Madel Cerda

I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector. That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world. The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor. The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist. Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch—a titan of industry and my best friend’s father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared. "Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb. Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen. "Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back." I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

Four miscarriages had shattered my spirit, but it was my husband Blake' s silence that truly killed me. I was supposed to be his destined partner, the vessel for the twin sons who would secure his family' s real estate empire, all according to his spiritual guru. Then I discovered the truth at a secret celebration. There stood Blake, beaming beside his high school sweetheart, Chyna, who held two newborn sons. "The prophecy is fulfilled!" the guru declared. My world imploded. Blake called me a "placeholder," admitting he' d orchestrated my miscarriages because those weren't the "destined" children. He moved Chyna into our home, gave her sons the names I had chosen for mine, and even destroyed my mother's rose garden, claiming its "negative energy" was making the babies sick. He then forced me into a brutal "purification" ritual that left me scarred and broken, all to "cleanse" the house for his new family. My agony was just an inconvenient part of his twisted plan. I escaped and built a new life, finding love with a kind man and his son. But just as I accepted his proposal, Blake found me, his eyes blazing with obsession. "You're mine, Amelia," he growled. "And you will return with me, or I will make sure you regret it!"

I realized my husband did not love me the moment he stepped over my broken heart to answer a text from his mistress. Caleb was the "Architect," a feared Capo in New York, but he forgot that I was the one who funded his rise from the gutter with my inheritance. He brought his assistant, Kimberly, into our private penthouse. She wore my silk robe, mocked my past trauma, and snapped my dead mother’s rosary right in front of my eyes. When I lashed out in grief, Caleb didn't defend me. He pinned me against the wall, comforting her while calling me "unstable" and "violent." He gaslighted me, claiming I would be eaten alive without his protection. He thought I was just a fragile princess who would crumble without him. He truly believed he was the king, forgetting that I was the one who built the castle. I didn't cry. I simply wiped the blood from my arm and walked out the door. He didn't know that I owned thirty percent of his laundering front and the land beneath his precious casino. I picked up the phone and dialed the number of his deadliest rival, the Irish mob. "The bank is closed, Caleb. I’m selling my shares to the enemy."

I stood in the ballroom with a diamond ring in my pocket, waiting to be crowned King of the empire I had built from the ground up. Instead, the woman I loved walked to the microphone and signed my death warrant with a smile. Serena didn't announce our engagement. She announced that Luca Moretti—an incompetent associate I'd almost fired three times—was the new Underboss and her partner in life. Then, she kissed him. Deep and possessive, right in front of the entire Commission. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. Luca smirked at me, wearing a suit that was too tight, while Serena looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "Dante is the old guard," she told the crowd, dismissing me like a waiter. "We are moving in a new direction." They stripped me of my title. They humiliated me on live television. They thought they had taken my crown. But they forgot one crucial detail. I was the Architect. I had built the encrypted logistics system that kept the FBI in the dark. A system that required my specific biometric code every morning to function. I didn't make a scene. I didn't scream. I simply placed the ring on a waiter's tray and walked out into the night. Forty-eight hours later, the Vitiello empire was in a freefall. The accounts were frozen. The shipments were flagged. My phone buzzed. It was Serena. "Dante," she panicked, her voice trembling. "Fix it. Now." I took a sip of my espresso and smiled at the chaos on the news. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Serena. You fired the only pilot who knows how to fly the plane."

The world came back with a roar, a wall of sound and heat that shook the truck. It was happening again. Trapped in my vehicle, surrounded by a raging wildfire, I looked at Jessica, my wife, and Dylan, her lover. This wasn't my first life, where I just died in the flames. This time, they didn't simply abandon me. As the inferno closed in, Jessica's eyes turned cold, calculating. "Block the hole," she commanded, throwing the fire shelter-the one I'd bought-over Dylan. They shoved me into the gap, turning me into a screaming, human shield. I woke up in a burn unit, every inch of my body ablaze with pain. Yet, they were on national TV, lauded as "Cascade Survivors," my wife's perfectly placed tears painting me as a reckless coward. They came to my hospital bed, not for sympathy, but to threaten divorce, demanding I confirm their lies, all while actively stealing my very last dollars. Scalded, slandered, and stolen from, a cold, pure rage began to burn inside me, finally erasing every last trace of the love I once held for her. They thought I was broken, utterly annihilated. They thought I had nothing left to lose. They were wrong. With bandaged, trembling fingers, I reached for my phone. "My name is Liam Hale," I rasped, "and I need to report a crime. My credit card has been stolen, and I know exactly who did it."

