Mei Piaoxiang

I was eight months pregnant with triplets, waiting for my husband in his private office. Instead, his "childhood friend" Jaida walked in and threw divorce papers at my pregnant belly. "He doesn't need you anymore. I'm the one who gave him a kidney five years ago, and now he's giving me his family." But I was the one who secretly gave him my kidney. Before I could expose her lie, she pushed me hard against a glass table. I went into premature labor. In the blood-soaked operating room, I heard Jaida give a cold order to the corrupt doctor. "Secure the heirs, whatever the cost to the incubator." They told me my two sons died, leaving only my frail daughter. I barely escaped the burning hospital with her, faking our deaths to survive. Four years later, I took my daughter to a top cardiologist for her rare heart defect, only to run into my ex-husband and Jaida. They had a four-year-old son with them. His name was Jacob—the exact name I had chosen for my "dead" baby. What completely shattered my world was the doctor's secret revelation: their son and my daughter shared an impossible, one-in-ten-million genetic mutation. My sons didn't die in that operating room. Jaida had stolen my baby and my life. I immediately ordered a secret DNA test. This time, I wouldn't just run; I would make them pay for everything they took from me.

I stood before the heavy oak door with a positive pregnancy test burning a hole in my pocket, ready to tell the Underboss, Anthony Holden, that his legacy was secured. But before I could turn the handle, I heard his twin brother laughing from inside. "She screams your name, not mine. It is a little insulting, brother," Emmanuel mocked. "Three years of celibacy for the alliance while you play with my toy," Anthony sighed. "I deserve a medal." My world shattered. For three years, I thought I was the exception to their violence, but I had been sleeping with a monster in the dark. When I kicked the door open, Bianca House—my high school tormentor—was sitting there like a queen. "Happy anniversary, Erica," she sneered. "You were just a placeholder for the territory deal." They didn't stop there. They took my dignity, and then they took my life. At a dinner intended to show unity, they watched me choke on peanuts. Anthony looked me in the eye and used my EpiPen on Bianca’s fake faint while I suffocated on the floor. They threw my grandmother’s ashes off a balcony just to watch me scream. They pushed me into traffic to ensure I’d be a compliant prop for their wedding. They killed the baby in my womb. They thought they had broken me. They thought I was just a nurse, a civilian, a loose end. But on the day of the wedding, I wasn't in the pews. I was on a bus out of state, hacking the church's livestream. As the priest began to speak, I replaced the image of the cross with the video of their confession. I watched their empire crumble from a cracked phone screen, leaving the monsters behind to find a man who would actually burn the world for me.

The text message from Mark, "Trip extended. Don' t wait up. Love you," was the first crack in the facade of my four-year marriage, a hollow echo of affection on our anniversary. Then, discovering him with his assistant, Olivia Stone, in his office, their intimacy a brutal slap, confirmed my deepest fears. But his words cut deeper than the sight: "Ever since she got pregnant, she' s become… unbearable. Clingy. Emotional. It' s not the woman I married." In that instant, a searing pain shot through my abdomen, and a choked gasp escaped me, a prelude to the nightmare that followed. He pushed me down the stairs. My body hit the cold steps over and over. I lay in a heap, bleeding, losing our baby. Yet, he rushed past me to comfort Olivia, asking, "Are you okay? Did she scare you?" He chose her, leaving me broken and bleeding on the floor. At the hospital, he confirmed the devastating loss and then blamed me, twisting reality. As if summoned, Olivia appeared, feigning sorrow, while he comforted her, bringing her to my room where our child's life had just ended. He pushed me back onto the bed, furious at my screams, and then escorted her out, murmuring soothing words, leaving me utterly alone with the ghost of our child. His cruelty knew no bounds. He threw my beloved dog, Buddy, out into a raging storm, then forced me to apologize to Olivia for upsetting HER, threatening Buddy's life if I refused. I knelt, humiliating myself, whispering apologies I didn't mean, all for Buddy. How could he be so monstrous? He remembered nothing of the man I loved, only this cruel stranger. Yet, the question of what he truly remembered, what he was capable of, hung heavy in the air. That night, alone after my performative apology, I called my lawyer. My decision was solid, unchangeable. The marriage was a festering wound, and the only way to survive was to cut it out completely.

