Tao Yaoyao

For ten years, my step-brother Mark was my anchor, my confidant, my entire world. Tonight, at a candlelit dinner, I was finally going to tell him I was in love with him. But just as I started to confess, he raised a glass to a beautiful stranger at the door. "Everyone," he announced with a joy that stabbed me in the heart, "meet my fiancée." The next morning, my step-father stripped me of the Aura project-my life's work-and gave it to her as a strategic gift for their new alliance. Mark, my supposed protector, told me not to be sentimental. It was "just business." Then I found the email, dated three weeks ago. It detailed their entire plan to sideline me, calling my passion "a variable to be managed." They saw me as a heartbroken girl, a sentimental fool they could easily discard. But that night, after I fled the restaurant, I ran into him. Julian Thorne. A ruthless corporate shark and my family's greatest enemy. He offered me a card. "Crying over them won't fix anything," he said. "But if you want to destroy them, I have a proposition." I made the call. "I'm in. What do I have to do?"

For seven years, I was the secret wife and ghostwriter for the famous author Holden Gillespie. I built his literary empire with my words, all while our marriage and our son, Leo, were kept hidden to protect his "single genius" image. Then he began a public affair with his new publicist, Kassidy. When I finally quit, he tried to kick me and our son out of our home to make room for her. The breaking point came on Leo's birthday. Holden showed up with a cake to "make things right." It was mango chiffon. He had forgotten-or never cared to know-that our son has a life-threatening allergy to mangoes. He almost killed his own child out of sheer, selfish negligence. In that moment, I knew it was over. I took our son, disappeared, and filed for divorce, cutting off all contact. But now, months later, he' s standing outside my new home in Santa Fe, looking desperate. "I'm not agreeing to this divorce," he says, his voice raw. "I never will."

The man I was about to marry was going to kill my father. I just didn't know it yet. I thought my wedding to the ruthless Don, Dante De Luca, was a love match that would finally bring peace between our warring families. But at the altar, instead of a ring, he revealed our engagement was a lie. It was a long con to avenge his aunt—my own mother—whom my senator father had secretly murdered. Then he shot my father dead in front of me. I was wounded trying to stop him and woke up his prisoner. The man I loved told me our entire relationship was just "business." He abandoned me to his new partner, a woman named Isabella, who made it clear I was nothing more than a loose end. He cut off all contact, erasing me completely, leaving me alone as the tainted daughter of a dead drug lord they called 'The Scorpion.' My whole life was a lie. My mother had been a spy for the enemy family she married into. My father was a monster. And Dante, my fiancé—my own cousin—had meticulously used my love to destroy everything I had ever known. So I let Alessia Gallo die. I disappeared and became Alma, a ghost in the cartel underworld, determined to finish the mission my mother started. Years later, he walked into my cantina, a man on a mission. He didn't recognize the hardened woman I'd become, and this time, he was the one walking into my trap.

I sacrificed everything for my husband, Ryan. My ambitions, my career, even turning down a dream job in another city to support his perfect image. I managed our home, believed his promises of devotion, and trusted him completely. Then, his college girlfriend, Chloe, reappeared after her husband's tragic death. He flew to her side, claiming to offer comfort. But when he returned, he brought her straight to our home, introducing her as though she belonged. That night, I heard them. Chloe' s soft voice, "I can' t believe she' s not even here to greet you." And Ryan' s reply, a cold, dismissive murmur that shattered my world: "Don' t worry about Ava. She' s just a placeholder, a shield. I married her to keep you from doing something reckless after we broke up. She was never the one." A placeholder. A shield. My entire marriage, a meticulously crafted lie designed to protect him and hide his true love. My heart pounded, a cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. In the days that followed, I endured their blatant affair in my own home. My bank account was emptied, my treasured family heirloom was stolen and broken, and I was thrown out of my own bedroom. When I finally confronted them, Ryan brutally struck me, then coldly told me he was divorcing me and I' d get nothing. Yet, despite the pain, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that something far more sinister was at play. Why had he been so insistent on my "minor surgery" years ago? What dark secrets did he truly hide beyond his betrayal? Driven by a desperate need for answers, I sought a new doctor, uncovering a truth so chilling, it shattered every last piece of my broken life: Ryan had secretly sterilized me, without my consent, ensuring I could never bear children. Now, with nothing left to lose, I began to plot my escape and his ultimate downfall.