I was putting my signature on the invoice for the Gulfstream G650 when my husband snatched the boarding pass from the folder and handed it to his mistress. "You're taking the commercial flight out of JFK," Jackson said, daring me to challenge him in front of his security detail. "Amber needs the privacy. She gets air sick." I looked down at the crumpled ticket he had slid to me. Economy. Middle seat. Three layovers. Then I looked at the sixty-million-dollar bird I had leased specifically so his crime family wouldn't get slaughtered on the highway by their rivals. "Amber is fragile," he whispered, his breath smelling of the expensive scotch I bought. "She carries the future. You just carry the checkbook." My mother-in-law was already on board, sipping the vintage Dom Pérignon I had curated, refusing to look at me. They treated me like a glorified ATM with a medical degree. They forgot that five years ago, when the Feds froze everything, I was the one who bought their lives with a five-million-dollar tribute. They forgot that the hand that writes the checks can also close the account. As the engines roared to life, leaving me stranded on the tarmac, I didn't cry. Surgeons don't cry over dead bodies. I pulled out my phone and cancelled the Uber he had called for me. I wasn't going to the airport. I was going to the safe to retrieve the "Blood Contract." The five million dollars wasn't a gift. It was a callable loan. And the collateral was everything. I dialed my lawyer. "Burn it to the ground."

My mother was in the hospital after a nasty dog bite, so I called my fiancé, Cohen. He was supposed to be my rock. Instead, I got annoyance. He was in Aspen, on a ski trip with my best friend, Hillary. “What do you want me to do? Fly back right now?” he snapped, before hanging up to get back to the “perfect snow.” The dog, it turned out, was Hillary’s. The bite on my diabetic mother’s leg quickly developed into a raging infection. I texted Cohen an update, telling him she was getting worse, that they were talking about surgery. He didn't call back. Instead, Hillary’s Instagram story updated: a photo of her and Cohen, cheeks flushed from the cold, smiling in front of a fireplace. The caption was a single heart emoji. While they were sipping hot chocolate, my mother went into septic shock. As I sat alone in the grim hospital waiting room, staring at my silent phone, I knew he had already made his choice. He had chosen a vacation. He had chosen my best friend. He had left my mother to die all alone. She passed away at 3:17 AM. I held her hand until it grew cold, then walked out into the gray dawn. I wasn't just grieving. I was done. I was going to erase myself from his world and burn everything to the ground.

"Next." The words called out at city hall, flat and mundane, were supposed to usher me into a new life with Chloe, the woman I' d loved for ten years. Chloe nudged me, impatient. "Mark, that's us. Hurry up." But as the clerk took the marriage application, her voice, initially bored, turned sharp: "Mark Peterson and… Kevin Peterson? Is this correct?" Chloe froze, her perfectly sculpted face contorting in confusion and rage. "What did you say?" The clerk pointed, revealing my brother' s name where hers should have been. "That's two male names. We can't process this." Chloe snatched the application, her eyes scanning, then fixed on me, venomous. "Mark! What is this? Why is your brother's name on here? Where's the real application?" In a flash, a memory surfaced: my past life, on my deathbed at 52, Chloe and Kevin holding hands. They demanded I sign divorce papers, asking not about my pain, but about their "true love" having waited so long. For thirty years, they had used me, behind my back, living off my money. The woman I would have died for, in another life, nearly made me. But this wasn't that life. This was my second chance. "There is no other application," I stated, my voice steady, pulling out a blank form. "You and Kevin can fill this one out. I'm sure he'll be happy to sign it." Confusion, then chilling anger warred on her face. Her perfectly crafted world was crumbling, and she had no idea why. She didn't know the story of the man she had betrayed, not really. I walked away from her, not looking back, the marriage application to my brother a stark symbol of her true place in my life-and his. This time, I' d choose my own path.

