I gave up a prestigious scholarship to Zurich to become the architect of the Obsidian Pack, believing Alpha Emilio was my Fated Mate. I spent four years building his walls, his training grounds, and his legacy, waiting for the Mark that never came. On the night I planned to tell him I was pregnant with his heir, he stood on the dais and publicly gave my custom-designed Luna bracelet to his mistress's son. Desperate and heartbroken, I stepped forward to reveal the truth about our baby. Emilio didn't offer comfort. Instead, he used the Alpha Command. "Sit down, Elana." The force of his voice was a physical blow. It threw me off the stage and slammed me onto the stone floor. The impact didn't just break my body; it severed the life of our unborn pup. As I lay bleeding out, Emilio didn't look at me with regret. He shielded his mistress, Hayden, from the sight of my pain. "Get her out of here," he told the guards coldly. "If she dies as a Rogue in the woods, it’s just nature." He thought he was discarding a broken tool. He thought I would die in the river. He didn't know that I would wash up on the shores of the Silver Alps. He didn't know that their Alpha, the most powerful wolf in Europe, had been admiring my designs—and me—from afar for years. Three months later, I returned to the Obsidian Pack. I didn't come back to build his walls. I came back to tear them down.

The night my high school sweetheart was supposed to propose, a future version of him appeared and ordered him to choose another girl. He claimed our love would bring ruin. And Joshua, the boy who promised me forever, believed him. He began choosing her over me, again and again. He chose her fake panic attacks over my real terror, hanging up on me as I begged for help while being cornered in a dark alley. He left me there, alone and defenseless. The final betrayal came when he agreed to let thugs give me a "warning" to stay away. While he was at the hospital comforting her, I was being brutally beaten in a locked room, my bones broken on his command. The boy I loved, my protector since childhood, had let them destroy me. I sent him the photos of my battered body with a final message: "We're done." Then I booked a one-way flight to another country and vanished, erasing every trace of the girl he once knew.

The phone call came on the hottest day of the year. My son, Leo, was locked in a scorching car by my husband' s stepsister, Casey, while my husband, Coleman, stood by, more concerned about his vintage Mustang than our barely conscious child. When I shattered the window to save Leo, Coleman forced me to apologize to Casey, recording my humiliation for public display. I soon discovered his chilling secret: he married me only to make Casey jealous, seeing me as nothing more than a tool in his twisted game. Heartbroken, I filed for divorce, but their torment escalated. They stole my company, kidnapped Leo, and even orchestrated a venomous snake bite, leaving me for dead. Why did they hate me so much? What kind of man would use his own son as a pawn, and his wife as a weapon, in such a cruel charade? But their cruelty ignited a cold fury within me. I would not break. I would fight back, and I would make them pay.

For years, I secretly bankrolled my father's extravagant lifestyle. I was the silent founder of King Ventures, the source of his immense wealth, but I preferred to live in the shadows. But at the opening of a gallery I owned, his fiancée, Kesha, publicly accused me of being a gold-digger trying to crash the party. She had me brutally beaten by guards and locked in a dark storage room. I called my father for help, but my calls went straight to voicemail. He was at the event, living off my generosity, and he chose to ignore me. He sided with her, later telling her I was a "deranged stalker" and that he had no daughter. He had chosen his new life over his own blood. The man whose entire world I had built, whose reputation I had protected, had just thrown me to the wolves. The love I had for him shattered into a million pieces. Standing bruised and bloodied in the penthouse I paid for, I interrupted his party and made a single call in front of everyone. "Initiate Project Phoenix. Seize all assets. Leave him with nothing."

My husband of three years, tech mogul Harrison Lang, has severe face blindness. So I became a brand, not a wife, wearing only blue and Chanel No. 5 so he could recognize me. But at a party in Cannes, I watched him walk through a crowd of hundreds and embrace his mistress, Kassie, with a look of pure joy. He saw her instantly. Later that night, I was mistakenly arrested. I screamed his name for help. He looked right at me and told the police, "I don't know her." He left me to rot in a French jail cell, claiming he didn't recognize me without my "uniform." But how could he see her in a gold dress, yet not his own wife being dragged away? It wasn't his illness; it was his heart. It had learned her face, but never bothered with mine. Now, years later, he' s had me arrested again at my own art show. But as the cuffs click shut, an old fire captain steps forward. "I was at the wildfire that caused his condition," he tells the police, looking at Harrison. "And I know the girl who saved his life." Then, he points directly at me-at the star-shaped scar on my wrist.