My team lead looked at my termination letter, unable to meet my eyes. He said it came from the top, nothing he could do. I was the scapegoat for a supposed error, fired from the company because Chloe Davis, Nathan Hayes' s high school sweetheart and co-founder, was back. Suddenly, I saw Nathan get out of his car, holding the door for Chloe with a tenderness he hadn't shown me in ages. Our eyes met, a flicker of something in his expression before it was gone, and he walked right past me without a word, leaving a sharp pain in my chest. I hailed a cab and went to his penthouse, the place I called home, for now. I cooked his favorite meal, sent him a picture, and waited, but he never replied. Days passed. Nathan didn't contact me. I'd been to the hospital three times, my doctor pressing for treatment options, but I kept them hidden. He finally came home, his tension easing when I told him I just had a cold. He pulled my hand to his face, a familiar, intimate gesture, reminding me how easily I mistook habit for affection. After a night of desperate passion, he whispered, "Ava, you're not mad I fired you, are you?" I wasn't. Three years ago, he paid off my mother's gambling debts, turning me into his "kept woman." I was dutiful, obedient, supportive, asking for nothing. He called me his "beautiful bird in a golden cage," the one who could never leave him. Then, Chloe's best friend, Brenda Smith, confronted me, throwing my desperate texts to Nathan in my face. "You're a pathetic homewrecker," she sneered, slapping me hard across the cheek. I ended up in the hospital with a concussion. Nathan came back, but his main concern was Chloe's reputation. "Ava, Chloe is different from you to me," he said, touching my bruised cheek. "Just be good, okay?" The pain was suffocating. I didn't understand how he could be so cruelly indifferent. I closed my eyes, and a single tear escaped. He didn't wipe it away. Our three years together meant nothing. It was all a ghost compared to his "white knight." "Let's break up, Nathan." His jaw tightened. "Ava, break up? Haven't you forgotten our agreement? Unless one of us dies, I am the one who decides when we part ways." I finally understood. To be free, I had to die for him to let me go.

The blinding white of the hospital ceiling. My ears registered the monotonous beep of a machine, my body a dull ache radiating from my chest, but my mind was replaying a lifetime. A lifetime I didn't swerve, didn't fight, a life where I gave everything for her, for Sarah Miller. I saw myself hollowed out, unfulfilled, alone, a footnote in her brilliant biography, my own child a ghost. Then the blinding clarity: this wasn't just a brush with death, it was a preview of the life I was about to lose myself in. My gaze drifted-Sarah, impeccable as always, on her phone, brow furrowed. And next to her, Alex, murmuring, his hand on her arm, a gesture far too familiar. They were a perfect, closed circuit. I was the outsider. A cold certainty settled in my chest, more real than the pain from my injuries: I would not let that life happen. My hands trembled, not from weakness, but from a newfound resolve. I called my boss. "Mike! I heard about the accident. Are you okay? Do you need anything?" "I'm okay, Mark," I said, my voice raspy. "But I'm calling to resign." "Resign? Mike, what are you talking about? You're our top young talent. We were just about to put you on the downtown high-rise project." "I don't want the high-rise," I said, with surprising strength. "I want the sustainable community project. The one in Oak Creek. I know it's a pay cut. I know it's in the middle of nowhere. I'll take it. I need to do it." A weight I hadn't realized I was carrying lifted from my shoulders. It felt incredible. This was my second chance. My life wasn't going to be a footnote in Sarah Miller's biography. It was going to be my own story. Starting now.