The clear blue water shimmered, and beneath me, my seven-year-old daughter, Lily, swam like a tiny mermaid. It was in these quiet underwater moments that I, Ava, felt closest to her, the wall between us finally seeming to dissolve. Then, her small fingers, meant to grasp my hand, wrapped around the hose of my regulator. She pulled. The mouthpiece was ripped from my mouth. My vision blurred as I choked, a terrifying gush of bubbles replacing my smile, my lungs screaming for air. What struck me most, though, wasn't the panic, but the cold, deliberate focus in her eyes as she swam away, leaving me to drown. Back on the boat, shivering and gasping, I watched my husband, Jake, arrive. He didn't come to me, still wrapped in a scratchy towel and dripping saltwater. He went straight to Lily, holding her tight, asking, "Are you okay, princess? Did she scare you?" His eyes, chips of ice, finally landed on me. "What did you do?" he demanded, his voice low and menacing. Lily, buried in his shoulder, sobbed, "No, I didn't! Mommy got angry and took her own mask off! She scared me!" My head snapped up. The lie was so quick, so easy, so utterly believable to him. His shadow fell over me, and he hissed, "You can't even take care of our daughter for one afternoon without some kind of drama. Are you that desperate for attention?" He didn't believe me, not for a second. He just sneered, "She's seven, Ava. What possible reason would she have to do something like that?" The cold of the deep water was nothing compared to the chill settling in my bones. I was utterly alone. That night, Jake revealed the bitter truth: I was never Lily' s mother, just a "vessel" for Olivia' s child. The marriage, the contract, the baby-it was all a calculated trap. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?" he snarled, grabbing my chin, "You've upset Lily. Badly." Then came Lily's seventh birthday party, where she subtly cut my dress strap, exposing my C-section scar to everyone. As I stood humiliated, she beamed, "Ew, look! Look at her ugly scar! It's so gross! I'm going to be sick!" The realization hit me: this wasn't a childish prank. It was calculated. My heart, already shattered, felt like it was being ground into dust. All I had endured crystallized. I picked up the small scissors she'd used. "You wanted to cut something, Lily?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Before anyone could react, I plunged them into the magnificent birthday cake, stabbing again and again, destroying the perfect castle. "There," I said, dropping the scissors. "Happy birthday." I walked out of the ballroom, leaving the stunned silence, the screaming child, and the ruins of a life I was finally ready to abandon. My phone rang; it was Olivia' s mother. "You can't leave! Think of your duty!" she shrieked. "That poor child just deliberately humiliated me," I replied, then Lily's voice came on, "I hate you! I wish you would die like my real mommy did!" Suddenly, it all clicked: they had used me. I was a placeholder, a prop. A bitter laugh escaped me. "You can have the ring. You can have the house. You can have the clothes. You can have the whole damn life. I don't want it." I pulled the SIM card from my phone, letting it fall into the bushes. As I reached the front door with my single small suitcase, Jake blocked my path. "I've already figured it out," he announced, "We'll send Lily to Switzerland. Then you can come back, and we can go back to normal." I looked at him, at Sarah clutching his arm, at Lily cheering, "Is Sarah going to be my new mommy now? You have to leave with nothing. That's what happens to bad people." They wanted to strip me of everything. And in that moment, it was exactly what I needed. "Okay," I said, a real smile on my face. I let go of my suitcase, leaving it on the marble floor. "Okay, Lily. I'll leave with nothing." I turned my back on them all and walked toward the open door, a wave of intoxicating freedom washing over me. Just then, a piercing scream from inside shattered the quiet. Lily. A decorative candle had fallen on a velvet curtain; flames were already licking their way up, and Lily stood frozen in terror. My body moved before my brain could process-she was a child, in danger. I ran back inside. I grabbed Lily, turning my back to shield her, just as a burning curtain rod crashed down on me. The pain was searing, but I held her tight, pushing her into Jake' s arms. "Get her out!" I choked, tasting blood. He grabbed Lily, his face pale, but then he looked at me, covered in soot, my hair singed. "Ava! What did you do now?" he roared. That was it. The last piece of my old life turned to ash. I had just saved his daughter, and he was screaming at me. An incredible lightness filled my chest. I felt profound pity for them, trapped in their beautiful, burning prison. "Seven years," I whispered, "It was only seven years. I can afford to lose that." I turned away from the sirens, from his accusing face, and started walking down the long, winding driveway. No shoes, torn clothes, my back screaming, gravel digging into my bare feet. But I didn't care. The pain was real, it was mine, and I felt alive. I walked on, into the darkness, not looking back.

