Rafael

I am the best trauma surgeon in the New York mafia. For five years, I used my underground surgical earnings to fund my fiancé Dante's rise to Capo. But after a grueling six-hour surgery saving his soldier, I walked out into the pouring rain to find his new ward, Sofia, sitting in my front passenger seat. In our world, the front seat of a Capo's car is a throne that belongs exclusively to his future wife. Yet Sofia was sitting there, wearing his tailored coat and drinking from the custom silver flask I bought him. When I confronted them, Dante didn't apologize. Instead, he publicly humiliated me. "Just get in the back, Serena. She is a traumatized kid having a panic attack." He demanded I bend the knee to an associate, completely disregarding my authority and our sacred blood oath. Sofia looked at me with wide, artfully innocent eyes, but hid a victorious smile behind my flask. I had laundered half a million dollars to build his marital fortress. I had bought his loyalty with my own blood and scalpel. Why was he treating my five years of absolute devotion like garbage over a manipulative girl's fake tears? I didn't argue, and I didn't beg for his love. I simply took off the massive diamond betrothal ring, dropped it into a biohazard bin full of clotted blood, and walked away. If he wanted to give away my seat, I would take back my money, destroy his standing, and let the ultimate Boss of Bosses court me instead.

On my fifth wedding anniversary, I wasn't arranging flowers; I was staging my own death. My husband, Graham, treated me like a prized accessory, but the antique watch on his nightstand revealed the brutal truth. It was engraved "Forever, Elia"-proof that his heart belonged to his business partner, not me. So I vanished into the ocean, letting the world believe I had drowned. For two years, I lived as "Anna," finding peace in a small coastal town and rediscovering my art. But the past has a way of clawing its way back. Elia tracked me down, storming into my pottery studio with a weapon, screaming that my "death" had ruined Graham. She lunged, and I took the blow to protect a child. That' s when the door burst open. Graham stood there, frozen, staring at his "late" wife bleeding on the floor. He fell to his knees, sobbing, begging to destroy his empire just to have me back. I looked at the man I once worshipped and felt nothing but cold indifference. "I loved the man you pretended to be," I told him. "But that man never existed."

I was engaged to Bradly Warner, a union meant to merge our family empires. In my past life, I poured my soul into his failing company, making him a titan of industry while he treated me with cold indifference. But a near-fatal accident gave me a second chance, flooding my mind with memories of his ultimate betrayal. I remembered how he and my cousin, Janell, flaunted their affair, publicly shaming me while I was trapped in a loveless marriage. They stole my work, took my fortune, and left me to die alone, a fool who had given everything for nothing. He never loved me. I was just a convenient tool, an obsession he could control and discard. So when I woke from my coma, back at the start of it all, I made a new vow. At the gala where he planned to humiliate me, I looked him in the eye and announced I was marrying someone else. His powerful, reclusive uncle, Garrison.

For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big. On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe." Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero." Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends. "She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy." Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder. I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number. "Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."

I was eight months pregnant with the heir to my husband's criminal empire, a man I adored. Then I found his vasectomy certificate, dated a year ago—six months before he begged me for a son. Our entire marriage was a lie, a cruel game orchestrated for his obsessive sister. I overheard him admit he let his men defile me, turning my pregnancy into a public bet just to prove he could build me a throne and then watch me burn on it. My love, my life, my child—it was all a ritual sacrifice. But they forgot one thing about the woman they planned to destroy. As they plotted my final humiliation, I made a single call to the one man my husband truly fears. "Dad," I said quietly. "I'm ready to come home."

The crystal shattered, a scream tearing through the quiet afternoon. It was followed by a tiny, terrified gasp from my four-year-old daughter, Lily. I found her frozen in the doorway of Ethan' s study, surrounded by the glittering shards of his limited-edition crystal set. When Ethan appeared, a cold presence blocking the light, he didn' t look at Lily or me, only the broken crystals. "This was a gift," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "From Chloe." Chloe Davis, his spiritual mentor, the ghost in our marriage. "Ethan, it was an accident," I pleaded, shielding Lily. But he ignored me, pulling Lily from my grasp. "Discipline is not a punishment. It is a teaching." He dragged her toward the soundproof meditation room, her panicked sobs echoing: "No, Daddy! Not the quiet room! It' s dark!" "Ethan, no! She' s terrified of enclosed spaces!" I cried, but he pushed her inside. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing off her screams. When he finally let me out an hour later, Lily was gone. No pulse. No breath. Nothing. Hours later, the TV in the living room showed Ethan on a stage, smiling, declaring his devotion to Chloe. My heart shattered, replaced by a cold, hard thought. I called my lawyer. "It' s Sarah Miller. Please draft a divorce agreement for me." The doorbell rang. It was Ethan' s mother, Mrs. Hayes, offering me a staggering check for his "carelessness." "He wasn' t careless," I said, pushing it back. "He was cruel. Your son killed my daughter." I expected shock. I didn' t expect Chloe Davis to walk through my front door, looking like a distressed angel, instantly comforted by Ethan. As she hugged him, she looked at me with a flash of pure, triumphant victory. This wasn't an accident. This was an execution, and she orchestrated it. The cold emptiness inside me ignited into a white-hot rage.