The table was set for our 99th engagement anniversary, a running joke Chloe and I shared about my failed proposals. I touched the velvet box in my pocket, ready to finally make it real, when her phone buzzed-a call from her half-brother, Leo. Her face fell, and the warmth in the room vanished; she was already a thousand miles away, ready to drop everything for him, again. When I tried to explain what I knew in my gut-that a superstorm was coming for her grandmother' s coastal village-Chloe dismissed it as jealousy and ripped my data to shreds. Then, she called my boss and accused me of instability, getting me fired and disgraced, leaving me with nothing but the terrifying data screaming the truth. But her grandmother, and an entire village, were walking into a death trap, and I couldn't let that happen, even if it cost me everything.

My daughter, Lily, was finally starring in her kindergarten play, a tiny, radiant sun. My surgeon husband, David, promised he' d be there, but he was always "too busy saving lives." As Lily nervously scanned the audience for her hero, I spotted him. Not in the empty seat beside me, but across the auditorium, whispering and laughing with Victoria, his college sweetheart, and her daughter, Chloe. My heart shattered as Lily saw him too, her bright smile instantly extinguished, her little voice choking back tears. I covered the gaping hole his absence always left with another lie: "He' s a hero, an emergency surgery." But later that night, Lily' s fever spiked, and she began convulsing in her bed. Panic gripped me, my hands shaking as I dialed 911, then David' s number, over and over-only to be met with voicemails. In the ambulance on the way to the ER, I saw him through the window of a dessert shop: David, Victoria, and Chloe, sharing a comically large ice cream sundae, him beaming, playfully dabbing whipped cream on Chloe' s nose. He was building a perfect family with someone else while our daughter was fighting for her life. The following day, a fire alarm shrieked during a movie we watched, just Lily and I. Chaos erupted, and I lost Lily' s hand in the stampede. In the smoke and terror, I saw David, already at the exit, pulling Victoria and Chloe to safety. "David, it's Lily!" I screamed, our paths separated by feet, but a chasm of his making. He looked at his daughter, his own flesh and blood, terrified and alone, then turned his back and ran, leaving her behind. My daughter, my sunshine, was trampled to death. The doctor' s words echoed like a death knell: "She didn't make it." The man I married, the father of my child, chose another family over his own daughter, leaving her to die. He abandoned Lily, not just by turning away, but by living a double life that ultimately cost her everything. Now, he wants forgiveness, a second chance. But there is nothing left to save. My story isn't one of grieving in silence; it' s about reclaiming what' s left of my life, even if it means destroying his.

They told me I was coming home, a long-lost son found by the wealthy Clark family in their sprawling New Orleans mansion. But the moment I touched the Sphynx cat they insisted was a "welcome gift," a wave of pure malice hit me-a human consciousness trapped and seething with hate. And the antique locket my "mother" gave me? It was no protection; it was a hungry leech, designed to drain my life force, preparing me to be a sacrifice. They weren't welcoming me; they were grooming me for a body-swapping ritual, trading my soul for their "true son" Caleb, stuck in that cat's body. Forty-nine days, the cat' s angry thoughts projected into my mind, until my worthless soul was snuffed out. How could these people, who claimed to be my family, plot such a monstrous thing? But as I looked at their immense wealth and felt the cold gleam in their eyes, I knew precisely what I had to do: I would play their dark game, only I would win everything, and they would lose it all.