For six years, I poured my soul into supporting Ethan, transforming blueprints for my own dreams into the foundation of his. Then he came home, reeking of another woman' s perfume, and my perfect future shattered. He mocked my paranoia, shoved me to the floor, and I lost our baby-a secret hope only I knew. But the real gut punch? Seeing that other woman, Tiffany, wearing my locket, the symbol of our eternal devotion, given to her by my husband. He later used my deadly seafood allergy against me, watching, with disdain, as I convulsed on the kitchen floor. Why was he doing this? Why was he so hell-bent on erasing me? Lying in that hospital bed, Sarah, my kind nurse, whispered a plan, a way out-my grandmother's secret safe deposit box, a new identity, and a whispered promise of escape. My real fight for survival had just begun.

For ten years, Andrew Scott – Drew – was my world. He was my protector, my father' s best friend, who' d raised me after my world shattered. My adoration for him, though, morphed into a love he brutally rejected, sending me away like a problem to be solved. To prove I was more than his ward, I volunteered for a deep-cover CIA mission, ultimately dying for my country. But death wasn't the end. I returned, a spirit, granted seven days to find peace. My only attachment was Drew, and I materialized in his Georgetown home. What I witnessed shattered me. Drew, the man I' d died for, was engaged to Molly, dismissing me as a mere "asset" and accusing me of desertion when I flickeringly appeared. Molly, his fiancée, wasn' t just unconcerned; she actively, sadistically tormented me, savoring my pain as I floated, unseen, through my childhood home. He didn' t see me. He never really had. I was a liability, a game, a ghost of memory. How could the man who raised me, who promised to keep me safe, refuse to see the truth even when I stood before him, the very woman he' d sent to her death? On my last day, my funeral arrived. My casket, draped in a flag, confirmed the unspeakable. And then, I watched as the man I loved finally broke, realizing, too late, the terrible truth of who I was, and what he had lost.

The captain' s voice sliced through the cabin' s quiet hum, a familiar prelude to disaster. My husband, Alex, was at the controls, announcing an abrupt diversion from Los Angeles to New York. His reason? A 'medical emergency' for his dearest friend, Brittany, compelling us to land in Denver. My blood ran cold; this wasn't just déjà vu, it was my nightmare from a past life replaying, detail for excruciating detail. Last time, Alex' s toxic obsession with Brittany hijacked this very flight, making a cross-country journey hostage to his personal drama. He callously ignored a genuine onboard emergency-a stroke suffered by actor Julian Knight-despite my desperate pleas as a paramedic to land immediately. Alex' s reckless refusal led to Brittany' s 'emergency' being exposed as a self-inflicted sham, yet he still twisted everything. He systematically demolished my career and reputation, blaming me for every consequence and shamelessly claiming credit for the life-saving work I' d done. And when he was finally done breaking me, he staged a car accident, murdering me. I still felt the metallic crunch, the searing pain, followed by consuming darkness. Yet here I was, resurrected, seated on this precise flight, hearing his voice again. The chilling echo of 'Denver. Brittany.' consumed my thoughts, a stark reminder that I was reliving my end. But not this time. There would be no begging, no pleading, no quiet acceptance of victimhood. Alex Carter was about to meet an Evie Hayes he didn't kill, an Evie Hayes ready to fight.

My life in Boston, married to the man I adored, Liam, and embraced by my incredible mother-in-law Eleanor, was a dream. Sheltered by Eleanor' s modern wit from the stuffy Davenport family' s expectations, I felt truly happy and secure. Then came Eleanor' s frantic call. Her voice, shaking, shattered my illusion of perfection: Arthur, the family patriarch, had moved another woman into our guesthouse. My stomach clenched as I confessed Liam had also grown distant, constantly working late with a new "business associate" set up in a corporate apartment. The ultimate public dismissal arrived when our husbands brazenly excluded us from the annual family gala. Eleanor' s swift investigation uncovered the brutal truth: Liam was openly escorting his "associate," Agent Walker, who the firm treated with alarming familiarity. It became horrifyingly clear-we were being discarded, replaced like outdated accessories. The betrayal felt like a gut punch, a painful echo of the quiet suffering endured by generations of women in our families. How could the men who pledged to love and protect us abandon us so cruelly? The pain was unbearable, the humiliation profound. But Eleanor, a sharp former tech CEO, refused to be a victim. Her eyes blazing with a fierce resolve, she declared, "If they want new lives, we'll start ours. A better one." Our audacious plan: fake our deaths during the gala, disappear without a trace, and reclaim our freedom. A plan that, amidst its desperate chaos, led to a shocking discovery: we were both pregnant with their children.

