Shelby Helliwell's Books and Stories
Severed Bond: The White Wolf's Second Chance
My husband stood over our son's cold, blue body, his eyes filled with pure hatred. "You killed him," Eli growled, using his Alpha tone to force me into submission. "You were too busy with your research to watch our heir." I broke. I accepted the punishment. I let them drag me to the water cells where the silver burned my skin. I let his "cousin" Kasey pour my son’s ashes into a filthy sewer grate while Eli stood by and watched, stone-faced. He stripped me of my title, my clothes, and threw me into the Rogue lands to rot. But in the ruins of the old temple, the Moon Goddess showed me the truth. I wasn't the only one distracted that day. While our three-year-old screamed for his daddy from the water, Eli heard him. He heard him, but he didn't come. Because he was in the boathouse, entangled in the sheets with Kasey. He ignored our son's dying cries to satisfy his lust. The pain was too much. To survive the agony, I chose the Ritual of Oblivion. I paid the ultimate price: I erased my memories of them. All of them. Years later, as the revered White Wolf Luna, I walked down the grand staircase of the Lycan palace. A man I didn't recognize fell to his knees in front of the crowd, weeping, clutching at the hem of my silver dress. "Harper, please! It’s me, Eli! Remember our baby!" I tilted my head, looking at him with polite indifference. "I'm sorry, sir." "I have no mate named Eli."
My Escape From His Poisonous Love
For seven years, my husband, Dwight, was a saint for publicly forgiving me for letting his mother die. Today, he let my father die. And I learned his forgiveness was just a seven-year-long lie. He refused to send a medical helicopter, choosing instead to listen to his new, twenty-two-year-old lover, Charity, preach about the universe's plan. At my father's funeral, she crashed the service in a wedding dress, drew a clown smile on my father's face with lipstick, and announced she was pregnant. "You're a barren wasteland," she sneered. "A broken woman he can't stand the sight of." That's when I understood. His forgiveness was never real. It was a slow-burning revenge for a crime his own mother had orchestrated against me-a crime that left me unable to ever have children. He thought he had taken everything from me. He was wrong. He left me one thing: revenge. And I was about to burn his entire world to the ground.
A Mother's Heart, A Cruel Lie
I went to the bank to set up a surprise trust fund for my twins' sixth birthday. For six years, I’d been the loving wife of tech mogul Gavyn Dunlap, and I believed my life was a perfect dream. But my application was rejected. The manager informed me that according to the official birth certificates, I wasn't their legal mother. Their mother was Iliana Dudley—my husband’s first love. I raced to his office, only to overhear the devastating truth from behind his door. My entire marriage was a sham. I was chosen because I resembled Iliana, hired as a surrogate to carry her biological children. For six years, I had been nothing more than a free nanny and a "comfortable placeholder" until she decided to return. That night, my children saw my heartbroken state and their faces twisted in disgust. "You look awful," my daughter sneered, before giving me a shove. I tumbled down the stairs, my head cracking against the post. As I lay there bleeding, they simply laughed. My husband walked in with Iliana, glanced at me on the floor, and then promised to take the kids for ice cream with their "real mom." "I wish Iliana was our real mom," my daughter said loudly as they left. Lying alone in a pool of my own blood, I finally understood. The six years of love I had poured into this family meant nothing to them. Fine. Their wish was granted.
Her Shattered Heart, His Cruel Betrayal
My husband's pregnant mistress disappeared, and he accused me of kidnapping her. To force a confession, he dragged a writhing burlap sack into the living room, threatening to beat the "stray dog" inside if I didn't tell him where she was. I screamed that our son, Jalen, was inside. He just laughed, calling me a liar as he raised an iron poker. I watched, helpless, as he brought it down again and again, ignoring my pleas. Through the blood-soaked fabric, I heard our son's last, faint whisper: "Daddy…" As if that wasn't enough, he then had his men drag me to a back room to punish me for his mistress’s supposed miscarriage. They left me broken on the floor, my son dead and my soul shattered. With nothing left to live for, I threw myself into the ocean. But I was saved. And when I opened my eyes, I made a vow. I would return, and I would drag them both down to the hell they built for me.
