Miss Demeanor

The man who swore he would burn the world down for me has been married to another woman for three years. I found out the day I was finally discharged from the Swiss clinic he'd sent me to. I flew home to surprise him, only to discover my release was a year overdue. He had forged my medical reports, painting me as a fragile, broken thing just to keep me locked away while he built a new life. His new wife, Isabella, hit me with her car. He defended her, calling me hysterical. She stole my art portfolio and claimed it as her own, and he forced me to take the blame to protect his family's reputation. She even killed her own puppy to frame me. While I jumped into a freezing river to retrieve my father's medallion that she'd thrown in, he stood on the terrace pointing out a meteor shower to her. The final betrayal came when Isabella faked her own kidnapping and named me as the culprit. I didn't understand. This was Dante Moretti, the Devil of the East Coast, my guardian, the man who had sworn to be my shield. Why was he letting this woman destroy me piece by piece? Believing I was the kidnapper, he had me tied to a helicopter, dragged across a field, and left me for dead. But I didn't die. I survived. Five years later, I have a new name, a new life, and a husband who loves me. And today, I just ran into Dante on the street. He looked at me like he'd seen a ghost.

On my eighteenth birthday, the celestial pact hiding my aura finally expired. I stood on the rotting steps of the trailer, watching my foster family celebrate my eviction like they’d won the lottery. Brenda threw a liability waiver at me to sign, ensuring I’d never ask for a dime of their welfare checks again. Worse, her daughter Regina stood there smirking, flaunting the heirloom emerald bracelet she’d stolen from my secret stash—unaware it was a spiritual artifact soaked in fifty years of blood magic. "Consider it payment for room and board, freak," Regina sneered, forcing the silver band over her wrist. They thought they were discarding a burden. They didn't realize I was the only dam holding back a tidal wave of their own bad karma. As I signed the papers, voluntarily severing our ties, the air pressure plummeted. The bracelet began to constrict like a snake, turning Regina’s flesh a necrotic purple as the protection I offered vanished. Before they could scream, a matte black helicopter bearing the Sterling Industries crest descended onto the muddy lawn, blowing their plastic lawn chairs into the neighbor's yard. A man in a bespoke charcoal suit stepped out, ignoring the filth to bow before me. He looked at my terrified foster family and announced, "We are here to retrieve the Sterling heiress." I smiled at Regina, whose arm was already beginning to rot, and whispered, "Keep the bracelet. You'll need it to pay for the amputation."

I married Edwardo Steele out of a debt of honor, secretly loving the man who treated me like a contaminant. For three years, he weaponized his severe OCD against me, recoiling from my touch while I walked on eggshells in our cold, sterile mansion. My foolish hope for love died the night I saw him at a hotel fire, holding his mistress, Cassie, with a tenderness I had never known. He didn't just cheat; he destroyed me. He framed my brother, leaving him permanently disabled, all to protect her. Then, at Cassie's birthday party, he played our private video for everyone to see, a final, public humiliation. The man I sacrificed everything for had chosen a liar over me, and I was left with nothing but shame and a broken family. But in the depths of my despair, I discovered two things. First, I was pregnant with his child. Second, my brother had found a secret that could bring Edwardo's empire to its knees. I made an appointment to end the pregnancy. Then, I planned to use that secret to end my marriage.

For ten years, I was the silent engine behind my fiancé, the celebrated genius Dr. Alston Scott. I dedicated my life to our research, pouring my soul into a breakthrough that would change the world. But when that breakthrough finally came, he stole it. He put his new protégé's name, Kiara Gamble, on my life's work. At the annual colloquium, to shield Kiara from plagiarism accusations, he publicly dismissed my decade of research. "She performed some preliminary data collection," he announced to the entire institute. In that moment, I understood. I wasn't his partner; I was a tool. A convenient, disposable part he was now replacing. My family had already cast me out for losing my "golden ticket," and now, the man I loved had erased my professional existence. So after he tried to silence me with a kiss, I slapped him, walked back to my lab, and deleted everything. Every file. Every piece of data from the last ten years. Then I booked a one-way ticket to the desert.

