William Jafferson

I went to the City Clerk's office to update my passport, desperate to feel alive again after losing my ability to draw. Instead, the clerk handed me a reality that killed me. "Mrs. Crosby," she whispered, her face drained of color. "You aren't married to Bennet. The divorce was finalized three years ago. On October 12th." The date hit me harder than a physical blow. October 12th was the day my right hand was crushed. The day Gianna Skinner, a woman obsessed with my husband, shattered twenty-seven bones in my drawing hand with a marble bust. Bennet, the most ruthless Don in New York, had promised me justice. He swore he locked Gianna in a dungeon to rot for hurting his "Angel." But the screen in front of me told a different story. He had married Gianna the very same day he divorced me. I drove to the Lake House where she was supposed to be suffering. I didn't find a prison; I found a modern glass palace. There they were, sitting on a swing set I had designed. Gianna wasn't rotting. She was laughing in his lap, wearing a silk robe. "She is so pathetic," Gianna purred, tracing his jaw. "Five years and she still thinks she is the Lady of the house." Bennet chuckled, the sound dark and terrifying. "She is broken, Gianna. A bird with no wings. She has no value to the Family anymore, except as a trophy on my shelf. She is my pet. You are my fire." My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Bennet. "Happy Anniversary, my Angel. Tonight, I give you the world." He wasn't giving me the world. He was building a cage out of lies. Through a bugged ring, I later heard his endgame: he planned to institutionalize me for "mental instability" so he could bring Gianna into the light. I didn't go home to cry. I went to my office and opened a secure browser on the dark web. *Subject: Protocol Erasure.* *Target: Harper Cline.* *Execution: Immediate.* Bennet thought he had broken his pet. He was about to realize he had just unleashed a lioness.

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

After two years in a secluded Swiss Alps "wellness retreat," I returned to my Hamptons home, ready to reclaim my life and legacy. But my lavish "welcome back" party quickly turned into a public spectacle of betrayal. My fiancé, Ethan, openly paraded Olivia Morgan, a manipulative substitute who'd copied my style then twisted it into a saccharine imitation. My half-brother, Leo, and stepmother, Catherine, plotted to seize our family's media empire. I was dismissed as "harsh" while Olivia played the innocent victim. Ethan, whom I’d once loved, hurled accusations. Then my cousin, Ellie, revealed the chilling truth: Olivia wasn't just mimicking me; she was following a discarded script Ellie had written – a story where the "sweet" rival replaced and killed the heiress. This wasn't just about betrayal; it was a deranged, literal plot for my life, orchestrated by those I trusted most. The sheer audacity of them trying to write my ending, to cast me out and then erase me completely, ignited a cold fury I never knew I possessed. They wanted me dead? Fine. I decided then and there that if they wanted to follow a script, *I* would write the new ending. And it would start with my very public, very convincing "death." This time, I’d pull the strings from the shadows, making sure everyone got exactly what they deserved.

For five years, my life was perfect. I was the political genius who put my father on a path to the White House. My charming husband, Christian, adored me. It was all a meticulously crafted lie. His ex-fiancée, Isabelle, the one they told me died in a car crash? She wasn't dead. I found her living in a secluded estate with my husband and their four-year-old son. My own father was funding their secret life. My entire family was in on it. Then I found the video. My father, my stepmother, and Christian, all planning my character assassination. "We paint her as emotionally volatile, a liability," my father said. "We discredit her before she can discredit us." They weren't just hiding a secret. They were prepared to destroy me to protect it. The family I thought was my anchor was my prison, and the man I loved was my warden. The idealistic girl who craved her father's approval died right there. She was replaced by a cold, precise fury. I copied their entire secret life onto an encrypted flash drive. I built their dynasty. And now, I was going to be the one to burn it to ash.

Four years after Alanna Robertson, a wealthy heiress, was kidnapped, she miraculously returned home, only to find her fiancé, Cameron Stewart, and brother, Anderson Robertson, completely under the spell of her adoptive sister, Bailey Kent. She tried to expose the truth, but they dismissed her claims as trauma-induced delusions. Instead of finding comfort, Alanna was slapped, pushed down stairs, falsely accused, and humiliated. Her own family, the people she loved most, betrayed her. They sided with Bailey, believing her every lie, and even sent Alanna back to the very human trafficking compound where she had been held captive for years. There, she endured unimaginable torture once more. Why were they so blind? How could they be so easily manipulated by Bailey's sweet facade? Why did the people who claimed to love her punish her for telling the truth? In her darkest hour, Alanna found a hidden camera in her mother's locket. She meticulously recorded every act of betrayal and every moment of her renewed nightmare. Then, with a final, desperate act of defiance, she set the compound ablaze and leaped from a cliff, using her own life as the ultimate proof. She left them with a ticking time bomb of truth, forcing them to confront their monstrous mistakes.