It was supposed to be my vow renewal, a key PR event for my husband Angel's mayoral campaign. But when I woke up from a drug-induced haze, I found him at the altar with his mistress. She was wearing my wedding dress. I watched from a hidden balcony as he slid the ring he’d given me onto her finger in front of the entire city's elite. When I confronted him, he told me his mistress was pregnant and that he’d drugged me because she was “unwell” and needed the ceremony. He called me a useless housewife, then laughed and suggested we could raise his and Faith's baby together. Seven years of my life, my strategies, and my sacrifices had built his empire, and he tried to erase me with a single glass of champagne. But when I met him at the courthouse to finalize our divorce, he showed up feigning amnesia from a car accident, crying and begging me not to leave him on our “wedding day.” He wanted to play games. I decided to write the rules.

My brother, Kevin, just got the bizarre diagnosis. He had a fully functional uterus. I, a bio-ethicist, saw it as a severe medical condition, but Kevin, fueled by delusion, declared himself the "next step in human evolution." My mother, Eleanor, encouraged his madness, seeing it as a shortcut to our family's inheritance. When I tried to intervene, to warn them of the dangers, Kevin sneered, "You' re just jealous. You' re a woman, so you can' t stand that a man can do your one job better than you. You' re obsolete." My mother agreed, validating his cruel words. I pushed back, trying to get the hospital's ethics committee involved, arguing Kevin wasn't psychologically fit. They found out. I walked into our family home that rainy night, and Kevin, encouraged by my mother, attacked me with a heavy glass trophy. The last thing I saw was the trophy swinging down towards my face. Then, darkness. And then… light. I gasped, jolting awake in my own bed, my body whole. My phone buzzed. The date confirmed it: three years before my murder. Three years before Kevin's "miracle." A slow, cold smile spread across my face. They had killed me once for being an inconvenience. This time, I would be the architect of their destruction.

The air in the bank was cold, a stark contrast to the warm spring day outside. I shifted, the familiar ache in my leg a dull reminder of my past, as the teller tapped at her keyboard. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hayes," she said, "I can't seem to find a joint account under that name for you." I frowned, "That's not possible. It's a joint savings, with my wife, Sarah Hayes. We've had it for years." "I see a Sarah Hayes," the teller replied slowly, "but the account lists her as Sarah Miller. And you are not listed as a signatory." Miller. The name hit me like a physical blow. My former commanding officer. The man whose orders had sent my team into an ambush, ending my career and leaving me with a leg full of metal. My world tilted as I stumbled out of the bank, clutching a phone that shook in my hand. Then, I heard her voice, bright and cheerful. "Liam! Honey, is everything okay?" "I heard your voicemail, Sarah." My voice was eerily flat. Silence. Then, a choked sound. "Liam... I can explain..." "No," I cut her off. "There's nothing to explain. I just called to say... congratulations." I hung up, the emptiness inside me starting to fill with a purpose I hadn't felt since I wore the uniform. They thought I was a broken man, a harmless relic. They were about to find out how wrong they were.

My sister, Molly, and I stood on the choosing day, a second chance after our parents died and we were thrown into a strange Appalachian community. I' d lived this before; Molly, consumed by envy, had murdered my ten Beta children and then pushed me off a cliff. But now, I was back, the phantom pain a cruel reminder, only to see her clinging to the arm of Ryan Fowler-the man who had made me a matriarch in my first life. Molly' s eyes gleamed with triumphant recognition; she remembered too, thinking she' d stolen my destiny. Her twisted game escalated when, before I could even make my choice, she orchestrated a public accusation against me. She framed me for adultery, twisting a secret from her own past into a brutal lie that ended with my fur torn from my skin. Disgraced and denounced as a "slut," I was banished to the unforgiving wilderness, sent to what everyone believed would be my death. The wolf-kin, once a powerful choice, turned his back, leaving me to face a world filled with feral, exiled kin far more dangerous than any political rival. How could my own sister, reborn with me, be so intent on my utter destruction? Why did she not learn from her own miserable fate in our last life? Did she truly believe her wicked schemes would bring her power, even at the cost of my very life? Cast out, alone, and heartbroken, I still carried the chilling secret of Ryan' s true nature and the curse Molly had unwittingly invited into her life. But this time, I wouldn' t just survive; I would make sure she regretted every single move she' d ever made against me.