The antiseptic smell was sharp, the ceiling a stark white as I blinked myself awake, the rhythmic beeping of a machine my only company. A dull ache pinned me to the mattress, and I stared at the IV in my arm, a blank slate where memories should have been. Then, the door swung open, and three figures walked in: my impeccably dressed adoptive parents and my effortlessly confident adoptive brother, Liam. "Oh, for God's sake, Ethan. Are you done with this charade? Another one of your pathetic stunts to get attention," my adoptive mother, Mrs. Reed, sighed, her face a mask of weary frustration. My adoptive father, Mr. Reed, didn't even look at me, his gaze fixed on Liam. Liam stepped forward, a perfect blend of concern and superiority. "I'm just worried about Ethan. He seems... confused." Confusion turned to panic as their words landed like stones, painting a picture of a disappointing, burdensome person I didn't recognize. "Who... who are you?" I rasped, my voice foreign even to myself. Mrs. Reed scoffed. "Now he's pretending to have amnesia. How original." Then, Olivia, my wife, entered, her presence commanding, her eyes cold. "Is he done making a fool of himself? And me?" she cut through the air, her voice frigid. "The press is already sniffing around. 'Tech CEO Olivia Reed's husband in another suicide attempt.' Is this the life you want for me, Ethan?" Humiliation washed over me as whispers from the hallway confirmed my role: the artist who married Olivia Reed, pitied for his pathetic attempts, rumored to be in a loveless marriage with a woman who loved his brother. They left eventually, leaving me with the silence, the beeping, and a profound realization. This emptiness wasn't a void; it was a blank slate. The amnesia wasn't a curse; it was a mercy. It was a chance to escape a life I couldn't remember, a life that sounded like a prison. I fumbled for the phone, my finger landing on "Lawyer." "Ethan Miller," I said, my voice stronger now, filled with a newfound resolve. "We need to proceed."

"Welcome home, sister," Olivia purred, her voice dripping fake sympathy, her eyes gleaming with triumph. My stepsister. Standing at the top of the stairs in a soft white dress, looking every bit the innocent angel. Just hours before, I' d been the picture-perfect partner to tech mogul Liam, or so the world believed. We were the ultimate power couple, but our life was a beautifully constructed lie. I was his accessory, the woman he paraded while his true affections revolved around Olivia, his childhood friend, his "white moonlight." That night, I found a silver locket, a shrine to her, inscribed: My O. My life. It shattered the last illusion. Then, my father, seeing my broken spirit and ruined relationship, unveiled his plan: a marriage contract to the ailing Nathan for a critical business merger. A desperate escape, or so I thought. "You knew," I whispered, rage trembling in my voice, looking at my stepmother and Olivia. "You both knew all along." They were in on it. Olivia, my mousy, perpetually "ill" stepsister, was the architect of my humiliation, systematically undermining me, pulling her medical scares to sabotage my moments with Liam. But Liam' s betrayal wasn' t just about Olivia. He cut off my credit cards, left me penniless, and then, after dramatically "saving" me from my father' s goons, he threw me in a holding cell at the auction house where Olivia, with his blessing, stole my mother' s last heirloom. He had used me, not as a replacement, but as a pawn in a sick game to manipulate Olivia into confessing her feelings for him. The shock was a physical blow. My mother' s assistant confirmed it: Liam had engineered our entire relationship. I wasn't just second best; I was a calculated strategem. Empty, hollow, and utterly adrift, I walked back into the sterile silence of our penthouse. A cleansing fire. I burned it all down. Every lie. Every memory. "I don't know you," I told him, as the elevator doors closed. The next day, I accepted Nathan Lawford's marriage proposal.

