Mu Hui Xin

After my tenth miscarriage in five years, I believed my body was broken. My husband, Barron, was my perfect, doting savior who had rebuilt my life after destroying my family's company. Then, I overheard him on the phone. He confessed to poisoning my tea every night, methodically murdering our ten children to repay a debt to his mistress. A life for each year she'd spent in prison for him. My entire world wasn't just a lie-it was a gilded cage built by my family's destroyer. He thought he left me to die in a fire. He was wrong. Now, with a new face, I'm back to burn his empire to the ground.

My husband, Emit Arnold, only touches me when he's too drunk to remember he hates my guts. For three years, he's blamed me for the death of his true love, Everleigh. Yesterday, he brought a woman home who had plastic surgery to look exactly like her. Then my own twin children stood before me and told me to get out. "Daddy brought our new mommy home," they said. "You have to leave now." The woman, my adoptive sister Gigi, then deliberately cut her own leg with a knife and blamed me for it. When Emit saw her bleeding, he didn't hesitate. He shoved me to the floor. Later, his sister Isadora slapped me, her eyes burning with hate. "I'm the one who told everyone you killed Everleigh," she hissed. "And I'll keep telling them." My children, my husband, my in-laws—they all chose the woman wearing a dead person's face over me. The love I had held onto for so long was finally gone. That night, he cornered me in my room, ripped the dress from my body, and called me filthy. He thought I would break. Instead, I walked back into the living room, picked up the divorce papers I had already prepared, and threw them right in his face.

My game, "Echoes of Starlight," the culmination of years of my life, was finally launching. My wife, Chloe, wasn' t there, opting instead for a critical business dinner with her partner, Liam. The moment it went live, a text from her arrived, calling my life' s work a mere "hobby," a phrase that felt like a mockery, solidifying the sickening feeling that for years, "for us" had always meant "for her ambition, fueled by my dreams." That night, Liam's cologne clinging to her, she breezily dismissed my hurt, doubling down on her priorities, until I, completely hollowed out, declared our marriage over. In a dramatic twist, I revealed years of hidden financial success from my "little pixel art," shattering her condescending view of me. The final blow came at a tech gala, where I, the "Breakout Developer," was courted by a publishing giant, a scene she witnessed in shocked silence. She tried to reconcile, desperately asking if I still loved her, even using our shared tragedy-a miscarriage-as a bargaining chip. But the love had died, starved by her neglect. I calmly told her, "No." My freedom had finally begun.

The grand hall of the royal palace was suffocating, every eye fixed on me as I stood before the throne, about to choose my betrothed. This supposed day of destiny was, for me, the day my life had already brutally ended before. I remembered the cold bite of the executioner's axe, the jeering crowd, and Prince Adrian, the man I loved, standing with his new lover, Lady Seraphina, watching me die. He had accused me of treason-all to clear his path to her. My last breath was choked with betrayal, then darkness, until I woke up screaming in my own bed, alive again. I was back, at the very ceremony that had sealed my doom. King Theron boomed, calling for my choice between General Kaelen and Prince Adrian. Adrian, handsome and charming, hissed a low warning, meant only for me: "Don't even think about it, Elara. You know who I want." He then arrogantly announced to the King that his heart belonged to Lady Seraphina, publicly humiliating me. The old me would have crumbled, but not anymore. Fueling my resolve with the memory of the axe, I walked past a stunned Adrian, ignoring his fury, and stopped before General Kaelen. My voice clear and steady for the entire hall to hear, I declared: "I choose General Kaelen." The silence was deafening, the murmurs of scandal already rising. Adrian, enraged by my defiance, later cornered me, his eyes blazing. "You're trying to make me jealous," he sneered, then leaned in, whispering, "When you get tired of his boring silence, you can come to me. I'll keep you as a mistress. It might be... amusing." The arrogance, the sheer disregard for my dignity, fueled a cold, hard anger within me. "You are mistaken, Adrian," I replied, my voice like ice. "I belong to no one but myself. And my future belongs to General Kaelen." He failed to grasp that I was not the girl he knew, leaving him sputtering in indignation. Days later, his scheme with Seraphina to extort my dowry by faking an injury led to Adrian striking me, then shoving my loyal maid, Lyra, who hit her head and lay still. Seeing Lyra, my innocent, loyal maid, injured because of them, something inside me snapped. The last vestiges of my old self burned away, leaving only a cold, pure, diamond-hard rage. They had gone too far. They had hurt my people. And for that, they would pay. I made a silent vow, looking at Lyra' s still form: I will not just survive. I will not just win. I will destroy you. Just then, a calm, cold voice broke through the tension, "You will not touch her." General Kaelen stood in the doorway, dust-worn armor telling of his rapid return, his hand on his greatsword. He was back.

