Strike Three, You're Out

I woke up in a hospital bed, the lingering scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beep of machines my first reality after a car crash. But the real shock wasn't the physical pain; it was the vivid nightmares, clearer than memories, of a future where I was dead, my husband Michael married my sister Jessica, and my entire identity was systematically erased. My own mother, Karen, greeted me not with relief, but with sharp impatience, blaming me for the "trouble" my coma caused, while Jessica, feigning concern, subtly tried to steal my dream journalism grant and clung possessively to Michael. Michael, my supposed husband, stood by, his weakness paving the way for their manipulations, even as I recalled divorce papers hidden in his desk, signed by him weeks before my accident. The town gossiped, portraying me as unstable, while Jessica was painted a saint, and my mother chillingly confessed I was "bad luck" from birth. How could my own family conspire to erase my existence, and why did they always favor my sister, wishing I hadn't woken up at all? This wasn't merely betrayal; it was an active plot to dismantle my life, and I was trapped, expected to silently accept my fate while they openly flaunt their wicked intentions. But the chilling clarity of those "premonitions" became my armor, showing me every deception, and as Michael stood there, oblivious, I knew the accommodating Sarah was gone; I would reclaim my life, sign those divorce papers, and secure my future, no apologies.

Returning to my Chicago office after maternity leave, I craved the familiar rhythm of marketing and the comfort of normalcy. But on my very first day back, a strange woman from accounting, Brenda, confronted me with a bizarre, unsettling demand. Convinced my breast milk was the miraculous cure for her 19-year-old developmentally disabled son, Kevin, she insisted I provide it, "directly and on demand." My polite refusal ignited a terrifying, obsessive campaign of harassment. Brenda's actions escalated from chilling threats to physical confrontations, culminating in a horrifying ambush in the company lactation room. She deliberately tore my clothes, began filming, and shamelessly urged her large son to assault me for my milk. Even after this grotesque attack, HR downplayed it as a mere "workplace dispute," paralyzed by Brenda's expert manipulation of Kevin's disability and her theatrical victimhood. Police, overwhelmed by her counter-accusations and her son' s condition, offered no arrests, only warnings. I was left reeling, violated, and utterly betrayed by a system designed to protect employees. Brenda's smug victory, coupled with subtle, continued threats, pushed me to the brink. How could I be safe when my workplace allowed such depravity, bending to one woman' s deranged obsession? With official help impossible and my personal safety compromised, I realized I had to fight back on my own terms. My retired Marine Sergeant father and powerful football-player nephew became my unexpected allies. Brenda had declared war; I decided it was time to find my own weapons.

The first cries of my son, then my daughter, filled the delivery room. Twins. Mark would have been so proud. A nurse laid them on my chest, tiny and perfect. Then the world tilted. A memory, sharp and brutal, slammed into me. Another life. This exact moment. Giving birth. Aethel Corp. The Thorne family. Damian Thorne. His cold eyes. Cassandra Vance, his mistress, her fake tears. My baby chosen. Then fire, screaming. My child, gone. And Damian' s hands on me, ending it all. "No," I whispered, clutching my newborns. It wasn't a dream. It was real. It happened. And it was happening again. My heart hammered as Damian Thorne walked in, Cassandra Vance on his arm. They were here. Just like before. I fell to my knees, renouncing any claim, begging him to let us leave, to sever all ties to the Thorne family. He forced me to the Serenity Pines retreat, a gilded cage. Cassandra' s 'therapy dog' lunged straight for my twins, its teeth snapping, and Damian blamed me. Later, Cassandra framed me, claiming I cursed her child, convincing Damian I was a source of dark energy. "Take her children!" he ordered, intent on a "cleansing ritual" for my newborns. I fought and clawed, begging him to take me instead, to leave my babies alone. He wouldn't listen. They dragged me out, tying me to a lone tree in a brewing storm. He left me exposed, alone, to die, just like before. I stared at the hidden burner phone, a fragile lifeline. Genevieve Thorne. The Empress Dowager. My only hope. Could she act fast enough?

I watched the screen, my knuckles white, as two viral videos ripped my world apart. One was old, grainy, showing a younger me, working two jobs, sharing cheap pizza with Lucas, eyes full of hope for his music, our future. "We're gonna make it, Lucas," I'd whispered, believing every word. The second video was slick, from last night's awards, Lucas on stage, award in hand. "This is for you, Sophie," he declared, beaming at the pop starlet who sat in the front row. "With you, Sophie, I finally see clearly, no longer mistaking shadows for the sun." Shadows for the sun. That was me. The internet comments were a dumpster fire: "Lucas finally upgraded!", "Good riddance to that clingy ex!" My chest tightened. This wasn't just a breakup; it was a public execution of my past, my love, my countless hours pouring the legacy of Mateo-my deceased love, our songs-into Lucas. He was the man I' d spent years building up, only for him to erase me. A fraudulent document surfaced, a backdated "songwriting assignment" giving Sophie credit for our song. Even my own Aunt Maria went on record, calling me an opportunist. The world saw me as a villain, a user, a bitter ex. The truth? No one knew about Mateo, his raw talent, his tragic death, or how I' d desperately tried to keep his dream alive through his twin brother. No one knew the songs were always his and mine. I was drowning in an avalanche of lies. Then, an unexpected email landed in my inbox: "Ava, I saw the news. It' s BS. All of it." It was from Jay. He had Mateo's footage. And he was making a documentary. My whole story was about to change.