I was living a dream, Sarah from a small New England town, swept into a fairytale marriage with Ethan, a charismatic and incredibly wealthy tech CEO, my rock after my parents' tragic deaths. Our perfect world shattered when, eight months pregnant, a sudden, searing pain stole our child, though somehow I was "saved" by Dr. Chloe Rinsen, the very intern implicated in my mother's death, now hailed as a miracle worker. But then, I stumbled upon a conversation between Ethan and Chloe, revealing the chilling truth: my medical crisis was induced, our baby' s death was "collateral damage," and my entire marriage had been a meticulous sham, orchestrated purely for Chloe' s discredited career comeback. My mother' s death, my father' s financial ruin and heart attack, even my new life, had all been a dark, calculated play; my husband was protecting the woman who destroyed my family, systematically poisoning me in my own home, and culminated in her confessing everything on a yacht before staging an attack to have Ethan' s security break my leg. Bleeding and broken on that deck, as the festive music mocked me, a cold, desperate clarity pierced through the agony: there was only one way out of this meticulously crafted nightmare, only one way to reclaim my shattered life, and with nothing left to lose, I threw myself into the churning, dark sea.

I was a ghost in my own home, the late Senator Miller's biological daughter, overshadowed by my adopted sister, Jessica. My stepfather, Governor Thompson, doted on her, giving her my mother's cherished suite, my fiancé, even the "Senator Miller Legacy Scholarship" that was always meant for me. Tonight, at the glittering gala, they finalized the blatant theft. As Jessica preened on stage, accepting my scholarship, a cold resolve solidified in my gut. I walked, not ran, straight to the podium, my worn dress a stark contrast to the opulent crowd. "That scholarship," I stated, my voice clear, "belongs to me." Jessica's perfect victim act launched instantly, tears streaming as she clung to my enraged stepfather. His face turned to stone. "This is not the time or place, Sarah!" he thundered, but I wouldn't move. "She's just jealous!" chorused Jessica's elite circle, labeling me "unhinged." Even Ethan Vance, my supposed future, looked at me with disdain, offering Jessica a supportive smile. Then, the unthinkable: my stepfather's open hand connected with my face, the crack echoing in the stunned silence. "You are no daughter of hers!" he spat, humiliating me. "Jessica is the only daughter I care to acknowledge!" My eyes burned, not from the sting of the slap, but from the searing, public injustice. How could the truth be so twisted, my very identity erased by the man who claimed to protect me? Was I truly going mad, or was this entire world? Just as Governor Thompson threatened to send me away to an institution, the grand ballroom doors burst open. There stood my Uncle Marcus, a decorated U.S. Army Four-Star General, his gaze piercing through the stunned crowd straight to me. My lifeline had arrived, and their carefully constructed lies were about to crumble.

It was my birthday, marking ten silent years I' d lived inside Marcus Thorne' s gilded mansion. I was his late wife' s eerie look-alike, tasked with raising his son, Leo, in a life of unimaginable luxury and suffocating expectation. Then, a seemingly innocent smoothie led to a violent miscarriage, a tiny, unformed hope extinguished. The boy I' d nurtured for a decade delivered the first cruel blow, his voice devoid of warmth: "You' ll never be her. Stop trying." Marcus, the industrial titan who' d bought my resemblance, casually dismissed my profound loss, already planning his next merger and another child. My own mother defended him, her hand stinging across my face as she called me ungrateful for daring to question this "chance" at security. Leo, the boy I' d raised and loved like my own, unleashed a torrent of venom, accusing me of wanting his mother dead, twisting my decade of devotion into a greedy plot for their fortune. Every sacrifice, every ounce of love I' d given, felt corrupted, leaving me utterly alone in an opulent prison built on lies and echoes. As Marcus, his eyes alight with menace, picked up a heavy letter opener, threatening to mar the face that had been both my fortune and my curse, a terrifying clarity hit me. I seized the blade from him and, with agonizing precision, dragged it across my own cheeks. The incandescent pain was a primal scream of liberation. Bleeding and irrevocably scarred, I bolted from that house, finally, truly free.