After three years abroad, I came home to surprise my secret husband, tech billionaire Gilbert Davis. He was finally CEO of his family's empire, and I believed our life together was about to begin. The surprise was on me. The first thing I learned wasn't from him, but from the breaking news alerts: Gilbert was engaged to an influencer named Hayden Torres, his supposed long-lost love. The world shattered when I saw her picture. She had my face. Then the truth unraveled, each piece more horrific than the last. Hayden was my half-sister. Our three-year marriage was a forged document, a cruel play he staged because I was a convenient substitute for the woman he was actually married to the entire time. He wasn't just a liar; he was a monster. He lured me to a hospital under the pretense of care, only to reveal his true plan: to force me into a tissue transplant to save Hayden's life. But as I lay in that hospital bed, a prisoner waiting to be harvested, I recorded a conversation that turned my grief into rage. They hadn't just stolen my husband and my future-they had murdered my mother. They thought I was a victim they could discard. They were about to find out I was the architect of their ruin.

The smell of cheap hotdogs and burnt sugar hung heavy in the air. I stood there, watching Jake Henderson, the town's golden boy, showing off on the old wooden tower. Just like before, he was about to fall. Last time, I sacrificed everything. I became his human shield, shattering my hand, losing my art scholarship, and condemning myself to a lifetime of his manipulation and infidelity. He married me out of supposed obligation, then poisoned our children against me, constantly whispering how I' d supposedly stolen his chance with Tiffany, his 'white moonlight' who' d effortlessly claimed my future. I died alone, full of agonizing regret in a sterile room, my dreams turned to ash. But now, I was back. Frozen at the exact same moment, watching him teeter. A cold, unwavering resolve washed over me. No. More. Sacrifices. This time, I wouldn't move an inch. Let him fall. This was my chance to shatter the chains of the past, reclaim my stolen future, and finally build a life free from Jake.

My five-year-old son, Leo, was the sunshine of my life, even with the constant shadow of his severe peanut allergy. At the town picnic, Leo took a bite of a cookie, and suddenly, his vibrant laughter turned into a terrifying, choked gasp. I screamed for my husband, Mark, to get the EpiPen, but his eyes were glued on Tiffany, the preacher's daughter, as she dramatically faked a faint, her Southern charm a cruel façade. Mark, annoyed by my panic, fumbled, then dropped the vital medication to rush to Tiffany' s side, coldly telling me to "just use the damn thing." Precious seconds became an eternity as I jammed the EpiPen into Leo' s thigh, but it was too late. My son died in my arms while Mark, concerned only with appearances, blamed me, then threw me out of our home. He then twisted the narrative, using his influence to have me forcibly committed to a psychiatric hospital, branding me as an "unhinged" mother to the entire town. How could he, the man I loved, systematically destroy my reputation and freedom immediately after our child's death, all to protect his own ambitions? Just as I believed I had nothing left, an old friend, David, who had built a tech empire and returned to town in a wheelchair, offered me a stunningly strategic proposal: "Marry me." He promised a home, security, and the leverage to fight back, igniting a cold, powerful resolve in my shattered heart.

After three years working my ass off on an oil rig in the North Sea, all I wanted was a cold beer and my wife, Gabrielle. Instead, I came home early to an empty, neglected house and found her playing house with her high school sweetheart, Wesley Clark, by the duck pond. She slapped me, right there in the park, and screamed that I had abandoned her, accusing me of cheating while I was thousands of miles away paying for her family's every need. How could she twist the truth so profoundly, to cast me as the villain when she was the one having an affair and squandering my money? But as I walked away from the wreckage of my marriage, a cold realization solidified into a dangerous plan: if she and her new lover thought they could get rich by destroying me, they were about to learn a very painful lesson about loyalty and consequences.

