Shangyou Fusu

My husband, Jackson, was holding hands with a dead woman. For five years, I believed my adoptive sister, Scarlett, had died in a fiery car crash. My perfect, blissful marriage was built on her ashes. But tonight, at a charity gala, I saw her hidden in the shadows with him. She was alive, and beside them stood a little boy with my husband’s dark, curly hair. I overheard everything. My family had faked her death, destroyed evidence to save her from prison, and set her up in a beautiful new life. My marriage wasn't love. It was a five-year "penance," a sacrifice Jackson made to keep me from asking questions while he, my parents, and my "dead" sister lived as a secret family. My phone buzzed. A text from her, taunting me. “You should come see all the beautiful things my family has given me.” When Jackson found me moments later, his face a mask of fake concern, the urge to scream was a physical force inside me. But I swallowed it down. I looked into the eyes of the man who had demolished my world, forced a smile, and pulled him into an embrace that felt colder than the grave Scarlett was supposed to be in.

The Healer told me I was finally pregnant. After two years of doubt, I was carrying the heir to the Blackstone Pack. This pup was supposed to be the key to our future, solidifying my place as the Alpha's Luna. But just as the joy set in, a Mind-Link from my best friend shattered my world. It was an image of my mate, Damien, pressing another woman against a wall, his mouth devouring hers. When I confronted him, he dismissed it as "blowing off steam," blaming the pressure of needing an heir. But the real blow came when I overheard his mother praising his mistress, Seraphina. She was six months pregnant with what they called a "true Blackstone heir." While I, his fated mate, was just an "empty shell." Fifteen years of love and loyalty, all for nothing. The business empire I built for our pack was just a tool. Our pup, the miracle I was cherishing, was worthless to them. I was just a political necessity with a weak bloodline, waiting to be replaced. That night, at the Full Moon Celebration, I was supposed to announce my pregnancy and beg for their acceptance. Instead, I walked onto the stage, looked Damien in the eye, and spoke the ancient words of severance. Then, I opened a private channel to the one man who could help me burn it all to the ground. "Kaelan," I sent. "I agree to your plan."

My mother' s hand, fragile as a bird' s wing, tightened around mine. For eighteen years, she' d sacrificed everything, her hands chapped and sore from cleaning houses, all so I could go to Northwood University. But with her dying breath, she whispered a secret that shattered my world: "Your father… Richard Thompson." Richard Thompson. The tech mogul whose face graced magazine covers. My father. It was impossible. A fever dream. "He has to matter now," she rasped, revealing a promise he' d made to care for me. The last thing she said before the flatlining monitor screamed her final moments was, "He will hate it. He will hate you. But he will do it. Make him keep his promise." I walked out of that hospital an orphan, holding a crumpled number that was both lifeline and curse. When the sleek black car pulled up to my crumbling apartment, I knew my life was over-and just beginning. My new home felt like a museum, or a very expensive prison. My half-siblings, Emily and Ben Thompson, greeted me with icy disdain. "Stay in your lane," Ben sneered, "The one you came from." I was a ghost in their pristine mansion, eating alone, walking on tiptoes, a cheap paperback thrown in the trash when I dared leave a trace. Then came the university lecture, taught in French, which I couldn't understand. My scholarship, my mother' s sacrifice, felt meaningless. Just as panic swelled, Ben, still with closed eyes, slid his tablet onto my desk. Real-time translation, a silent lifeline, an unexpected act of protection. "Don' t fall behind. It' s embarrassing," he grunted. And then Jessica, the girl I thought was a friend, outed me in the cafeteria. "So you' re the tech mogul' s bastard daughter," she announced, her voice dripping with venom. She mocked my mother, sneered at my attempts to belong, and shoved me, my lunch tray clattering to the floor. I saw red. Something inside me snapped. I lunged, my fist connecting with her nose. Blood, screams, chaos. Expulsion loomed. But my father didn' t come. He sent his assistant, who bought off Jessica' s family with a briefcase full of cash. Another message: I was worthless, easily bought, and completely alone. The bullying escalated. Vandalized lockers, spilled books, tripping hazards. No one would sit with me. I ate lunch in a bathroom stall, enduring it all in silence. Until one afternoon, in a deserted alley, Jessica and her friends cornered me. "No one' s here to save you now," she gloated, "Your rich daddy doesn' t care, and your fake siblings hate you." Just as the football players moved in, a black Audron screeched around the corner. Ben and Emily emerged, their faces cold and menacing. Ben punched a football player, breaking his nose. Emily slammed Jessica' s head against a brick wall, dragging her whimpering form before me. "You touched our sister," Emily' s voice was dangerously quiet. "She is a Thompson. Now you know the rule." Back at the mansion, in the aftermath, Ben explained their silent contempt. "We hate you, but you' re our problem. And we don' t let anyone else mess with our problems." Then, in the sterile bathroom, with Emily bandaging my cuts, they revealed their mother' s tragic death, her art destroyed by Richard. And how their own dreams had been crushed by his iron will. My gift, the glass butterfly, had not been an offering. It had been a ghost. My tears, long held back, finally fell. "He' s trying to break you," I whispered to Ben in the cold, dark basement where Richard had imprisoned us. "He wants obedient successors," Ben replied, recounting his dreams of game development, his mother' s art, all crushed by Richard' s ambition. "I hate him," Ben confessed, his voice raw. "Me too," I whispered back, a cold, hard rage solidifying within me. Then, Emily' s studio, a vibrant space of creation, was a scene of methodical, vicious destruction. Her hands, tools of her trade, wrapped in bandages, tendons severed. "He cut her," Maria, the maid, sobbed. "She will never… sew again." My fear burned away, replaced by a cold, clarifying rage. "You' re the only one he can' t break," Emily said, her empty eyes burning with desperate intensity. "You have to be our shield, Sarah. You have to be our weapon. Get strong. Get smart. You have to be the one to break him." "Okay," I said, my voice steady and clear. "I will."