My record label was a empire, built on grit and an uncanny ear for talent. But that morning, standing in my sanctuary, Studio A, the controlled chaos I expected was replaced by a scene that froze my blood: a girl I didn't know, holding "The Nightingale," Liam's one-of-a-kind microphone. It wasn't just any mic. It was our mic, a silver emblem of our shared career, engraved with "E+L"-a symbol of a sacred promise he made years ago, that only his voice would ever touch it. And this girl, Ava, with her sickly sweet smile, was singing into it, her cheap perfume clinging to the pop filter, her fingers wrapped right over our initials. My sound engineer paled and cut the audio. "Hi, Ms. Reed. I'm Ava. Liam said I could warm up with this one." Her voice was pure saccharine. Liam, the man of principles, who preached loyalty and integrity, had let her use it, had broken his promise for her. He walked in later, carefree, carrying coffees, asking, "Where's Ava?" as if it were nothing. Blithely admitting he told her she could use his mic. Why did he dismiss our vow so easily? Why was this girl, a stranger, allowed to hold something so intimate, so symbolic of us? And why did Liam act like my feelings were an overreaction, just something he needed to manage? I sent her home, but the real fight had just begun.

Three months pregnant, my life with Mark, a rising tech CEO, in our beautiful Charleston home, felt truly perfect. We were college sweethearts, five years married-a fairy tale come true. Then Mark arrived holding a cheap, wilted rose. Above his head, impossible words flickered like captions only I could see: `"The 'side piece' got the fresh bouquet, the 'starter wife' gets a pity rose?"` More chillingly: `"Only 4 more months until the 'first wife' is written off. Classic tragic exit."` My perfect world shattered. The comments exposed his long-term affair with his intern, Brit, and my role as a disposable "plot device." When I confronted them, Brit shoved me. I fell. I woke with an agonizing void-my baby gone. Mark, feigning remorse, still used our funds to protect his mistress. His hypocrisy infuriated me. The comments confirmed his manipulative strategy. Then, the ultimate blow: Mark declared Brit was pregnant, calling it "our second chance." He even offered to make her abort that baby if I'd take him back, proving him utterly depraved. I refused to be written off. My baby was gone, but I was still here. The tragic script they wrote for me was now totally ablaze. I chose to fight. "No mercy," I told my lawyer. I would dismantle his empire, reclaim my life, and write my own powerful, uncompromised ending.

I woke up nineteen again, in my familiar 80s room, recalling a seventy-year marriage with Mark. He was my soulmate, my golden love story, and I believed this time, we could make it even more perfect. But this new, young Mark was shockingly different. He was ambitious, driven, and then, at the Fourth of July picnic, he publicly asked Tiffany Anderson, the town' s popular golden girl, to be his girlfriend. My seventy-year love story, my perfect reunion dream, shattered into a million pieces. I watched my past, present, and future fall apart before my eyes. Every shared milestone, every tender moment, was now seen through a horrifying lens of betrayal. He' d never been truly with me; he was always just chasing her. Mark himself confirmed my deepest fears, treating me with open disdain, trying to sabotage my music. How could the man I loved for a lifetime treat me like this? My heart screamed, "Did you ever, in all those seventy years, actually love me?" His answer was a cold, brutal laugh: "Love you? Don't be stupid. It was convenient. It was always Tiffany." My entire past life, a carefully constructed illusion, imploded. But in that moment of utter devastation, a fierce, new resolve ignited within me. The very sabotage meant to break me instead opened an unexpected door. A city music promoter, impressed by my raw performance, offered me a way out-a chance to become truly myself, finally free from his shadow.

I was just Ethan Miller, the quiet coder, dreaming of a tech internship and a shot with Brittany Hayes. Then the internship list dropped. Her boyfriend Chad made it, I didn't. Hours later, the school' s social media lit up: a "Loser List" poll, and I was "Biggest Nerd," number one. My private DMs, every awkward, hopeful word asking Brittany to prom, were instantly plastered school-wide. Laughter and pointed fingers followed me, the burning humiliation a public execution of my dignity. Brittany had orchestrated it all. She' d played me for a fool, then falsely accused me of hacking, costing me my dream CS program and a suspension. The "Future Innovator" scholarship I was promised went to Chad. Why did she hate me so much, actively ruining my life and now targeting Sarah Jenkins, an innocent outcast I' d tried to help? But at prom, as Brittany "accidentally" spilled a drink on Sarah' s dress, something inside me snapped. The chauffeur opened the Maybach' s door; I stepped out in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo, my family' s security detail and stylist flanking me. "I'm Mark Miller's son," I whispered to a stunned Sarah. "NovaCorp. Time for an upgrade."