For five years, I was blindly devoted to my fiancé, Austen Griffin. My family's power was the only reason he was about to be named heir to the entire Griffin fortune. But on the night of the announcement, he arrived late with my sister, Dennie, a fresh hickey on his neck. He cornered me, demanding a prenuptial agreement. "No shared accounts. No shared bedroom. And no questions about my life," he whispered. "You get the name, I get my freedom." In my past life, their public betrayal broke me. He used my love to secure his power, then cast me aside, leaving me to die alone while he and my sister enjoyed the fortune I handed them. But when I opened my eyes, I was back at the gala, moments before the decision. This time, when the family patriarch asked me to name my choice, I looked past Austen' s triumphant smirk and smiled. "I choose Kolton Griffin," I announced, my voice clear and cold, selecting the crippled, forgotten cousin he despised most.

For two thousand, five hundred and fifty-five days, I breathed air filtered through silver vents. Silver is poison to our kind, yet my Fated Mate, Alpha Dante Moretti, personally drove me to that prison and locked me in hell for seven years. He did it to protect another woman. When I was finally released, gaunt and broken, Dante didn't offer an apology. He offered excuses. He claimed it was necessary to save Chiara, the delicate "golden child" who supposedly saved his life years ago. But it was a lie. I was the one who had drained my veins until I went into shock to save him, while my parents handed the credit to Chiara. Now, back in the manor, I was forced to watch my mate feed her grapes and comfort her fake distress. My parents called me a "soulless waste" and demanded I annul our engagement so Dante could mark Chiara. They thought I was a weak Omega they could discard. They didn't know that the silver hadn't killed me; it had forged me. They had no idea that the "runt" they abused possessed the blood of the White Wolf, the most powerful creature in our history. When the truth finally shattered their lies, Dante crawled to me, bleeding and begging on his knees in a hotel hallway. But I didn't feel triumph. I felt nothing. "I, Alessia Salinas, reject you, Dante Moretti." I walked away from the Alpha who broke me, leaving him to scream into the silence of a severed bond.

For nine years, I poured every ounce of myself into building a life for Chloe, the girl I rescued from the streets, even secretly sacrificing all my personal savings and hiding my identity as the heir to the Miller Group just so she could achieve her dreams. Then, she graduated, landed a prestigious job, and looked me in the eye at our wobbly kitchen table: "Ethan," she said, her voice flat. "I want a divorce." She claimed we'd grown apart, that I was "still me" while she had changed, dismissing our entire history as a mere "survival pact." She shoved divorce papers at me, demanding a "clean break" with the cold efficiency of a corporate cut, then walked out to her new life, leaving behind the untouched steak I' d cooked-her favorite. Later, I found brand-new, expensive men's shoes hidden in her closet, clearly not for me, another man' s size. The realization hit me: this new life she spoke of wasn't just about career. It had a name: Brendan. The very man I' d seen her kissing on a snowy street, laughing as she called our home "pathetic." My heart, which had endured her constant complaints about our small life, now burned with betrayal and confusion. How could she so easily discard nine years of unwavering devotion, reduced to a transaction? But the ultimate insult came when Chloe tried to manipulate me one last time, offering a "second chance" at our marriage-if I "fixed" things, if I got Brendan, the man she' d chosen over me, his job back. That' s when I dropped the bomb: "I paid her," I revealed, "I took the last five thousand dollars from our house fund, money I earned working nights in a freezer warehouse, and I paid her to walk away so that you could have your dream job." Her world, built on my silent sacrifices, crumbled, leaving her exposed and desperate. I walked away, finally free, leaving her to face the consequences of her choices as winter' s first snowflakes fell, washing away the last traces of a shattered dream.