My wedding rehearsal dinner was supposed to be the perfect start to my future with Ethan. But then, a text from my sister Chloe, "Surprise! Got an earlier flight!" and just like that, my entire family, including my fiancé, walked out on me. They left me alone, humiliated, to pay for the abandoned dinner. It worsened. That night, despite my shellfish allergy, I was forced to cook Chloe her favorite risotto, my hands blistering, while they celebrated her. Then, when Chloe had a severe allergic reaction to nuts I' d unintentionally left out, my mother slapped me accusingly. My own family, and Ethan, branded me a jealous monster, willing to harm my sister. But the final blow came when I overheard them. My marriage to Ethan? Just a "strategic move" to keep him, Chloe' s long-time crush, trapped in our family' s orbit. I was bait. My entire life, a calculated chess move. The love I craved, the respect I yearned for, was a lie. That night, something inside me broke, and then rebuilt. I quietly submitted my application for a federal clerkship in D.C. Then, I packed my bag, left a life of lies, and never looked back.

I had my life meticulously planned: top grades, intense training, a clear path to the U.S. Service Academy. My future was a beacon, a reward for years of unwavering dedication. But then came the devastating twist: Mark, my childhood best friend, and his conniving girlfriend, Tiffany, decided my ambition was a threat to their own twisted narrative. They systematically sabotaged my critical fitness test and derailed my SATs, watching my dreams shatter with chilling indifference. My carefully constructed world collapsed in an instant. I was plunged into years of soul-crushing dead-end jobs, a life of grinding poverty, and the bitter taste of shattered potential. The final, brutal act of their cruelty came during a chance reunion: cold fury from Tiffany, an almost apologetic glance from Mark, then the hired thugs, the balcony, and the irreversible fall. I lay dying, haunted by the crushing weight of their malice. How could the people I once trusted engineer such a complete and utter destruction of a life? The raw injustice burned hotter than any pain, leaving me with a desperate, unanswered question: Why them, why me? But instead of oblivion, I was hurled back. The familiar scent of lavender, the drone of a lawnmower, the calendar screaming August 10th. Three months before my future was stolen. Seventeen again, with the searing clarity of what was to come. And then I saw them. Mark' s cold, assessing eyes told me he knew. This wasn't a do-over; it was war.

My father, a respected ethics professor, looked peaceful in the mortuary. But then, a chilling detail: a fresh, surgical scar beneath his collar. They said car accident, but his heart was gone. The truth shattered me: his heart, transplanted. To my best friend, Chloe, who was pregnant. And the consent signed by Ethan, my fiancé. When I confronted him, Ethan just shrugged, called it "practical." He even suggested my father's death was a "fortunate coincidence," and I should just get over it. He had the audacity to propose I become the baby's nanny. Then he locked me in a dark room, calling me "hysterical." My father' s heart, stolen and beating in my best friend' s chest. Carrying my fiancé' s child, conceived in betrayal. The cold I felt in the mortuary was nothing compared to the ice forming around my own heart. Did they really think I would accept this, quietly become their hired help? They had awakened something buried deep. My "normal" life was over. I escaped, found a burner phone, and dialed a number I swore I' d never call again. "Marc," I whispered, "I need your help." My past was about to become their nightmare.

Maria Rodriguez, a Marine widow, lived a quiet life, scrubbing floors to support her artistic teenage daughter, Sofia. Every penny, every sacrifice, was for Sofia. But in a town run by the wealthy, Sofia's very existence was a target, constantly shadowed by Maria's quiet fear. Then the phone call came from Mercy Hospital, tearing Maria's world apart. Sofia had been brutally beaten, her face a pulped mask, bandages covering half her small body. Through choked sobs, Sofia whispered the name that confirmed Maria's deepest dread: "Chad Henderson." Chad's father, Mr. Henderson—the man who "owned this town" with his private security force—showed up at the hospital, not with apologies, but with a sneer and a check, trying to buy Maria's silence. He dismissed Sofia's assault as "boys will be boys," his cronies, including the town's police chief, enabling him. Sofia, terrified, begged Maria to "just let it go." But it was too late. Sofia died days later, her vibrant spirit extinguished. The world tried to erase Sofia's murder. The police called it an "accident," Henderson's lawyer offered more blood money, even suggesting "other children." Maria's pleas for justice were met with shrugs, scorn, and terrifying intimidation by Henderson's goons. Miguel, her hero Marine, had died for his country, yet his widow and daughter were denied the most basic justice in their own backyard. The silence was deafening, the injustice infuriating. But as Maria clutched Miguel's Navy Cross and Sofia's innocent photo, a desperate, terrifying resolve hardened within her. Memorial Day was next week, a public event where Henderson would undoubtedly be polishing his image. This time, Maria wouldn't just clean floors. She would expose the truth, even if it meant shattering her last fragile peace.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered. Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak. She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her. Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears. Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home."

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."

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.