"I need you to be understanding, Ethan." Chloe' s voice barely registered as she packed, her thumb flying across her phone screen. My girlfriend of three years, who I' d poured my heart and soul, and every penny I earned, into building her company, was leaving. Not for a business trip, but for her ex-boyfriend, Jake. His father had just passed away, and apparently, only Chloe truly understood him. "He needs me," she' d said, as if that explained everything. I sat on the edge of our shared bed, the words like a physical blow. Then came the kicker. "And my dad," she continued, "You know his health is fragile. He needs to see that I'm with a man who is supportive and understanding." This wasn' t just about Jake' s grief; it was a twisted test for me to prove my worth by financing her emotional affair. My money was good enough for her father' s exorbitant medical bills, my time good enough to build her empire, but my feelings? An inconvenience to be suppressed. A cold clarity settled in my gut: it was over. She didn't even say thank you when I handed her all the cash I had and the keys to my car-the car she demanded, along with money for Jake' s "funeral expenses." "I knew you'd understand," she' d said, just before walking out the door, leaving me in the sudden silence of the apartment I paid for, heading to comfort another man. The second the door clicked shut, I moved. Not with anger or hurt, but with a cold, clear purpose. I packed my work, my clothes, everything I owned-leaving behind every trace of her. Then, I canceled every payment to her and her demanding father. "It' s over, Chloe. Don' t come back to the apartment. You are on your own." I blocked her number, her social media. I felt only profound relief. For the first time in a long time, my future was mine.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the ER flickered over Sylvia' s pale face, her party dress torn, mascara smudged. She was my vibrant, wild fiancée-to-be, now fragile and broken from a "roofie" incident. I knelt at her gurney, proposing in that sterile room, promising to be her anchor, to always keep her safe. My life as a simple craft brewery manager felt real with her, far from the corporate schemes of my wealthy family. But the night before our engagement party, rushing to find her, I found her apartment door slightly ajar. Then I heard it: "Wasn't the fake roofie stunt enough? This isn't fair to Caleb!" and her callous response, "Caleb's just too... vanilla. I have needs." The 'roofie'-a performance. My devotion, my comfort, my entire world built on her calculated lie for "content." The woman I loved, mocked me, played me for a fool, shamelessly indulging in an illicit party with her sleazy manager. Every word of sincerity, every act of tenderness I gave her, was met with cold, manipulative mockery. How could the woman I was ready to marry be so utterly fake, so greedily hollow, so ruthlessly cruel? My world collapsed, but in the ruins, a new, chilling clarity emerged. I pulled out my phone, scrolled past her name, and dialed a number I hadn't touched in a year. "Dad. About that merger... I'm in." She thought she was playing games with a vanilla brewery manager. She had no idea she was messing with Caleb Wright, the heir to Wright Oil. The game was far from over. It had just begun.