I thought I had it all: a miracle pregnancy after a year of grueling IVF, and a loving husband, Liam, who seemingly saved me from my family's ruin by providing lavish care for my ailing mother. He was my protector, my savior. But a surprise prenatal check-up took me to a discreet private clinic I' d never seen. Liam dropped a bombshell: his childhood friend, Isabella, was dying and needed a bone marrow transplant. My blood was a perfect match. Then came the chilling demand: terminate our much-awaited pregnancy. When I refused, he calmly laid out his threat: if I didn't comply, my sick mother' s life-sustaining care, fully under his control, would cease. Trapped and terrified, I submitted. Waking up, I learned Liam had flown to Switzerland with Isabella. Then came the video: Isabella, triumphant, as Liam meticulously peeled a grape for her, a gesture he' d always refused me. A phone call confirmed my nightmare: Isabella revealed Liam married me solely for my compatibility as a donor. She' d even tormented my mother, bragging about my sacrifice, causing her agitated death on the same night. I was a tool, my baby gone, my mother murdered. But when Liam tried to delete the damning security footage, my old friend Julian revealed a hidden backup. Now, with Liam and Isabella believing they' d won, I understand the ultimate betrayal. They destroyed everything I held dear. It' s time they learned what a woman with nothing left to lose can do.

My fiancé, Ethan, insisted we use our life savings-the money for our dream architectural firm-to buy a house for his widowed friend, Kiera. He called it a sacred promise. I called it betrayal. After weeks of fighting, I discovered the truth. He hadn't been asking for my permission; he had already emptied our joint account two months ago. A photo confirmed it: him and Kiera, toasting with champagne, celebrating the day he stole our future. He then had the nerve to ask me to design her new house for free. When I finally confronted him, he chose to believe her fake pregnancy and her staged fall, calling me a "monster" as he rushed her to the hospital. He didn't just take our money; he stole my voice and painted me as the villain in his story. So while he played the hero for her, I quietly canceled our wedding, sold our assets, and booked a one-way ticket to a new life. He thought he was breaking me, but he was setting me free.

My husband, Dax, was cold and distant, obsessed with his ex-girlfriend, Frida. His neglect cost me our first child. Then, Frida' s schemes cost me my dream job. When I became pregnant again, Dax abandoned me while I was in agony to rush to Frida's side for a minor scratch. This time, I didn't just lose the baby-I almost died. He never even visited me in the hospital. Instead, he was photographed comforting Frida, his "one true love." His mother finally revealed the truth: Dax's loyalty stemmed from a twisted childhood memory. He believed he had saved Frida from a traumatic event, a debt he felt he owed her for life. But as I lay broken, a memory of my own surfaced. A dark warehouse. A kind boy who saved me. A promise whispered. It wasn't Dax. His entire devotion to Frida was built on a lie. Now, he stands on my doorstep in Argentina, begging for a second chance after I've filed for divorce. He doesn't know that I know his secret. And I'm about to burn his world to the ground.

Ten years ago, Cameron Vinson destroyed my Wall Street career to build his empire, leaving me a disgraced schoolteacher. Now, he was back, paying for my father' s life-saving surgery to play the benevolent hero. But his fiancée, jealous of his attention, decided to reveal the truth to my father on his deathbed, killing him instantly with the shock. "Emilia, look what you've done! You're hysterical!" Cameron shouted, shoving me away from my father's cooling body while comforting the woman who had just murdered him. Hailee had shown my father a video proving we were both framed, just to watch the light leave his eyes. Yet, Cameron stood there protecting her, gaslighting me into believing I was the crazy one. They thought I was still the helpless victim they could manipulate. They thought my father' s death was just another loose end tied up. But as the heart monitor flatlined, my phone buzzed with a message from a ghost of our shared past. "I have enough evidence to bury Cameron Vinson. Do you need help?" I looked at the monsters preening over my father's corpse. I wiped my tears and typed back a single word: "Yes." The time for grief was over. The time for a hostile takeover had begun.