I spent seven years loving Autry Villarreal, the man who became my guardian after my parents died. He was my savior, my entire world. Then, he announced his engagement to Cassie Turner, a woman who looked uncannily like a younger version of me. I found out by watching it on the news. His fiancée moved into our home and immediately began erasing me. She tore out the rose garden I had spent years tending, laughing as the bushes were ripped from the ground. Next, he used his influence to kill a major brand deal I had, giving it to her instead. The final blow came when she leaked fake, scandalous photos of me online. He refused to defend my name. He told me to just disappear, offering me money to live comfortably as long as I stayed away. "I will protect her," he said. "She is my fiancée." I looked at the man who had promised to always protect me, now offering to pay for my silence. In that moment, seven years of love turned to ash. I booked a one-way ticket to France. This time, I wasn't running away. I was finally choosing to live for myself.

Ethan Miller, a game developer, was lost in his pixelated world until his fiancée, Chloe, shattered it. He watched online as she flaunted herself with billionaire Julian Harrison, a man old enough to be her father, wearing a sapphire bracelet he couldn't afford. Chloe's merciless abandonment followed. She returned to their apartment only to trash his monitor, mocking him as a "broke nobody" and declaring her love for Harrison right to his face, adding insult to injury. The deep betrayal and humiliation felt like a physical blow. He stared at the shattered screen, the broken pieces of his game, of his life. Chloe packed her bags, laughing as she left, promising Monaco and a life he couldn' t dream of. His world spiraled-a small apartment, a crashed monitor, and the echoing words of Chloe with her new lover. He was a victim, a nobody. Everything they had built was fake, like the pixels on his screen. But the hurt quickly solidified into a cold, burning anger. He picked up his phone, dialed a number he hadn't touched in three years, and with a steady voice, declared, "Dad, I'm coming home."

My wife, Molly, had a best friend, Nate, who was always a little too close for comfort. I tried to ignore the red flags-her late nights with him, his hand always on her arm, their inside jokes that shut me out-but it ate at me. Then, for my birthday, Molly brought Nate along… via video call, to help him custom-design a gift. I stood there, an ignored accessory to my own celebration, feeling like a piece of furniture until my patience snapped. The final blow came on our anniversary when she abandoned me completely for one of Nate' s "emergencies." I decided I was done. But as I packed my bags, Molly dropped a bombshell: she was pregnant. Under immense family pressure and for the sake of our unborn child, I agreed to try again, but only if Nate was completely out of our lives. She promised. But she lied. Weeks later, despite my direct orders, she secretly went to Nate' s notorious boat party, where his reckless actions caused her to lose our baby. The devastating loss shattered everything, leaving us with nothing but the broken pieces of a life that would never be. In a twisted spiral of grief and blame, Molly snapped. She drove to Nate' s studio, waited for him, and intentionally ran him over, crushing his legs and ending his career. She was arrested, her life, and what remained of ours, irrevocably ruined. Finally free from the toxic cycle, I walked out of the chaos and into a new, respected future, entirely my own.

Sarah Miller was deeply in love with Ethan Hayes, her charming athlete boyfriend of four years. Their relationship felt perfect, built on trust and shared intimacy. A simple visit to the university clinic for a stomach ache seemed innocuous enough. But Ethan' s step-sister, Chloe, a nursing student, botched Sarah' s blood draw, causing her immense pain. When Sarah calmly asked Chloe for an apology, Ethan' s loyalty shockingly shifted. He sold Sarah' s most intimate photos-photos he had taken-to his frat brothers, boasting he was "teaching her a lesson" for slighting Chloe. Sarah discovered her private life plastered across campus forums, her dignity publicly shamed and mocked. Yet, the nightmare escalated further when Ethan, feigning concern, lured her to a party under the false pretense of Chloe' s apology. There, she was drugged with GHB, humiliated, and recorded by Ethan and his friends, their leering faces documenting her violated state. How could the man she loved so deeply betray her so fundamentally, all for a petty slight against his step-sister? Why did his seemingly protective words mask such calculated, cruel sadism? Her world spun in a haze of sickening betrayal, unbearable public degradation, and the terrifying loss of memory from that fateful night. Broken but not defeated, Sarah made a desperate call to her diplomat parents, fleeing the country to heal. Now, years later, armed with a full, terrifying memory of that night and an unwavering resolve, she' s back. And this time, she' s not just escaping-she' s here to ensure every single person who wronged her faces their true reckoning.

They called it an "accidental drowning." Eighteen months. Eighteen months since my brother, Leo, was gone. His infectious laugh, his terrible jokes, all silenced. But I knew the truth. It was a lie. Izzy Sterling’s name was branded on my soul. Those Hamptons words – "Deal with him" – led to Leo’s broken body on the shore. Their money, their lawyers, buried the truth. So I spent eighteen months learning. Not just my NYU degree, but about the Sterlings, their dirty secrets. I became Ethan Reed’s executive assistant, perfect, invisible. I meticulously orchestrated Izzy Sterling’s downfall, manipulating jealousy, sowing doubt, turning her own cruelty against her. My plan worked. I replaced her. Yet, somewhere along the way, I fell in love with Ethan, the man I was meant to use. Just as I thought justice was within reach, a new, far more cunning darkness emerged: Julian Vance. Not just a cover-up artist, but a true monster. He saw me as a threat, poisoned me, kidnapped me, even hired a hitman for my unborn child. Each escalating attack pushed me to the edge, a new kind of desperation. Cornered, I confessed my carefully guarded secrets to Ethan. And to my surprise, he didn't run. Instead, he chose to fight with me, against the monsters who wronged my family, against anyone who threatened our newfound love. But even after Julian's imprisonment, a ruthless business rival, Marcus Thorne, launched a deadly attack, pushing me into premature labor. This isn't just about truth anymore. It’s about survival. It's about protecting what’s left, and ensuring no one else suffers like Leo, even if it means fighting beyond the law.