I was a time traveler, driven by love to 1972, spending five years as a shadow to folk singer Nathaniel Hughes, crafting his career and believing I was finally winning his heart. But that dream shattered the night before our wedding when, in a moment of chaos, Nathaniel brutally shoved me aside to protect his childhood flame, Jennifer Clarkson. He didn't even see the wound, a deep gash on my shoulder, as he rushed to her, his true devotion laid bare. His casual gesture threw me to the ground, but his words, "Jennifer's safety is more important," cut deeper. How could I have been so blind, so foolish, to think I could outrun destiny and break a bond so profound? My love, my efforts, even my future knowledge, were just tools for him, eventually cast aside for the woman he truly adored. Then, caught in an anomaly during my forced return, I plummeted from the sky, my memories shattered, landing at the feet of "The Hatchet," Andrew Scott – an unexpected savior who would forge a new empire and choose me first.

My husband, Julian, a brilliant but reserved academic, and I, Eleanor, an artist obsessed with miniature dioramas, had built a quiet, seemingly perfect life together. Until she arrived. Isabelle Thorne, a character from an old gothic romance Julian was researching, took my body. One moment, I was sketching a new miniature, the next, I was a horrified ghost, watching her claim my life. She moved into my home, used my voice, wore my face, but her eyes held a cruel triumph. She was an actress, and my life was her stage. Helpless, I watched my husband fall deeper into her web. Her ultimate goal? To bear Julian a child, anchoring herself permanently to our world through a twisted ritual. The profound injustice, the sheer impossibility of it, chilled me more than the coldness of my ghostly form. Would Julian ever see through her perfect facade? Could anyone fight something that wasn't supposed to exist? But Julian, my quiet, bookish Julian, began to notice. The small slips, the missing affection. As suspicion hardened into a terrifying certainty, he uncovered her monstrous plan. Now, armed with forbidden knowledge and a desperate, dark resolve, Julian must play a dangerous game – to reclaim his life, avenge his love, and send this horrifying visitor back to the pages from which she spawned.

Ethan Vanderbilt, a wealthy heir, was deeply infatuated with genius coder Izzy Monroe, seeing past her aloofness to a promising future. He believed her fierce loyalty to her "brother" Leo was a sign of her good heart. His perfect world shattered at a Hamptons gala when he overheard Izzy openly mocking him with her "Vanguard" friends. Their true plan: to use him as a "meal ticket" for Leo, who wasn't just her brother, but her lover. Izzy' s betrayals escalated from a deliberate boat sabotage and his public humiliation at an auction, where she used his frozen funds to buy Leo an NFT. The ultimate insult came at his 25th birthday, when she unleashed deepfake videos to completely destroy his public image. How could the woman he adored, the one he trusted implicitly, be capable of such calculated malice and cold-hearted deceit? The pain of her betrayal was an open wound, fueling a relentless quest for understanding and justice. Fueled by ice-cold rage, Ethan decided his time as a pawn was over. With his unexpected ally, Sophia, he meticulously planned a ruthless counterattack to unveil every dark secret and ensure his tormentors faced their just, public downfall.

My hands trembled, clutching the small music box that held my son Leo' s ashes, as Dean Thompson slid the divorce papers across the desk. My husband, Mark, refused to acknowledge our boy was gone, completely convinced by my conniving sister, Laura' s, twisted tales that Leo was simply "visiting my parents." He called me hysterical, pathetic, accusing me of inventing Leo' s death just to manipulate him, all while lavishing attention on Laura' s son, Ethan, and ignoring our child' s memory. When I desperately needed Mark' s signature to legally transport Leo' s ashes for burial, he saw it as leverage, demanding I consent to his adoption of Ethan as a "trade." How could he be so willfully blind, so utterly cruel, to deny our beloved child's passing and weaponize my profound grief for Laura' s selfish gain? My heart shattered daily, not just from the immense loss, but from his relentless, unbearable dismissal of Leo and me. Then, disaster struck: a raging fire engulfed an apartment, and in the terrifying chaos, Mark chose them again – Laura and Ethan – abandoning me to the smoke and flames, with only Leo' s music box clutched to my chest. But amidst the inferno, I didn't die; I emerged from the ashes, a new woman, shedding the name Sarah Miller for a stronger identity: Sarah Astor. Now, as an influential journalist, I stand ready to confront the man who broke me, to claim my peace, and ensure Leo' s memory finally finds justice.