Ava Miller, terminally ill with ALS, fled a brutal five-year imprisonment in a mental health facility. Her desperate wish was a final act of control: a pre-arranged full-body donation for complete disintegration, leaving no trace behind. But her carefully planned escape shattered when she collided with Liam Donovan, her former fiancé and the man who believed she was responsible for his beloved sister' s tragic death. Liam, consumed by grief and rage, dragged Ava into a new nightmare, intent on making her pay for Chloe' s loss. Despite her rapidly worsening illness and broken body, Ava shielded a secret that would exonerate her but destroy Chloe' s memory, embracing Liam' s abuse as penance. She endured public degradation, horrific assaults, and even a forced bone marrow donation that left her paralyzed, all to uphold her silent promise. How could the man she still desperately loved be so cruelly blind to her innocence and suffering, allowing his hatred to consume her? Why did she choose to sacrifice every shred of dignity for a truth she couldn't speak, leaving her stripped of everything but oblivion? Her final agonizing moments came in a fire he implicitly condoned, prompting Liam to slowly unravel her devastating sacrifice through hidden clues long after she was gone. Now, haunted by the profound truth of Ava's unwavering love and innocent torment, Liam is forced to confront the monstrous depths of his own actions, embarking on a brutal journey for redemption, only to discover some truths come too late for forgiveness.

My blood was a rare gift, able to heal any wound and mend broken bodies. In my first wretched life, it bound me to Ethan Vanderbilt, who saw my power as his sole property. But my gift couldn't bring back the dead, a truth Ethan refused to accept when his "true love," Veronica, lay lifeless before him. Consumed by a twisted grief not for me, he cruelly watched as my own life bled out from a wound he inflicted. I died a slow, agonizing death, powerless against his vengeful madness. As darkness claimed me, a maid's faint whisper revealed a chilling secret: Veronica wasn’t where they claimed; her death wasn't an accident. "Another man… his wife found out." My entire torment, my very death, was built on a monstrous lie. The utter injustice of it burned, even as I faded. Then, I gasped, whole and alive, in a hospital room. The calendar date confirmed it: I was back to the very day Ethan first summoned me. This time, I wouldn't be his victim. This time, I had a choice. This was my second chance.

I poured my life, my health, into Vicky Sterling's startup. Now she's a celebrated CEO, and I’m just a recovering patient, battling Crohn’s. Her "conceptual artist" lover, Julian, fills our home with his presence. One evening, Julian, knowing my strict diet, offered me a rich, forbidden pasta. Under his watchful smirk, I took a bite. Within the hour, internal fire consumed me. I crawled to Vicky, begging for the hospital, but she dismissed my agony. She called me "dramatic," prioritized Julian's fake illness, and brutally kicked my surgical scars. Her assistant Brenda then locked me in my room, where Julian's venomous brown recluse bit me. When paramedics arrived, Vicky blocked the ambulance, chillingly stating, "If he dies, he dies!" How could the woman I loved, the one I sacrificed everything for, actively ensure my agonizing death? Was I just a burden to be eliminated, a mere inconvenience? As darkness encroached, I used my last ounce of strength, not to call 911 again, but the one man who could truly help: Uncle Frank. My story wasn't ending; it was just beginning.

Four years ago, a car accident took away all of John's memories, but Linda, his beloved wife, hoped that he would never remember the past. Although their life was had been peaceful on the surface, a surging storm was brewing. What she worried most finally happened when she saw James’s business card in her husband’s pocket. In the past four years, she had never been so scared like now. It was like a huge stone hanging over her head. She didn't know when the stone would fall, but she could see that the stone was moving. When the truth was unveiled, the beast inside John was also released.

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!"

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."

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!"

"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."

Everyone knew Kristine loved Colton. Still, his heart clung to a woman overseas-someone he spent most days with, now pregnant with his baby-and Kristine still asked him to marry her. On their registration day, however, he never came; his "true love" had flown back. Seven years of loyalty later, Kristine walked away, blocked him, and left his city. Colton didn't blink-until he saw her at the courthouse, arm-in-arm with another man, and the proud CEO went pale. He went after her, desperation overtaking him. "I'm sorry. Please give me another chance." She snapped, "Could you stop? I'm already married."

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."