The day my college entrance exam results came out, my entire wealthy family was on their knees, not for me, but begging for forgiveness. For years, they had seen me, Ava Stone, as nothing more than a lazy, incompetent disgrace, believing my adopted sister, Chloe, was the true prodigy. My tech-mogul grandfather decided to host a "Startup Pitch Competition," a high-stakes game between Chloe and me, to see who could secure the most venture capital. The winner would get a ten percent stake in the Stone family's main tech conglomerate. But it turned into a public execution for me. My parents, disgusted by my "laziness," bet three of their tech incubators on Chloe. My brother wagered ten data centers. Even my fiancé, Liam Miller, put up a brand-new AI patent, declaring to reporters and distinguished guests that I was "truly uninspired" and "guaranteed to lose," deeming me a disgrace to the Stone name. To their shock, I announced I'd match their bets, wagering my entire family inheritance, an offer they eagerly accepted, scrambling to put up almost everything they owned. My parents called me "crazy." My mother linked arms with Chloe, saying, "If it weren' t for Chloe, you' d drive us all crazy." My heart turned to ice as I watched them, hoping to rid themselves of me for good. They conveniently forgot Chloe had taken my place years ago, framed me repeatedly for her misdeeds, and was even secretly having an affair with my fiancé, Liam. Liam, eager to please Chloe, publicly crushed my deceased foster mother's modest necklace-my most precious possession-under his heel, sneering, "I, Liam Miller, would never marry a failure like you. Our engagement is over." My own mother slapped me for my tears, calling the necklace "cheap" and declaring I was "no Stone." As I was assaulted, restrained by bodyguards, and forced to watch a live stream of my robotic dog, Buddy, being tortured at a recycling plant-a "piece of junk," as my mother called him-my father kicked me, demanding I apologize. Amidst the chaos, a voice cut through: "The college entrance exam results are out!" Everyone swarmed around Chloe, celebrating her supposed triumph. Chloe smiled mockingly, "Ava, it' s finally time, isn' t it?" But it was my smile that unsettled her. Liam, eager to secure his future, dropped to one knee, proposing to Chloe, "Marry me, Chloe." The crowd roared, taunting me with my supposed failure. The notary announced Chloe's score: 702, second in the state. My family erupted in cheers, showering Chloe with praise and assets. Chloe gloated, "You bet your inheritance, but you're just a stepping stone for me. You're nothing but a clown." Then the notary announced my score: "Ava Stone, total score 748, first in the state for science. And also the national top scorer for science in this year's college entrance exam." The room fell into a terrifying silence. My mother's triumphant smile froze. Liam' s hand, hovering over a money transfer, paralyzed. Chloe snatched at the tablet, screaming, "Impossible! She partied every single day!" The notary calmly stated, "Miss Ava Stone wins all the wagers placed in the prize pool." As I pulled out my competition awards and university acceptance letters under my real name, the lights dimmed. Surveillance footage played: Chloe cheating on her exam, Chloe framing me. Every lie, exposed. Grandpa, watching from upstairs, confirmed I had been faking incompetence all along. He then delivered the final blow: his paternity test from twenty years ago confirmed Chloe was not his granddaughter. Chloe had manipulated everyone, replacing the true Stone heir-me. With my family' s assets now mine, and Chloe and her mother exiled, I reclaimed Buddy from the recycling plant, converting it into an animal rescue center. On Christmas Eve, I hosted a quiet dinner with the children from my foster home and the kind housekeeper who had secretly helped me. Months later, I restructured the Stone Group, clearing out those who had conspired against me. Liam, facing bankruptcy, tried to crawl back, but I made him pay every outstanding debt. My father and brother became ghosts in the mansion, stripped of their power. Grandpa then revealed everything: my foster mother, a nurse, had saved me from my biological mother' s machinations years ago, protecting me while Grandpa secretly supported us, waiting for the perfect moment for me to return and reclaim what was mine. My future stretched out, clear and open. I was ready to walk it, a tribute to my foster mother, a promise that I would build something good, something that would last.

My cousin Liam has a hobby. It' s ruining my life. Every time I found a girl I genuinely liked, he' d swoop in, charm her, and orchestrate a public, humiliating breakup. For years, I played the victim, internalizing the laughter and pity, dismissed by my mother as merely "jealous." But this time, with Chloe Jenkins, I wasn't just waiting for the storm. I built it. I watched as Liam Davis, parasite extraordinaire, took the bait. He flaunted Chloe on social media, convinced she was another notch on his belt, funded by his ex-wife Sarah' s endless alimony checks. Then, Sarah revealed Liam was living on borrowed time, off credit cards in her name. It was all a carefully laid trap, and he walked right into it, dragging Chloe and himself into a spiral of fraud and deception. He showed up at my door, a ghost of the man who terrorized my youth, wild-eyed and desperate. "You set this all up," he snarled as two menacing figures dragged me into a black SUV. He threw the first punch, my head snapping against the window. This wasn' t just about humiliation anymore; it was about survival. But Liam forgot one crucial detail: I wasn' t the only player in this game. And as his broken body plunged into the dark water, pulled down by the very current he created, I finally understood. Freedom wasn't a gift. It was a weapon, forged in years of pain, and wielded with precision.