Our Las Vegas wedding shimmering with joyous promise dissolved into a planned, perfect honeymoon, the start of our forever. That blissful illusion exploded when a text message from Alex' s ex-girlfriend, Jessica, flashed across his phone: "Last night was incredible, Alex. Worth the wait. See you soon. J." My world fractured; he' d slept with her the night before our wedding, then married me anyway. Alex immediately concocted a cowardly escape, feigning selective amnesia where he conveniently forgot only me. He then brazenly reunited with Jessica, and through manipulative family connections, they forced me-the successful event planner who' d poured her soul into our cancelled dream wedding-to arrange theirs. They paraded my painstakingly chosen peonies, my caterer, even my Vera Wang gown, as Jessica publicly reveled in my agonizing humiliation. The brutal betrayal of seeing my love meticulously dismantled and paraded as their triumph ignited a cold, burning fury in my soul. But they mistook my shock for weakness; he thought he' d erased me, yet I was already plotting my masterpiece, armed with a perfectly feigned amnesia he' d soon discover wasn't so convenient.

My life was a daily gauntlet of verbal lashings and stinging slaps from my mother, Brenda. My father, Mark, was a ghost in his own home, always looking away. Even my half-sisters, Jessica and Emily, seemed to relish my misery, their laughter echoing like a cruel soundtrack to my twenty years of feeling like a very bad child. But the true torment was the "whisper." Whenever a kind soul—my grandparents, Pastor Miller, or even a compassionate CPS social worker like Ms. Davies—dared to show me an ounce of empathy, Mom would lean in, murmur something unseen, and their eyes would instantly cloud over. Their concern curdled into coldness, then suspicion, finally settling into outright disgust—always directed at me. The physical abuse escalated. My hopeful escapes were crushed, each attempt leading to deeper betrayal, culminating in me being dragged back home by Dr. Reed, a woman who promised salvation but delivered despair. Locked in the damp, decaying basement, forgotten and festering, every ounce of hope evaporated. What unthinkable secret did I carry? What monstrous truth was Brenda whispering that turned everyone against me, leaving me isolated, branded a danger, a problem, a curse? My own biological parents treated me like an abomination, while doting on Mark’s other children. It just didn't make sense. Could I truly be that bad? As consciousness faded from the pills I’d desperately swallowed, a frantic, desperate voice cut through the silence above: Brenda’s. "He needs a new kidney! Evelyn said Sarah is the only option left... What do you think I've been doing?!" The words were a shocking, impossible revelation. My mother, my tormentor, sacrificing everything to protect me from a monstrous truth? The whisper suddenly made a terrifying, twisted kind of sense, and my fight for life began.

"Betrayed by her bestie and boyfriend, Carole was killed with overwhelming hatred. If God gave her another chance, she would never be so naive and stupid. God did fulfill her last wish, but she was reborn in a new body, Garnett’s wife. Before she processed the very fact, he asked her to sign the divorce agreement. Now that she had another chance, she couldn’t make any rash decision before figuring out the situation. She had no idea how complicated their marriage was, but she would replace her and live well from now on."

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.

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.

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.

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.

Vivian clutched her Hermès bag, her doctor's words echoing: "Extremely high-risk pregnancy." She hoped the baby would save her cold marriage, but Julian wasn't in London as his schedule claimed. Instead, a paparazzi photo revealed his early return-with a blonde woman, not his wife, at the private airport exit. The next morning, Julian served divorce papers, callously ending their "duty" marriage for his ex, Serena. A horrifying contract clause gave him the right to terminate her pregnancy or seize their child. Humiliated, demoted, and forced to fake an ulcer, Vivian watched him parade his affair, openly discarding her while celebrating Serena. This was a calculated erasure, not heartbreak. He cared only for his image, confirming he would "handle" the baby himself. A primal rage ignited her. "Just us," she whispered to her stomach, vowing to sign the divorce on her terms, keep her secret safe, and walk away from Sterling Corp for good, ready to protect her child alone.

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."

Yelena discovered that she wasn't her parents' biological child. After seeing through their ploy to trade her as a pawn in a business deal, she was sent away to her barren birthplace. There, she stumbled upon her true origins-a lineage of historic opulence. Her real family showered her with love and adoration. In the face of her so-called sister's envy, Yelena conquered every adversity and took her revenge, all while showcasing her talents. She soon caught the attention of the city's most eligible bachelor. He cornered Yelena and pinned her against the wall. "It's time to reveal your true identity, darling."

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.