Sarah Miller, a brilliant software engineer, poured her genius and every last penny into rebuilding her disgraced tech mogul boyfriend, Ethan Knight. She sacrificed everything, even her own health enduring a miscarriage, to help him rise from the ashes and build a billion-dollar empire. But success revealed Ethan's true monstrous nature. He brought his heavily pregnant ex-girlfriend, Jessica, home, ordering Sarah to serve her. With his venomous mother, Eleanor, they turned Sarah' s life into a nightmare of relentless humiliation. The ultimate public degradation came at a charity gala when Ethan, in front of their wealthy peers, ordered Sarah to kneel and polish Jessica' s shoes with a cocktail napkin. Days later, Sarah discovered she was pregnant with Ethan's child, a secret flicker of hope. But his cruelty knew no bounds; after physically assaulting her, he locked her in a freezing garage on a bitter winter' s night. When she desperately revealed her pregnancy, he sneered, dismissing it as "manipulation." Abandoned and freezing, a chilling clarity settled over Sarah. The man she loved was gone, replaced by a monster more concerned with another woman's "important" pregnancy. In that dark, cold garage, she made the most agonizing, yet utterly resolute, decision of her life. When Jessica's lies finally unraveled, and a desperate Ethan, clutching Sarah's positive pregnancy test, begged for reconciliation, Sarah calmly shattered his world. "The baby is gone, Ethan," she whispered, "I had an abortion this morning. There is no 'us'." With that, she walked away, leaving him utterly ruined, her own path to healing finally begun.

My life was woven from Montana's wind and the whisper of ancient spirits, far from Washington D.C.'s noise. As a tribal healer, I lived connected to the land, but when my brother, Senator Julian Vance, called, his voice tight with desperation, I knew I had to go. His wife, Vicky, was dying, and modern medicine had failed her; I came to save her, to offer healing beyond what doctors understood. Instead, I stepped into a nightmare. The moment I arrived, Vicky lunged at me, eyes blazing with a jealousy I couldn't comprehend. She accused me of being a "homewrecker," her rage unchecked as her entourage joined in. They desecrated my sacred tools, the very conduits of my power, stomping them to splinters. My young apprentice, Lena, barely out of her teens, was mercilessly murdered protecting me. Then, in a final, horrifying act of malice, Vicky herself plunged a letter opener into my eyes, stealing my sight; I lay there, blind and broken, my world plunged into utter darkness. Why this monstrous, unprovoked assault? What deep-seated rot drove a woman to such extreme, unhinged violence against the very person trying to save her? How could such hatred be born from a false accusation? The pain of Lena's death and my stolen sight gnawed at my soul, demanding answers. Just as all hope seemed lost, Julian burst in, witnessing the horrific truth. His icy fury, a Senator's power unleashed, promised swift and absolute ruin for Vicky, but as I recovered, profound inner truths began to reveal themselves, forcing me to redefine justice, healing, and my own broken spirit.

My name is Marcus Costello, heir to a New York crime family, and today I was meant to choose my future wife from a lineup of my elite bodyguards, the "Guardian Angels." My mother, the Donna, sat across from me with their photos, but my mind was miles away, trapped in a dim, dusty warehouse by the docks. I remembered the smell of stale water and fear, and the agonizing pain of my own blood. In my first life, I chose Seraphina "Sera" Rossi, my beautiful childhood crush, Angel One. When rivals kidnapped me, I called her, my wife, my top guard, but she dismissed me, too "busy" seeing Leo Maxwell, the man she truly loved. She left me to be tortured for hours before a bullet ended it. The last thing I remembered was a desperate cry: Winter "Winn" Hayes, Angel Ten, found me, fought like a demon, and died trying to shield my already broken body. Her loyalty was a stark contrast to Sera's unforgivable treachery. Now, I was blinking back to reality, realizing I was sent back in time, back before the betrayal, to the moment of choice. A wave of nausea hit me as I saw Sera's arrogant smile on the top photo. I pushed her photo aside, then another, and another, until my hand stopped on the last one, Winter Hayes, Winn. "This one," I said, my voice steady, laying her photo on the table. My mother was surprised, but this time, I wouldn't be a fool. I had a second chance, and this time, I would live.