The phone rang, splitting the quiet of my father's funeral home. It was Mark, my boyfriend of three years, who was supposed to be here holding my hand. "Ava," he rushed, "I can't make it. Chloe's having another panic attack." The air in my lungs turned to ice. Chloe Davis, a friend of a friend, always "fragile," always needing Mark. My voice broke as I whispered, "Mark, I have no one right now but you." He called me strong, an excuse to abandon me at my weakest. Later that night, he finally came home, exhausted from comforting Chloe. He looked at me with cold eyes. "About the house your father left you... Chloe's landlord is kicking her out." He suggested I sign my father's house, the only thing I had left, over to her. A hollow ache fractured into cruel betrayal. He wasn't just abandoning me; he was trying to erase me. I stood there, speechless, the System's quiet hum in my mind confirming my utter heartbreak. "I'm done," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I want a divorce." He scoffed, stepping aside as my mother stormed in, slapping me and accusing me of being selfish, jealous of "poor Chloe." Then, Chloe walked in, clinging to Mark, whispering apologies, playing the blameless victim. My mother cooed over her, bringing her tea on my couch. The life I built was stripped away, piece by piece, handed to her. I was the villain. Days later, I saw them through the office glass: Mark, his hands on Chloe's shoulders, telling everyone how "natural" she was at my job, even offering her my share of the company. A wave of nausea hit me. He was giving away my life. Then, Chloe fell to her knees, sobbing, "If I don't complete the quest, my System will execute me!" My blood ran cold. My entire life, my heartbreak, was just a game, and I was the final boss. Mark knew. He watched me grieve, he watched me break, and he enjoyed it. The pain ripped through my chest. "Goodbye, Mark." And then, everything went dark. Five years later, I'm CEO of my own firm, thriving, with Zephyr, my System, now a human companion. He tells me Mark has spent years torturing Chloe, trying to cross dimensions to find me. I see Mark, gaunt and manic, screaming at a chained Chloe, desperate to reach me. "Mark," I say, my disembodied voice echoing. "It's over." But he tries to force a gateway. Zephyr appears, stopping him, a deep, resonant voice proclaiming, "I'm the one who always chose her." He turns to me, his eyes filled with unwavering affection. "I love you, Ava Miller. I always have." And as he leans in to kiss me, I know I'm home.

My bank account was a graveyard of numbers, each one a testament to my crushing debt. One hundred and fifty-two thousand, four hundred and eighty-one dollars and sixty-two cents, to be exact. It all started when Jennifer Chavez, my ex-colleague, whispered about an impending grid collapse. I believed her. I drained credit cards, took out high-interest loans, and filled my Portland apartment with freeze-dried food and solar generators. Then Jennifer posted from Bali, "#blessed." The grid never went down. My life, however, did. Eviction notices piled up, and my phone wouldn't stop buzzing with collection calls. I hated Jennifer. I hated her effortless success while I stared at a mountain of useless survival gear, suffocating under my own stupidity. Just when I considered oblivion, my obnoxious upstairs neighbor, Sweet_Caroline, shrieked, "I make more money in one of these livestreams than you probably make in a month." Something snapped. What if I gave them an apocalypse?

My Hamptons dream life with Ethan, my rising star finance husband, shattered when masked men invaded our home, leaving me pregnant and terrified. A month later, my husband’s “fragile” childhood friend, Izzy Vance, suddenly announced her own pregnancy, suspiciously close in timing. Then came Ethan’s devastating public lie: he claimed Izzy’s baby was his, letting the world believe my child was conceived during the home invasion. My “ordeal baby” became tabloid fodder, and my world imploded. The man I loved had thrown me to the wolves, prioritizing Izzy’s fabricated image above my real trauma. He dismissed my pain, my forced abortion, and even my head injury, leaving me bleeding on the street while he rushed to Izzy’s side after a staged accident. He forced me to donate blood even after my own procedure, and used my public humiliation at a gala to solidify his own hero narrative. Every interaction became a new cut, cementing my role as the villain in his carefully crafted play. How could Ethan be so unbelievably blind? So utterly complicit in my destruction? The man who promised to protect me had become my greatest betrayer, leaving me broken, grieving, and utterly alone. But his unwavering faith in Izzy's insidious lies, culminating in her fake accusation of me attacking a pregnant woman, didn't break me. It ignited a cold, steel resolve. They wanted a lavish baby shower? Oh, I’d bring a gift – a secret that would not only expose their entire charade but detonate their perfect world, ensuring a spectacular downfall for all involved. It was time for my quiet, lethal revenge.