For money, Lily agreed with her best friend's request to spoil her blind date. The last man she expected to meet was not a fat middle-aged man but Dean, the legendary heartthrob in the college. What surprised her to the core was that she already married him, but she knew nothing about it. What she also didn't know was how deeply he loved her.

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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 our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table. Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen. "Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over." I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward. Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant. She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest. As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me. He hugged her. "It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you." The betrayal didn't stop there. When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police. When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations. He declined the call. He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife. That was the moment the chain broke. As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come. I opened the door and jumped into the dark. Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement. Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one.

I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me. But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest. The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me. They didn't. Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her. They let me burn to keep her warm. When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages. That was the moment Elena Vitiello died. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York. By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring. "You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them. "Burn for it."

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

On our ninth anniversary, my husband Dominick didn't toast to us. Instead, he rested his hand on his mistress's pregnant belly in front of the entire crime family. I was just a debt payment to him, a ghost in a forty-thousand-dollar gown. But the humiliation didn't end in the ballroom. When his mistress, Chastity, started hemorrhaging later that night, he didn't call an ambulance. He dragged me to the family clinic. He knew I had a serious heart condition. He knew a transfusion of that magnitude could trigger a fatal cardiac event. "She is carrying my son," he said, his eyes devoid of any humanity. "You will give her whatever she needs." I begged him. I bargained for my freedom. He lied and agreed, just to get the needle in my arm. As my dark red blood flowed through the tube to save the woman destroying my life, my chest tightened. The monitors began to scream. My heart was failing. "Mr. Reyes! She's crashing!" the doctor shouted. Dominick didn't even turn around. He walked out of the room to hold Chastity's hand, leaving me to die on the table. I survived, but Annis Myers died in that clinic. He thought I would return to the penthouse and continue being his obedient, silent wife. He thought he owned the blood in my veins. He was wrong. I went back to the penthouse one last time. I struck a match. I let the room burn. By the time Dominick realized I wasn't in the ashes, I was already on a plane to London. I had left my wedding ring in an envelope, along with the medical records that proved his cruelty. He wanted a war? I would give him one.

I was staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick, trembling with the terrifying joy of carrying the heir to the New York underworld’s most ruthless faction. Then the intercom buzzed, and a voice splintered my world. "The little art student actually thinks I'm going to marry her? It was just a game to pass the time while you were in Europe, Estella." I froze. My boyfriend, Holden, was in the next room, laughing with the daughter of his rival. He explained that I was just a "clean civilian image" he needed to secure a business deal. Now that the deal was signed, he was dumping the "stray" to marry the "Queen." I tried to run, but freedom only lasted forty-eight hours. Holden didn't just break my heart; he turned my terror into content. He kidnapped me, tied me to a chair at the edge of a cliff, and forced me to choose between my life and his new fiancée's. Then, he pushed me off the edge. As gravity snatched me, I heard him laughing. I landed on a stunt airbag. It was just a "social experiment." A sick prank for his amusement. "Don't be so dramatic, Kenia," he called down. "It's just a game." He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a prop in his life. But he forgot that I knew his secrets. I dragged my injured body to a payphone and dialed the one number Holden told me to fear—the rival Don, Gael Simpson. "It's Kenia," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt."

For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York. I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him. But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash. In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress. He forced me to watch him court her. At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her. He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain. He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life. I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god. I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole. He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps. So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother. I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars. I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia. By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost.

For four years, I traced the bullet scar on Chace’s chest, believing it was proof he would bleed to keep me safe. On our anniversary, he told me to wear white because "tonight changes everything." I walked into the gala thinking I was getting a ring. Instead, I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, drowning in silk, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto another woman's finger. Karyn Warren. The daughter of a rival family. When I begged him with my eyes to claim me, to save me from the public humiliation, he didn't flinch. He just leaned toward his Underboss, his voice amplified by the silence. "Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets." My heart didn't just break; it incinerated. He expected me to stay as his mistress, threatening to dig up my dead mother’s grave if I refused to play the obedient pet. He thought I was trapped. He thought I had nowhere to go because of my father’s massive gambling debts. He was wrong. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and texted the one name I was never supposed to use. Keith Mosley. The Don. The monster under Chace's bed. *I am invoking the Blood Oath. My father’s debt. I am ready to pay it.* His reply came three seconds later, buzzing against my palm like a warning. *The price is marriage. You belong to me. Yes or No?* I looked up at Chace, who was laughing with his new fiancée, thinking he owned me. I looked down and typed three letters. *Yes.*

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.