For seven years, I, the lead singer of "Static Bloom," harbored a secret love for our infuriatingly talented guitarist, Jack. Thanksgiving night was supposed to be our night, with his brother Noah also nursing a long-standing crush on my ex-best friend, Olivia. But neither Jack nor Olivia showed up where they were supposed to be. My phone buzzed with an Instagram notification, then a shared post appeared: Jack and Olivia, arms around each other, announcing, "Finally making it official. Happy Thanksgiving! ❤️" The photo, five years old, shattered my world, confirming years of their secret relationship and calculated deception. Jack, who’d recycled love songs for me, and Olivia, who’d used Noah as her dutiful admirer, saw us as naive pawns in their cruel game. Olivia later messaged, gloating and asking if I was "happy" for them, while Jack dismissed my seven years of devotion as "intense." Noah and I met, numb with betrayal, realizing how deeply and deliberately we had been played, their arrogant triumph stinging more than the heartbreak. The sheer audacity of their lies, the way they’d used our unwavering affection as a smokescreen for half a decade, burned with an unbearable injustice. How could they have been so cold, so manipulative, while we poured our hearts out? They truly believed they had won, that they were clever escaping the messy entanglements of their own making. Then, amidst the ashes of our shared misery, Noah looked at me, a wild glint in his eye, and dropped the bomb: "Let's get married, Emily." It was reckless, insane, gloriously petty, and the perfect chaotic revenge. To give them a surprise they wouldn't expect, we decided to tie the knot, turning betrayal into our most unexpected love story.

She fell for him at the first sight, but he knew nothing about it. What she had no idea about was that he had a secret crush on her. Thus, she chose another man and regarded him as her best friend. However, she could not lie to her heart. Every time she looked into his eyes, her heart skipped a heart. To shield her from the tricks and danger, he became her guardian angel in secret.

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up. As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress. The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me. The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one. With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered. I chose the one man they never expected. I chose his father, the Don himself.

My eyes struggled open, but a heavy weight held them shut. I was paralyzed, trapped in a cold hospital room, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor a cruel reminder of my mother's death. I, Elena Vitiello, who controlled everything, was now helpless, reduced to a slab of meat. Then I heard his footsteps. Dante. My husband, my anchor. But his voice was chillingly devoid of warmth as he ordered, "Do not increase the dosage. I will not risk damaging the organ's viability." The organ. My mind went blank, ice filling my veins. Trapped and unable to move, I realized Dante saw me only as a "political placeholder," never loving me. He was having my kidney removed, carved from my body like livestock, to save his mistress, Sofia-the woman whose messes I'd cleaned for ten years. His hand, usually my comfort, smeared away my tear with sheer disgust. The scalpel tore into my flesh, a blinding, white-hot agony. Every tug and pull hollowed me out, stripping away my potential, my love, my future. How could the man I bled for reduce me to a mere object, a spare part for his true love? The sheer insult of it fueled a volcanic rage. As my kidney was lifted out, the final illusion of our marriage shattered completely. My fear dissolved, replaced by a chilling, absolute calm. The darkness that embraced me was not defeat, but the coiling silence of a viper preparing to strike. This kidney was not a sacrifice. It was the down payment for Dante Moretti's life.

Kelvin held her wrist and pulled her into a room in the hotel. "What are you doing?" Amelia asked, trying to tug at him. "Don't pretend you don't want this too." He said, rubbing his thumb at her hard nipples threatening to tear out of her dress, his eyes watching as her body responded to him. He held her neck in the most seductive way and pinned her against the wall. His hand went up under her black dress tracing her skin in a calculated path, as his fingers touched her already soaked pants, Amelia let out a soft moan and pulled him closer with a kiss. *** Amelia found herself getting married to her ex-fiancé's brother, it was an almost perfect revenge. Only to find herself wrapped deeper in the evil hands of the brothers. Would she ever be able to get her revenge and find her true love? Explore a tale of romance, suspense, treachery, and love. The fascinating novel 'For Her Sake' will have you reading until the very last page.

For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne. But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.” My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love. He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter. They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party."

My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine. Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family. To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset. They both thought I was a broken doll they could control. I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice. She sang it, and now her career is over. Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground.