Bella survived the accident five years ago but it proved to be a curse instead of a blessing as everyone blamed her for it. If only she was not in the car on that fateful day, everything would have been fine. She would have never had to leave her hometown and would have had the chance to find love. However, fate held a surprise for her. She met Russell again. He was the love of her life, the man she had been missing all this time. She tried her best to get his forgiveness but got herself trapped with the devil, who was hell-bent on getting his revenge. Left with no other choice, she signed the contract and became his exclusive maid. What does the future hold in store for Bella now?

After my tenth miscarriage in five years, I believed my body was broken. My husband, Barron, was my perfect, doting savior who had rebuilt my life after destroying my family's company. Then, I overheard him on the phone. He confessed to poisoning my tea every night, methodically murdering our ten children to repay a debt to his mistress. A life for each year she'd spent in prison for him. My entire world wasn't just a lie-it was a gilded cage built by my family's destroyer. He thought he left me to die in a fire. He was wrong. Now, with a new face, I'm back to burn his empire to the ground.

My father raised seven brilliant orphans to be my potential husbands. For years, I only had eyes for one of them, the cold and distant Damien Paul, believing his distance was a wall I just had to break through. That belief shattered last night when I found him in the garden, kissing his foster sister, Eve—the fragile girl my family took in at his request, the one I had treated like my own sister. But the true horror came when I overheard the other six Fellows talking in the library. They weren't competing for me. They were working together, orchestrating "accidents" and mocking my "stupid, blind" devotion to keep me away from Damien. Their loyalty wasn't to me, the heiress who held their futures in her hands. It was to Eve. I wasn't a woman to be won. I was a foolish burden to be managed. The seven men I grew up with, the men who owed my family everything, were a cult, and she was their queen. This morning, I walked into my father's study to make a decision that would burn their world to the ground. He smiled, asking if I'd finally won Damien over. "No, Dad," I said, my voice firm. "I'm marrying Hunter Beach."

The dream always started the same way: my sister, Sarah, screaming my name, her face twisted in pure terror, pointing at a world where the dead walked. This time, the screaming wasn't a dream. It was real, coming from down the hall. "They're coming! I saw them!" Sarah shrieked, convinced her nightmares were prophecies. My parents rushed to her, cooing about a bad dream, but Sarah insisted it was real, clearer this time, a prophecy of rotting flesh and dead eyes. I lay in my bed, heart a slow drum, remembering my first life: the foolish concern, the attempts to reason that always ended with their blind siding of Sarah. My logic was met with her tears, my calm with her hysterics, and our parents, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, labeled me "insensitive," not understanding how "special" Sarah was. My efforts to save their retirement, to hide car keys from her "prepper" conventions, led to slaps and silent treatments, to accusations of sabotaging her "survival instincts." The family crumbled around her delusion, losing their house, savings, everything, and when the apocalypse never came, they blamed me for not believing, for not supporting their perfect, unified front of madness. They cast me out, and I died alone in a homeless shelter, not from a zombie, but from pneumonia. Now, I was 22 again, lying in my childhood bed, listening to the prelude of that same disaster, a second chance at a test I' d failed spectacularly. This time, I knew the answers. "It' s going to start with the birds!" Sarah yelled, predicting a mass blackbird death event, completely unaware I knew about the city' s planned fumigation. My parents leaned into her every word, their faces a mix of worry and excitement, while a bitter taste filled my mouth. I wouldn' t stop her. I wouldn' t save them. This time, I would watch them burn. And I would bring the gasoline.