The smell hit me first, thick, choking smoke, then Lila' s terrified scream ripped through the festival noise. Jax, my fiancé, was a blur beside me, his face tight with a desperate need to save her. He started towards The Swamp Shack, towards the hungry flames devouring the old wooden walls. My body wanted to lunge, to grab his arm, to scream, "No, Jax, don't!" But this time, I didn't. Because I remembered. I remembered the searing pain as burning wood crashed down, crushing my left hand, destroying my music, obliterating my future, in another life. I remembered Jax' s face, twisted not with concern for me, but with fury, after Lila was dead and my hand a useless, mangled thing. "It's your fault, Scarlett! You should have saved her, not me!" his words, a brand on my soul. His family' s money, a weapon that bled me dry, blackballing me from every gig, every chance I had. I remembered the suffocating silence of his plantation, the cold dismissal in his eyes every day of our sham marriage. Oh God, and the smokehouse. Locked in, the Louisiana summer sun beating down, the air so thick I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, utterly alone. I gasped, the memory so real I could taste the ash and the terror. Now, in this life, Jax was yelling Lila' s name again, ready to play the hero, just like before. But this time the script was mine. This time, I stepped aside. I just watched him charge into the inferno, pure indifference a cold comfort. My hand, my precious hand, was safe. My music was still mine.

I was the Bradford family's charity case, groomed to be Liam Bradford's wife, endlessly cleaning up his messes. Discreet calls to pharmacies, quiet payoffs – that was my life, a familiar, suffocating routine. Then, Eleanor Bradford's chilling call: "Ava, the penthouse. Now." I walked in to find Sophia Hayes, Liam's high school sweetheart, artfully tear-streaked and clutching her stomach. "It's her, or me and our babies!" Liam didn't even look at me. "It's Sophia. She's pregnant. Twins." He casually outlined his plan: Sophia would live in our penthouse, I'd be a godmother, then a sham wedding for appearances. My antique locket, a treasured gift, was tossed carelessly towards a trash bin. Later, Liam announced my custom wedding dress would be live-streamed as a charity donation for "good PR." "You were taken in out of charity," he sneered. "Be eternally grateful." The final blow: a legal document demanding I sign away any future maternal claims, ensuring Sophia's twins were the undisputed Bradford heirs. My value, reduced to a barren placeholder. When I refused, Sophia staged a dramatic fall, screaming I'd tried to harm her babies. Liam, in a furious rage, threw my suitcase, then shoved me out of the penthouse. "Go back to the gutter where we found you!" he roared, slamming the door. Cast out. Alone. But a cold, steel resolve ignited. My trembling hand dialed a name I hadn't called in years: Jax Cole. "Is that offer... does it still stand?" I choked out. "Always, Ava," he replied. "For you, always." My only way out. Boston City Hall. Three days. Nine AM. I would be there.

In her previous life, Kimberly endured the betrayal of her husband, the cruel machinations of an evil woman, and the endless tyranny of her in-laws. It culminated in the bankruptcy of her family, and ultimately, her death. After being reborn, she resolved to seek retribution against those who had wronged her, and ensure her family's prosperity. To her shock, the most unattainable man from her past suddenly set his sights on her. "You may have overlooked me before, but I shall capture your heart this time around."

After three secretive years of marriage, Eliana never met her enigmatic husband until she was served with divorce papers and learned of his extravagant pursuit of another. She snapped back to reality and secured a divorce. Thereafter, Eliana unveiled her various personas: an esteemed doctor, legendary secret agent, master hacker, celebrated designer, adept race car driver, and distinguished scientist. As her diverse talents became known, her ex-husband was consumed by remorse. Desperately, he pleaded, "Eliana, give me another chance! All my properties, even my life, are yours."

Rejected by her mate, who had been her long-time crush, Jasmine felt utterly humiliated. Seeking solace, she headed to a party to drown her sorrows. But things took a turn for the worse when her friends issued a cruel dare: kiss a stranger or beg her mate for forgiveness. With no other choice, Jasmine approached a stranger and kissed him, thinking that would be the end of it. However, the stranger unexpectedly wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered in her ear, "You're mine!" He growled, his words sending shivers down her spine. And then, he offered her a solution that would change everything...

Ashley is burned alive by her half-sister, but she gets a second chance to undo all of her past. She was reborn ten years ago, and this time she is determined to find a strong backer for herself to take revenge. "I'll take revenge for everything you've done, and I'll make you all suffer!" Author's Note: This story was originally published under the same title on another platform. This version has been fully revised to improve grammar, clarity, and overall reading flow, but the plot remains unchanged. It is now released under a non-exclusive contract. Thank you for reading and supporting this refined edition!

It was supposed to be a marriage of convenience, but Carrie made the mistake of falling in love with Kristopher. When the time came that she needed him the most, her husband was in the company of another woman. Enough was enough. Carrie chose to divorce Kristopher and move on with her life. Only when she left did Kristopher realize how important she was to him. In the face of his ex-wife’s countless admirers, Kristopher offered her 20 million dollars and proposed a new deal. “Let’s get married again.”

"You're mine, little puppy," Kylan growled against my neck. A soft gasp escaped my lips as his lips brushed my skin. My mind screamed at me to push him away-the Lycan Prince who had humiliated me again and again, but my body betrayed me, leaning into him before I could stop myself. He pressed his lips against mine, and his kiss grew more aggressive, more possessive as I felt my legs weaken. What was I doing? In a split-second, I pulled away and slapped him hard across the face. Kylan's eyes darkened, but the smirk on his lips exposed his amusement. "You and I both know we can't fight this, Violet," he said, gripping my wrist. "You're my mate." "And yet you don't want me," I replied. "You told me you were ashamed of me, that l'd never be your queen, that you'd never love me. So please, accept my rejection and let me go." "Never," he whispered, his grip tightening as he pulled me closer. "Soon enough, you'll be begging for me. and when you do-I'll use you as I see fit and then I'll reject you."