I was the fiancée of the Chicago Outfit’s heir, a bond sealed by blood and eighteen years of history. But when his mistress pushed me into the freezing pool at our engagement gala, Jax didn’t swim toward me. He swam past me. He scooped up the girl who pushed me, cradling her like fragile glass, while I struggled against the weight of my gown in the murky water. When I finally dragged myself out, shivering and humiliated before the entire underworld, Jax didn’t offer a hand. He offered a scowl. "You’re making a scene, Eliana. Go home." Later, when that same mistress shoved me down the stairs, shattering my knee and my dance career, Jax stepped over my broken body to comfort her. I overheard him telling his friends, "I’m just breaking her spirit. She needs to learn she’s property, not a partner. Once she’s desperate enough, she’ll be the perfect obedient wife." He thought I was a dog that would always return to its master. He thought he could starve me of affection until I begged for scraps. He was wrong. While he was busy playing protector to his mistress, I wasn't crying in my room. I was packing his ring into a cardboard box. I cancelled my transfer to UCLA and enrolled at NYU instead. By the time Jax realized his "property" was missing, I was already in New York, standing next to a man who looked at me like a queen, not a possession.

What's more embarrassing than a butt dial? Butt dialing your boss... And leaving a dirty voicemail when you're uhh... "thinking" about them. Working as Ruslan Oryolov's personal assistant is the job from hell. After a long day spent tending to the billionaire's every whim, I need some stress relief. So when I get home that night, that's exactly what I do. Problem is, my thoughts are still stuck on the bosshole who's ruining my life. That's fine-because of all Ruslan's many sins, being gorgeous might be the most dangerous. Tonight, fantasies of him are just what I need to push me over the edge. But when I look down at my phone squished next to me, There it is. A voicemail for 7 minutes and 32 seconds... Sent to Ruslan Oryolov. I panic and throw my phone across the room. But there is no undoing the damage done by my very vocal O. So what can I do? My plan was to just avoid him and act like it never happened. Besides, no one that busy checks their voicemails, right? But when he schedules a one-on-one meeting with me for exactly 7 minutes and 32 seconds, One thing is for certain: He. Heard. Everything.

To save my crumbling family, I was married off to Julian Moretti, the terrifying Underboss of the Chicago mafia. But he didn't even wait for the wedding reception to end before slipping Rohypnol into my champagne. I woke up on the cold marble floor of the penthouse, only to see my new husband sleeping with his long-time mistress right in front of me. He dragged my unconscious body there just to let me wake up to this humiliation, to show me I was nothing but discarded trash. When I escaped and returned home for help, my father threw a heavy crystal glass at my head. "You ruined us, you stupid bitch! Go back and beg for his mercy!" My stepmother cursed me for not knowing my place, while I discovered they had been embezzling my dead mother's trust fund to pay off debts. Even worse, the mistress in my husband's bed was actually my father's illegitimate daughter. My own family had served me to a Capo's bed just to beg for scraps, sacrificing my life for their beloved bastard. They all thought I was just the obedient, fragile Rossi princess they could easily manipulate and feed to the wolves. They expected me to cry, surrender, and let them bleed me dry. But the fragile mafia princess they knew was already dead. In her place, the dormant instincts of "Seraph"—the lethal Mossad operative I used to be—snapped awake. I wiped my husband's blood off my knuckles, stepped over his groaning body, and made a deal with his deadliest rival. This time, I'm going to burn their entire empire to the ground.

Arden Monroe was locked in a sterile psychiatric room by her own flesh and blood. Not long after, her brother Delmar arrived with a cold ultimatum. He demanded she publicly break her engagement so her fiancé Brenden could marry her half-sister Kallie. If she refused, the doctors would declare her legally unstable, and she would rot in this asylum forever. In her previous life, Arden fought back desperately. As a result, her family froze her trust fund and completely destroyed her reputation in high society. They even framed her fiercely loyal assistant, Jennie, throwing her into a terrifying concrete cell to silence her. When Arden had absolutely nothing left to take, they orchestrated a tragic accident. She was left to burn alive in an abandoned warehouse, feeling her own bones turn to ash. Until she died, she didn't understand. She was a Monroe, her father's legitimate daughter. Why did her father and brother hate her so much? Why did they collude with political enemies to slaughter her maternal grandfather and uncles just to strip away her protection? Opening her eyes again, the suffocating smoke was gone, and she was back on the day Delmar came to force the breakup. "I'll do what you want," Arden whispered, perfectly masking her cold, murderous resolve. This time, she would inherit the secret Beaumont wealth, ally with the dying General Donovan Mathews, and burn their world to the ground.