The last thing I remembered was the grinding sound of machinery, a symphony of six years in our small town, now a city death knell. My children, Lily and Tom, were so excited to visit their father Michael' s new, successful factory. "They've missed Michael so much, Ava. Let them go see him. He's just inside." Sarah, Michael's brother's widow, whispered, her arm around my shoulder, her voice a sweet poison. I watched them run ahead, their small figures disappearing through the massive doorway, believing their father was building a better life for us. They didn' t know the truth: Michael had left us for Sarah, taking our factory severance pay to build his new life with her and her children. Then I saw Sarah' s real smile-sharp, cold. She pushed an unsecured metal cart. A klaxon blared. Two screams, cut short by a sickening crunch, a spray of red. My world ended. Michael stood over me, his face filled with chilling annoyance, not grief. "Well, that's that, then," he said, flatly. "Saves me the trouble and expense of a divorce, I guess." He glanced at the machinery. "They were just baggage anyway, Ava. Holding me back." His words annihilated my soul, a physical force squeezing the breath from me. The world turned gray, then black. I died on that cold, greasy floor. And then, I gasped. I was in my cramped bedroom, sunlight filtering through the grimy window. A calendar on the wall marked the day the factory closed. Lily and Tom sat on the rug, whole and alive. "Mommy?" Lily asked, her big brown eyes filled with concern. "Are you okay?" Tears streamed down my face. I clung to them, inhaling their scent. I was back. The memory of their deaths, of Michael's monstrous words, was burned into my mind. Grief remained, a hot knot of agony, but something cold, hard, and sharp solidified beside it. Revenge. Michael. Sarah. You will pay. I will tear down your world, piece by piece, and I will make you feel every ounce of the agony you gave me. This was not a second chance at happiness. It was a second chance at justice.

The air in the room was stale, thick with the smell of antiseptic and despair. They told me I was sick, that grief had broken my mind. My mother-in-law, Martha, would visit, her concern a chilling mask, whispering to doctors how I was hallucinating, a danger to myself and my son, Billy. "She doesn' t understand that David is gone," she' d insist, loud enough for me to hear. But the real horror wasn't my madness; it was the truth. Three days after my husband, David, a decorated police officer, was supposedly killed, I stood at his memorial, expected to mourn. The man in the casket wasn't David. It was Mark, his identical twin, missing the faded scar David always had. That night, I found David, not dead, but alive in our summer cabin, with his childhood sweetheart, Emily Peterson. He confessed it all with chilling indifference: Mark was killed in a shootout, and David seized the chance for a new life, free from me and Billy. "I never loved you," he said, as if explaining a simple math problem. "It was always Emily." I tried to tell everyone-his mother, his captain-but they looked at me with pity, already conditioned by Martha and David' s lies. They had me committed to a white room, and David married Emily. My four-year-old son, Billy, was left in their care, crying for me every night. Then came the unbearable news: Billy was dead, a "tragic accident" from an overdose of cough medicine. My world shattered. Desperate, I fashioned a noose, remembering Billy' s bright laugh, the life David had stolen. My only regret was that David would never face justice. I kicked the chair away. Darkness took me. Then, a blinding light, and I was back on my living room couch, the day David was supposedly killed. I wasn' t dead. I was back. Martha' s face, a mask of practiced sadness, now held a triumphant curl. I heard David' s voice from the hallway, "Is she stable?" "She' s fragile, but she bought it," Martha replied. "She' ll break, just like we planned. We' ll have her committed, and Billy will be ours." "Good," David said. "Make sure she doesn' t get near the body. Mark didn' t have my scar." This time, I was not the grieving widow. I was the executioner.

I was overjoyed when I found out I was pregnant. I posted a simple, happy announcement on social media—a picture of tiny baby shoes, captioned "Our next chapter begins." The next day, my husband Kaeden accused me of doing it to deliberately hurt his "fragile" friend, Clemmie, who was infertile. He said I needed to be taught a lesson in cruelty. He strapped me to a table and, while Clemmie watched, ordered a man to electrocute me. I begged him to stop, to think of our child, but he refused. "Increase it," he commanded, even after being warned it could kill the fetus. He left me bleeding out on the cold metal. But the horror was just beginning. I was rushed to a hospital, not to be saved, but to be harvested. I heard the doctor's triumphant voice: "It's a perfect match." My husband was having me murdered to give my heart and kidneys to his mistress. My last sensation was the cold steel of a scalpel on my skin. My last thought was of my baby, who would never draw a breath. The monitor flatlined into a single, unending tone. Then, my eyes fluttered open. I was alive.