A Jilted Lover's Triumphant Return
The new house smelled of fresh paint, a fresh start for Ava Miller, a successful tech entrepreneur, her loving husband Liam, and their two-year-old son, Leo. Her peaceful suburban dream shattered when a car pulled up, and out stepped her aunt and cousin-faces she hadn't seen since she left her old life behind. "Ava! We heard you moved into the neighborhood! What a surprise!" her aunt chirped, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. Her cousin' s sly glance past Ava signaled trouble: "We ran into Ethan Hayes's mother... She was saying how much Ethan still misses you." The name hung in the air, a poisonous cloud. Ethan Hayes, her college sweetheart, the man who publicly humiliated her by announcing his engagement to another woman at their supposed engagement party. They twisted the knife, claiming Ethan still pined for her, ignoring her cold silence, daring to suggest reconciliation. Then came the final insult, "His mother said he' s not happy with Chloe. He' s still waiting for you, Ava." A strange calm settled over Ava. The heartbroken girl they knew was dead. "I appreciate your concern," Ava said, a polite, chilling smile on her face. "But I think there's been a misunderstanding." She pulled Liam forward, her husband of two years, and gestured to Leo, playing happily in the yard. "This is my husband, Liam. And that's our son, Leo." Their smiles shattered, replaced by stunned silence. The image they held of her-the pining, discarded lover-crumbled before the woman she had become. After all this time, after all she had endured, did they truly believe she was still the same person, waiting for the man who broke her? Her past, once a painful scar, became her shield. The calm in her voice held a dangerous promise: Her life with Liam was not a misunderstanding, but a meticulously built fortress against the ghosts she had outrun.
Three Years, A Shattered Reality With The Heir
Three years. Three years of marriage to Olivia Reed, the woman who redefined my world. On our anniversary, I went to sign the final papers for our joint asset trust, a mere formality. But the city clerk told me words that shattered my reality: "According to our records, you are not legally married to Olivia Reed." My laughter died in my throat when she added, "There is a record of a marriage for Ms. Olivia Reed... to Alex Thorne. It was filed two years ago." Alex Thorne. My protégé. The talented young architect I'd mentored, the man I trusted after our ceremony. The wedding certificate, the grand gestures, the vows-all lies. Every single one. I pieced it together: Olivia's sad eyes, her whispers of a "replacement" while I was overseas, her tears and apologies for being "paranoid" about Alex when I returned. Now, I heard her cooing to him on the phone, "To him, I'm his devoted wife. To the world, you' re my husband. It' s a perfect arrangement. I have his love and your legal status. I have everything." Everything. And I had nothing. I was a sham. A joke. The love I felt, a towering structure, crumbled to dust. There was no rage. Just a cold, empty void. Then, the sculpture crashed. Olivia chose him, shielding him, letting the heavy steel frame slam into me, crushing bones. Lying broken in the hospital, I watched her dote on him while ignoring me. I realized she had intended to erase me. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't an accident. This was a brutal choice, a calculated punishment. Ethan Miller, the trusting fool, was dead. I decided then. I wasn' t confronting her. I was disappearing. And then, when she least expected it, I would take it all away.
His Cruelest Game
For three torturous years, I lived as a ghost in my own life. Haunted by the car crash I believed killed my sister, Savannah, and crippled her boyfriend, Ethan, I dedicated myself to his care. He was my tormentor, using my guilt as his chain. Then, one stormy night, I walked into a honky-tonk bar and heard the laughter. It was Ethan, boasting to his friends: "Three whole years she's bought it. Wiping my ass, feeding me like a baby, all because she thinks she crippled me." My world didn't just crack; it shattered when I saw him stand and dance. His paralysis was a lie. My three years of devotion, his meticulous act of revenge. He didn't stop there. He moved me to a dusty tack room, forced me to watch him replace my sister, and then, in a sadistic climax, lured me to a hunting cabin. There, he and his friends humiliated me, filming my terror. Broken, I faked my own death, escaping to Oregon, shedding my identity to become Anna. I found love and a future, finally breathing again. But fate has a cruel sense of irony. Ethan, now truly paralyzed by psychosomatic trauma triggered by my "death," was sent to a clinic in my new city. Our eyes met across a busy street, and his desperate cry, "Sarah!" tore through my new life. He tried to control me again, but I was no longer the girl he broke. Standing tall with the man I loved, I unleashed three years of silenced truth. "You killed Savannah," I declared, exposing his role in her desperation. "And the hunting cabin? You filmed that for amusement!" He stared, utterly defeated, as the truth of his monstrous acts finally consumed him. This time, I didn't run. I stood defiant, free, ready to marry the man who showed me what true love was. My past was behind me, and my own future, filled with quiet happiness, had just begun.