My life was the American dream: Alex Sterling, a tech CEO with a penthouse, a beautiful wife, and a billion-dollar company. Then came the Aspen ski accident, changing everything. Confined to a wheelchair, "recovering," my perfect wife Jessica and my best friend Marcus took over my life and my company. But beneath their overly solicitous smiles and condescending coos, I saw the truth-the lipstick smudge on his collar, the furtive glances, the subtle touches. My wife and my best friend were having an affair, plotting to steal everything I' d built. They paraded doctors, pushed papers for me to sign, openly humiliated me, calling me a "cripple," "pathetic," believing me utterly broken and powerless. Jessica purred about romantic chalets while forcing me to sign away what they believed were my company's controlling shares. Marcus, my supposed brother-in-arms, even kicked my wheelchair, his eyes gleaming with years of festering resentment, reveling in my apparent downfall. Even my fiercely loyal head of security seemed to turn on me, joining their "winning team." The betrayal, the public mockery, the slow dismantling of my life-it was a torment I wouldn' t wish on my worst enemy. Why would I endure this unbearable humiliation? Why let them strip me bare, sign away my company, my marriage, my very dignity, believing I was blissfully unaware? They thought they had won, that I was a broken man about to be discarded. But what if the accident was no accident? What if I knew every single step of their treacherous plan, even before they took it? Because when I put my name to those papers, the game wasn't over for me; it had truly just begun for them.

I was living the American dream with Sarah. A small house, a steady job at the garage, and a wedding on the horizon. Life in our Montana town was simple, predictable – until Billy Rivers walked in. One afternoon, I came home early with a bouquet of wildflowers, only to find Sarah on the couch, wrapped around a shirtless Billy. She claimed he was just upset, that she was comforting him, but the way he looked at her... it was more than just a friendly hug. Then Sarah dropped the bomb: Billy was the EMT who saved her life after a logging truck nearly killed her. He donated blood directly, becoming her "hero," her "lifesaver." Now, he was down on his luck, and she insisted he move in with us. My gut screamed, but Sarah accused me of being jealous and heartless. Soon, the town turned against me, whispering about my "dark moods" and "controlling" behavior. Billy, the golden boy, played the victim card perfectly, while Sarah remained blind to his lies. Was I losing my mind, or was everyone else? Everything exploded when Billy claimed I pushed him down a flight of stairs. I was arrested, my reputation ruined, and Sarah got a restraining order against me. My life had completely shattered. But that's when I decided, enough is enough. I was going to prove my innocence, and expose Billy for the fraud he truly was, even if it meant losing everything – including Sarah.

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.

I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector. That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world. The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor. The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist. Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch—a titan of industry and my best friend’s father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared. "Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb. Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen. "Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back." I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

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.

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.

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 rain assaulted the glass, mirroring the storm inside me. For three years, I, Vivian Sterling, played the perfect wife to Julian Kensington, draining my life. The antique clock ticked, a reminder of time lost. Then, I found it: a blonde hair on Julian's suit, reeking of Midnight Rose, and a text, ""Candy: You left your cufflinks on my nightstand. I'm already missing you."" My world shattered, revealing his betrayal. This was just the beginning. I exposed Julian's fraud and his family's violent plots, surviving assassination. But their malice stole my past. Then Alexander Vance, my protector, uncovered a terrifying truth: my birth mother was alive, held captive by a shadowy order. My life was a lie, built to shield me from my dangerous bloodline. I found strength and love with Alexander, the man who walked into fire for me. Yet, as I prepared to rescue my mother, a new life stirred within me, a secret threatening to complicate the impending war.