Laura was a bold, courageous, gorgeous, intelligent young lady who always stood out for herself. She always fought for her right and never allowed anyone to look down on her , her family nor her friends. She was known as the most brilliant and talented student in her class. This irritated some of her mates and led to the plot of her attack to tame her. " Hold her, let's see how her intelligence works this time...", Ben exclaimed, landing a huge slap on her cheek. Patrick and Fred held her tightly, chuckling and teasing. They molested and bullied her until she passed out. " Wait, Ben, I think we killed her....", Fred cried " Shut up, what do you know? She's just doing that to scare us...." " No, Ben...I think he's right...we killed her..." " Oh, my God...what should we do..." Join me on this journey while we find out what they did to her body and the outcome of their action. ENRAGED SOUL;The revenge of a traumatized girl

It started on the one-year anniversary of my return, a day meant for joy. Instead, my family, devout and God-fearing, brutally murdered me. My brother, my protector, became a "defiler" screaming monster, my father, a man of God, cut off my hand with a rusty saw, and my mother, once overjoyed, called me an "abomination." They threw my bleeding body into a silo, sealing the hatch, and as I died, I only had one question: Why? It was the locket. The small, carved wooden locket my sister, Esther, had given me moments before, a "welcome home" gift that instantly turned my loving family into rabid killers. Somehow, I woke up. It' s the same day, the same anniversary. Esther is coming up the stairs, the locket in her hand, about to give me the gift that will trigger their bloodlust again. This time, I refuse. But Esther is cunning, and soon, I'm dodging my family's crazed attacks, desperately trying to expose their dark beliefs to the authorities. They look at me like I' m simply a troubled girl with an overzealous family. Knowing the law won't stop their fanaticism, I have no choice but to use their own twisted faith against them, no matter the cost, to finally break free.

The last thing I saw was Thunder’s bloodied jaws, closing in on me. My daughter, Sophia, lay broken a few feet away, already gone. Pain, then darkness. Then, with a gasp, I bolted upright, my heart hammering like a drum. I was back on the same rough porch, facing the same smug smirk of Old John. At the end of his chain was Thunder, the Australian Cattle Dog who had butchered my child and me. “Heard you were back in town, Isabella,” Old John rasped, his voice a cruel mockery of a welcome. “Brought you a little housewarming gift,” he added, pulling the chain as Thunder whined, straining to reach me, just like that first time. The memory crashed over me: Thunder’s lunge, the searing agony as his teeth tore my thigh, the hot gush of blood, and then, Sophia’s petrified screams followed by chilling silence as he turned to her. Old John had known my paralyzing fear of dogs, yet he had specifically brought this hulking beast to torment me. He had laughed when I pleaded, ignoring the danger, using the dog as his personal weapon. Every horrifying detail, every agonizing moment of Sophia’s brutal death and my own demise, flooded my mind with chilling clarity. But this time, as Thunder lunged forward once more, I forced my trembling legs to stop. No. Not again. This time, things would be different.

My name is Sarah, and I remember the cold. Not the chill of winter, but the stainless-steel table against my back. My sons, Michael and Gabriel, were gone, their screams replaced by silence. My husband David, blinded by ambition, led us to that abandoned clinic. His sister, Veronica, craved an heir for her powerful husband, Senator Harrison. She believed my "Legacy Fertility" and my children's "vital essence" could help her. A quack "expert" performed monstrous acts on my seven-year-old twins. Then it was my turn; they brutally harvested my ovarian tissue. I was left to bleed out on a filthy floor, my insides torn. I died there, a vow of revenge frozen on my lips. Later, I saw Veronica on the news, pregnant and glowing with what she stole. But then, warmth. Sunlight. My eyes snapped open to my own familiar bedroom. Michael was on my chest, Gabriel curled beside me, both alive, young, and whole. The calendar read October 14th—the very day it all began. The memory slammed into me: David's averted eyes, the isolated building, Veronica's cold voice, Michael's terror, Gabriel's whimper. This wasn't a dream; this was a second chance. Veronica, triumphant in my first life, had risen on my family's ashes, her belly swelling with a lie while mine was emptied by her greed. No. Not again. This time, I wouldn't just survive. I would take everything she had, everything she wanted. Her husband. Her position. Her future. My revenge would be absolute, and my children would live. The game had begun.