For thirty years, I lovingly maintained our family home, a legacy from my parents. Now, in my late fifties, a promise resonated: the Italy trip my husband, David, made me under wedding fireworks. When I finally brought up that cherished dream, he scoffed, "Too old for that." Days later, on his laptop, I saw it: five plane tickets to Rome and Florence. For David, our son Mike, his wife Jessica, our grandson Leo. And my sister, Emily. Not for me. My dream trip, his very promise, was given to everyone else—especially Emily, whom David openly admired. This wasn't an oversight; it was a deliberate, casual cruelty. I drove them to the airport, listening to their excited chatter. At the curb, David publicly humiliated me over a "lost" passport, grabbing my arm. Even after it was found, he didn't apologize. They just rushed to the gate, leaving me alone. No one looked back. The humiliation burned, hotter than anything before. My family, my entire life, simply walked away, discarding me. Thirty years of giving, of being taken for granted, culminated in this brutal moment. This was my reward. I watched them disappear, then turned and walked out of the airport for good. I drove straight to a real estate agent, listing the house—my house, inherited and solely in my name. Then, I booked my own one-way ticket: Paris, France. My flight was in three days, the same day they were due in Rome. My old life was over.

The rune manipulating skill was such an honor that it shouldn't be taken lightly. This incredible power honored her family for a century but at a greater price. Her grandfather had no choice but to disguise her as a man named Albert. It was the only way to protect the power she was born to yield. However, it was futile in the end. Murdered in cold blood, and by her sister no less. It still wasn't over though. She had reached the zenith of rune manipulation and achieved immortality. Reborn in a new body, it was time to avenge herself.

The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world. In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief." But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius. Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be.

Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun. Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos. As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage. The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice. Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her.

Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.

The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand. Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn. She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back.

Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered. Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak. She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her. Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears. Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home."

Her sister is marrying her ex. So she brings her best friend as her fake fiancé. What could possibly go wrong? Savannah Hart thought she was over Dean Archer-until her sister, Chloe announces she's marrying him. The same man Savannah never stopped loving. The man who left her heartbroken... and now belongs to her sister. A weeklong wedding in New Hope. One mansion full of guests. And a very bitter maid of honor. To survive it, Savannah brings a date-her charming, clean-cut best friend, Roman Blackwood. The one man who's always had her back. He owes her a favor, and pretending to be her fiancé? Easy. Until fake kisses start to feel real. Now Savannah's torn between keeping up the act... or risking everything for the one man she was never supposed to fall for.

My wealthy husband, Nathaniel, stormed in, demanding a divorce to be with his "dying" first love, Julia. He expected tears, pleas, even hysteria. Instead, I calmly reached for a pen, ready to sign away our life for a fortune. For two years, I played the devoted wife in our sterile penthouse. That night, Nathaniel shattered the facade, tossing divorce papers. "Julia's back," he stated, "she needs me." He expected me to crumble. But my calm "Okay" shocked him. I coolly demanded his penthouse, shares, and a doubled stipend, letting him believe I was a greedy gold digger. He watched, disgusted, convinced I was a monster. He couldn't fathom my indifference or ruthless demands. He saw avarice, not a carefully constructed facade. His betrayal had awakened something far more dangerous. The second the door closed, the dutiful wife vanished. I retrieved a burner phone and a Glock, ready to expose the elaborate lie he and Julia had built.

The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.

My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.