The doorbell rang, a cheerful chime that felt utterly out of place, ushering in my mother-in-law, Eleanor, unannounced. Her unusual warmth and compliments were a warning, a performance leading up to her real ask. Then, over dessert, she dropped the bombshell: a request for a $250,000 "loan" from my disabled father' s settlement to fund my brother-in-law' s extravagant wedding. My father's money was for his life-long medical care, sacrificed from a lifetime in the steel mills. I refused, unleashing years of suppressed anger against her family' s disdain for my working-class roots. But the true betrayal came later, a phone call from a real estate agent asking to schedule a viewing for my house, which my husband, Kevin, had secretly listed for sale. He was planning to liquidate our home, our future, to fund his family' s delusional prestige. The shock, the raw devastation of his betrayal, quickly morphed into a cold, precise fury. He thought I was a naïve, hardworking girl he could easily manipulate. He had no idea I was about to weaponize a secret I had meticulously guarded for our entire marriage: his infertility. I decided, then and there, he would learn what it truly meant to lose everything.

The media called my wedding to Damian Blackwood a modern Cinderella story. They didn' t know it was a gilded cage, and I was the bird about to be locked inside. As I stood in my bridal suite, my sister Jessica walked in, her husband Leo trailing behind. Her eyes raked over my expensive dress, and a look of pure acid twisted her face. "It should have been me," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. Then, with a wildness I hadn' t seen, she whispered, "You stole my life, Amy." Something sharp and cold pressed into my stomach, a silver letter opener. Warmth bloomed across my white dress as my legs gave out, and darkness swallowed me. I died, bleeding on the floor, the last thing I saw Jessica' s horrified face. But then I woke up, not on the plush carpet of a Hamptons bridal suite, but in my childhood bed, years earlier. The lumpy mattress, the stained floral wallpaper, the year on the calendar-it was all wrong. Then Jessica walked in, wearing that cheap dress, with the same resentful ambition in her eyes. She knew. She was back, too, and declared, "This time, the life of a billionaire' s wife is mine!" I knew how that story ended. Let her have him.

Our startup, Veridian Capital, was supposed to be our shared dream-Sarah's and mine. I poured my life, my family's money, everything into it, even as a mysterious, chronic fatigue consumed me. Tonight, at the annual gala, Sarah, now CEO, was radiant. Then, on stage, she didn't just announce a new strategic business partner. Her voice, filled with sickening pride, declared they were expecting a child. With him. My blood ran cold as the room erupted in whispers. She looked at me, the man she' d called her husband, and spat, "This is your fault! Your debilitating negativity! Your lack of vitality!" After I demanded a divorce, her new "partner," a supposed Italian Count, brutally attacked me in our apartment, leaving me broken and bleeding. I lay there, ribs cracked, utterly bewildered. But the true horror hit harder than any fist: My sister, a tough US Attorney, later confirmed that my mysterious illness – the very fatigue Sarah used to justify her betrayal – wasn't natural. It was a slow-acting poison, meticulously administered over two years. By Sarah. The woman I loved, the partner I built everything with, had systematically poisoned me to take my company, my life, and replace me. And now, she was about to learn that Michael Holloway, once discarded and broken, was finally free. And I was coming for everything she held dear.

My name is Luna Boudreaux. They call me the Oracle. For generations, my family, the Boudreaux, has served the powerful Devereaux dynasty. Our sacred duty: activate the Legacy Locket to choose the next Devereaux heir, who then marries me. Today was that day, the Locket ceremony, set to fulfill our destiny. But this wasn't my first time. In my previous life, I fell desperately in love with Beau Devereaux. He was handsome, charming, everything I thought I wanted. Blinded by adoration, I committed a terrible sin. I used forbidden Boudreaux magic, a profound spiritual sacrifice, to force the Locket to choose him. I gave him everything – my family' s power, our wealth, and my entire heart. The moment he ascended, he turned into a monster. He sneered, "What Oracle? Just your desperate trick to marry me." He annulled our marriage, annihilated my family' s reputation with twisted lies, blamed us for an "accident" he orchestrated involving his obsession, Chantelle Dubois. He stripped us bare. And then, he had me killed. To my dying breath, I couldn't comprehend how a love so fierce could transform into such cold-blooded cruelty, or why I' d been so profoundly, fatally wrong. But then darkness lifted. Now, I'm back. Same place, same moment, a terrifying second chance. Beau can have Chantelle. I won' t interfere. This time, the Locket will choose truly. Fate will decide. And maybe, just maybe, I' ll uncover why, in a future vision, Beau Devereaux was on his knees, begging me to marry him instead.