Poisoned Love, Buried Truth
Eight months pregnant with twins, I lived a dream on the vast Montana ranch with my loving husband, Ethan. That dream shattered when Pastor Davies and Ethan' s "friend" Brenda Hayes poisoned Ethan' s mind, twisting my pregnancy into a "bad omen" and my babies into "another man' s." Believing them, Ethan turned monstrous. He forced a C-section, ripping our twins from me, burying them in unmarked graves. Weak and heartbroken, I endured public humiliation, snakebites, forced confessions, and his chilling contempt, until my last breath in a freezing cellar. He believed Brenda's every cruel, manipulative lie. How could the man I loved, my twins' father, believe such monstrous fabrications? This brutal betrayal, driven by pure malice, burned with an unbearable injustice. But my death was only release. My spirit watched as Ethan, finally shown Brenda' s horrific deceit, plummeted into unbearable regret. He unleashed brutal revenge on those who destroyed us. While his sanity fractured and his world dissolved, I, Sarah, found peace, reunited with my beloved twins in a new beginning, leaving his tormented soul to eternity's judgment.
Eighteen Again: And He's Out
The acrid smell of smoke choked Sarah Miller, her leg a searing agony as flames licked at her home. Just moments ago, her husband, Rick, had shoved her down the stairs, breaking her leg, then watched calmly as the faulty wiring he ignored ignited their house. Trapped and engulfed by the roaring fire, Sarah screamed his name, but no answer came. He was gone, abandoning her for worthless papers, leaving her for dead in the inferno stoked by his own negligence and rage. Twenty years of selfless support, of being his scapegoat and bankroll, all culminated in this cruel, final act. The betrayal burned hotter than the flames. How could the man she sacrificed everything for simply leave her to die, blaming her even in her last moments? The injustice, the monumental waste of her life, consumed her. Her bitter last thought: "I wish I' d never met Rick Peterson. I wish I could do it all over again, without him." Then, darkness. She awoke, not in a choking inferno, but in her childhood bedroom, sunlight streaming through familiar windows. It was 1995. She was eighteen again, at the cusp of meeting the man who would ruin her. Her wish had come true. This time, things would be different. This time, Rick Peterson would feel the full force of a woman who finally chose herself.
The Architect's Reckoning
I was on top of the world. Fresh off winning the National Design Award, my future as an architect in D.C. was limitless. Seraphina, the dazzling daughter of a Senator, was on my arm. That night, I planned to propose. But then came Marcus, her war-hero cousin, and everything shattered. In front of the city's elite, Sera chose him, declaring her new path, and publicly humiliated me with a stinging slap across my face. The next day, Senator Vance "informally" rescinded our engagement and canceled my project. My promising D.C. career was over, replaced by an exile to a grueling, isolated project in rural West Virginia. Broken and alone, I fell desperately ill, clinging to life in a rundown cabin. While fighting for survival, I received their wedding announcement-a seemingly cruel final blow, a double happiness symbol that felt like a twisted joke. I couldn't comprehend how the woman who had promised me forever could discard me so utterly, so publicly, then send a joyous wedding invitation while I lay dying. Was I truly so worthless that I deserved this utter destruction, this banishment where no one cared if I lived or died? But fate had other plans. A local herbalist, Clara, found me, nursed me back to health, and saved my life. We built a quiet, real life together, found true happiness, and started a family. Now, five years later, a husband and father, I' m back in D.C., and the ghost of my past, Seraphina, is demanding answers.
The Girl Who Forgot Love
I woke up disoriented, the harsh hospital lights blinding me. My parents, faces pale and strained, sat by my bedside. They said I' d had a breakdown, a public humiliation at the Spring Fling. My boyfriend, Ethan. He had betrayed me. But as they spoke, a chilling truth settled over me: I remembered the facts, but the feelings were gone. The doctors explained it as dissociative amnesia – specifically, all emotional connection to Ethan had vanished. He visited, demanding I "remember us," utterly confused, even arrogant, when I offered only polite detachment. His parents tried too, bringing mementos of our past. I felt nothing but a quiet void where love, or even anger, should have been. Everyone around me was frantic for the 'old Ava,' heartbroken and distraught. But I wasn't. There was just this calm, unsettling emptiness, like reading a sad story about a character I barely knew. Why was everyone else more upset about my memory loss than I was? Was I broken? Who was I without the girl who'd loved him so fiercely, only to be shattered? Feeling like a disconnected observer in my own life, a fraudulent smile plastered on my face, I knew I couldn't pretend anymore. I needed to find out who Ava Miller was, now. Desperate for answers, I sought professional help. And that' s when destiny, or perhaps just a very small town, intervened. My new psychologist was Liam Walker: my kind, long-lost childhood friend, whose presence felt strangely, comfortingly like home.