I was just a grease-stained mechanic, happily working with my adoptive dad in rural Nevada, on the cusp of starting my engineering journey at MIT on a full scholarship. Then, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up, and out stepped a woman claiming to be my biological mother, Eleanor Vance, revealing an 18-year-old hospital mix-up during a chaotic wildfire. Suddenly, I was thrust into the opulent world of the Thorne family, where my biological father, Richard, and his entitled son, Ethan, made it abundantly clear I was an unwanted outsider, doling out belittling gifts and thinly veiled insults. At their grand charity gala, Richard and Ethan orchestrated a public humiliation, aiming to shame me in front of their elite circle, leaving me burning with indignation and confusion over their blatant hostility. But what they didn't foresee was my tech-billionaire boyfriend, Sam, along with his incredibly influential parents, crashing their party, turning their calculated attack into a spectacular downfall that exposed not just their schemes, but a multi-layered, decades-long conspiracy of baby swaps and deceit far beyond a simple hospital error.

My bachelor party in Vegas was supposed to be a modern celebration of love, a joint affair with my brilliant, beautiful fiancée, Sophia. But the flashing lights of the club turned into a blinding nightmare when her "gay best friend," Julian, drunkenly screamed that he was the father of her unborn child, revealing a betrayal that shattered my world. Sophia, utterly cold, confirmed it, then had the gall to demand I still marry her, raise Julian's baby, and even ordered me to retrieve her overnight bag from his lavish penthouse where I found her already moved in, curled in his lap, sharing an intimacy she'd denied me for years, as they mocked my shock and called me "insecure." The woman I'd chased for years, the Ivy League intellectual, stood there with her lover, confidently outlining a "modern compromise" where I was a mere placeholder, discarding five years of our life together with chilling condescension; how could I have been such a fool? Just as despair threatened to consume me, a drunken call from my long-lost college friend, Chloe, brought an unexpected confession of love and a radical offer: "What if I married you instead?" In that moment, a desperate, defiant spark ignited, steering me toward an improbable new beginning away from the toxic wreckage.

My lungs were failing, but my music was finally taking flight. I was a dying folk singer, determined to record my father's unfinished songs – a legacy. A grant from the prestigious Astor Family Arts Foundation felt like a miracle, a chance to complete my final masterpiece. Then, the “miracle” became a nightmare. The foundation was run by Ethan's family—my ex-fiancé's. And then *she* crashed into my world: Bella Thorne, America's sweetheart pop star, Ethan's new, very public girlfriend, announced she'd "collaborate." It wasn't collaboration; it was a hostile takeover. Bella and her producers butchered my raw sound, demanding synths and demanding co-writing credits on my father's decades-old lyrics. They wanted to make it "pop," to erase me. Bella's cruel jabs became relentless, each comment a tiny cut. My health, already fractured, spiraled with the stress—coughing fits, nosebleeds I desperately tried to hide. Ethan, the man I once loved, stood by, a silent, unreadable observer, always by *her* side. He watched my spirit being systematically dismantled. Then, in a moment of manufactured fury, Bella "accidentally" slammed my father's vintage guitar to the floor, splitting it in two. The guitar wasn't just wood; it was my soul, my last connection to him. Bella then posted a tearful video, portraying herself as heartbroken, casting *me* as the volatile drama queen. The internet, fueled by carefully leaked old photos of Ethan and me, branded me a gold-digging manipulator, faking my illness for attention. Even Ethan, seeing Bella's performance, was convinced. He texted, offering to "replace" my irreplaceable guitar, further proving he never truly understood. I was dying, fighting for my art, and the world thought I was faking. How could he be so blind? With trembling fingers, I deleted Ethan's contact. My legacy, my final gift, was being ripped apart, but I wouldn't let them silence the truth in my music. I had to protect it, even if it cost me everything.

Sure! Here’s the translation: "I am the gentle sweet wife in everyone's eyes. When my husband is abusive, I silently endure; when he cheats, I cry and forgive. Even when he says his boss likes married women and wants me to sleep with him, I reluctantly agree. He thinks I am weak and incapable, so he happily turns and leaves. After he goes, I wipe away the fake tears from my face and touch the back of my head. Covered by a thick mass of hair is another face, one that is almost taking shape— He still doesn’t know that another me inside is about to awaken."

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

When I was eight, Dante Moretti pulled me from the fire that killed my family. For ten years, the powerful crime boss was my protector and my god. Then, he announced his engagement to another woman to unite two criminal empires. He brought her home and named her the future mistress of the Moretti family. In front of everyone, his fiancée forced a cheap metal collar around my neck, calling me their pet. Dante knew I was allergic. He just watched, his eyes cold, and ordered me to take it. That night, I listened through the walls as he took her to his bed. I finally understood the promise he’d made me as a child was a lie. I wasn't his family. I was his property. After a decade of devotion, my love for him finally turned to ash. So on his birthday, the day he celebrated his new future, I walked out of his gilded cage for good. A private jet was waiting to take me to my real father—his greatest enemy.

I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York. To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen. But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table. It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test. "Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture." I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking. He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago. He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy. He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go. He was wrong. I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don. And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy. I wanted to erase him. I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built. Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa." It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul. On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial. When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth. He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife. Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.

Elora Griffiths was on her way to drop her daughter off at school when her husband's enemies opened fire in the street. The bodyguard her husband had personally assigned to protect them abandoned the car the instant the shots rang out. Mother and daughter were hit multiple times, teetering on the brink of death. Elora frantically called her husband, Rodger Griffiths, but he didn't answer. Her brother, Hugh Dale, arrived just in time and saved them both. "How could this happen? Didn't Rodger assign someone to protect you?" Hugh asked. Elora sobbed uncontrollably, "The bodyguard ran away!" On the way to the hospital, Elora kept trying Rodger's number, desperate. One call after another... Finally, on the ninety-ninth attempt, the line connected. On the other end was the female bodyguard, trembling, her voice barely holding back tears. "Rodger, it's really not my fault! There were so many assassins. I would've died if I tried to stop them! I was so scared..." Elora held her breath, waiting for her husband's wrath to thunder down. But Rodger just sighed. "Forget it. The important thing is you're safe," he said. Meanwhile, Elora's daughter took her last breath in her arms. The pain was suffocating. She held her daughter close as her body went cold and stiff, teeth gritted in fury, "Hugh, I'm divorcing him! I'll cut off every single arms shipment to the Griffiths family from the largest arms company in Crownport!"

I stood alone at the center of my art gallery opening, clutching a glass of warm champagne, while the guests whispered behind their hands. My husband, the Capo of the Chicago Outfit, wasn't there. A breaking news alert on my phone explained why. It was a high-definition photo of Dante shielding his mistress, Isabella, from the rain. He was touching her with a protective possessiveness he had never once shown me. Then came his text: "Isabella needed me. Go home." That was the moment the cage door unlocked. I didn't go home to cry. I went to his office the next morning with a stack of papers disguised as "gallery insurance forms." While Isabella sat on his desk, mocking me for being a boring housewife, Dante was too annoyed to read the fine print. He just wanted me gone so he could get back to her. He signed the divorce decree. He signed the asset dissolution. Most importantly, without looking, he signed the irrevocable relinquishment of parental rights. I walked out with my freedom, but fate had a cruel sense of humor. That night, I stared at a positive pregnancy test. I was carrying the Sovrano heir he had always demanded. And he had just legally signed away his right to ever know his child. I fled to the Swiss Alps, vanishing into the snow to raise my baby away from his world of blood and bullets. I thought I was safe, until six months later. Dante hadn't just sent men to look for me. He had burned his own shipping empire to the ground, destroying his status as King, just to prove he would trade it all for the wife he threw away.

For nine years, I was the perfect mafia wife. I laundered Marcus Thorne’s money through my design firm, smiled at his dinners, and ignored the lipstick stains on his collars. I believed in the Omertà of our marriage. I thought my loyalty was my armor. I was wrong. On the night of our anniversary gala, a car lost control and barreled straight toward us in the parking lot. Marcus didn't look at me. Not once. He lunged for his mistress, Izzy, tackling her to safety behind a concrete pillar. I was left standing in the open. The impact threw me like a ragdoll. I lay bleeding on the cold asphalt, my body broken, watching through the haze as my husband frantically checked his mistress for scratches. "My ankle," she whimpered. Without a backward glance, he picked her up and carried her to his limousine, leaving me to bleed out on the pavement. He didn't leave me because he panicked. He left me because I was just a shield he used to protect what he actually loved. As darkness crept in, a shadow fell over me. It wasn't Marcus. It was Julian Croft, his sworn rival. I looked at the empty spot where my husband should have been and made a choice. "Get me to the hospital," I rasped, staring into the eyes of the enemy. "And then help me burn his empire to the ground."