The Governor's Secret Pyre

I had a secret: for three years, Liam Hayes, my brother's best friend and five years my junior, was mine in the dark. I loved him completely, even sacrificing career opportunities for him. When I finally asked for us to be open, I discovered his true intentions were to use me to make his childhood sweetheart, Sarah Jenkins, jealous. The devastating truth hit hard: during an accident where I broke my ankle, Liam abandoned me for Sarah's minor paper cut. Then, at the hospital, he publicly denied knowing me, claiming I was just "Ryan' s sister," before kissing Sarah intensely in front of me, shattering any illusions I had left. The humiliation deepened when I overheard his friends casually discussing his plan to propose to Sarah at an upcoming music festival, using me as the unwitting backdrop by having me sing backup vocals on the song he wrote for her. My world crumbled; I was nothing but a pawn in his manipulative game. The emotional wounds festered as I struggled to comprehend how someone I loved could be so cruel and calculating. How could I have been so blind to his true nature? The betrayal was too deep to reconcile. In a pivotal moment, knowing I couldn't endure another second of being his fool, I made a life-altering decision. I cut all ties, resigned from my job, left the city, and accepted an arranged marriage to a kind, stable man, Marcus Thorne, to rebuild my shattered life.

A pounding headache ripped me from sleep, but this wasn't my bedroom. It was a luxurious penthouse, and I was in bed with a man whose familiar scent brought a rush of panic: Ethan Hayes, my estranged step-uncle who' d vanished years ago. The shock was a physical blow. He was family, a ghost from a bizarre chapter of my life, and the memory of our night together was horribly clear. I fled, scrubbing my skin raw, desperate to erase his touch. I clung to the hope it was a one-time, anonymous mistake. But a week later, my mom called, buzzing with excitement. Someone was investing in our family business, paying off all our debts, saving us. And he was coming for dinner. My stomach dropped when I heard his voice. Ethan Hayes, impeccably tailored, stood in our living room. His eyes, dark and intense, held a spark of knowing amusement that made my blood run cold. He saw me, and he remembered everything. Dinner was torture. My parents adored him, completely oblivious to the suffocating tension. "It's always wise to remove unnecessary obstacles from one's life," he said, his gaze pinning me, a direct hit that solidified his intent. He was here to stay. Then came the new neighbor: Ethan. He bought the apartment right next door. He was at my coffee shop, outside my campus art building. Every polite refusal, every attempt to pull away, only seemed to tighten his web. I was trapped, and nobody else could see the bars of the cage.

Dr. Chen looked at my patent transfer agreement, concerned. "Ava, are you absolutely sure? This patent is your life's work." I was sure; it was my only way to shield it from my family. They saw my success not as pride, but as a resource for Willow, my foster sister, who masterfully painted me as selfish to my father, Richard, and brother, Ethan. My cherished belongings vanished, ending up with Willow, while my room-the one with the best light-was given to her for her "artistic sensibilities," banishing me to the cramped attic. Then came the day I signed the patent away. I returned home to a surprise party for Willow, celebrating her art grant. They had forgotten it was the anniversary of my mother's passing. My fiancé, Liam, usually my partner, stood by Willow, his arm possessively around her. My father, beaming, said, "Ava, perfect timing! Willow needs your help. You're going to give her the patent." I stared, disbelief chilling me. "It's a medical patent. It has nothing to do with art or business. And it's not for sale." Willow burst into tears, claiming Liam said I'd agreed to surprise her. Liam mumbled a pathetic "It's for the family." Then, Willow brought out a mango mousse cake-a deadly allergy for me. Liam, irritated, snapped, "Just for once, can you not make everything about you?" Willow, the kicked puppy, apologized, claiming forgetfulness, and turned to my father, who raged at me. "Look what you did, you ungrateful child! You will sign over that patent and apologize to Willow!" When I refused, he slapped and shoved me. I fell, my face landing squarely in the cake. Anaphylaxis set in immediately. I gasped for air, crawling for my EpiPen, as they watched me-my father, Ethan, Willow, and Liam-all stood by, watching me die. As blessed air trickled back into my lungs, one thought solidified: I'm leaving, and I am never, ever coming back.

The city air was thick with sirens, a constant wail that had become the sound of dread. Thirteen brutal murders had everyone locking their doors a little tighter. I never thought the fourteenth would be mine. The call came just after midnight. "Mrs. Miller? This is the police. There's been an incident at your residence." I knew before he said another word: David was gone. A cold, empty space opened up inside me, a vacuum where fear and relief swirled together. When I arrived, the street below our penthouse was a chaotic mess of flashing red and blue lights. Yellow tape cordoned off the building. A crowd of neighbors stood in their pajamas, whispering and pointing up. "I live here. Sarah Miller. My husband..." My voice broke, a perfectly practiced tremor. That' s when I saw him: Detective Mark Johnson, his face a hard, unreadable mask. He didn't offer condolences. He just stared, his tired eyes seeming to miss nothing. Then, a scream cut through the air. Everyone' s head snapped up. High above, on the balcony of our penthouse, a figure stood silhouetted against the night sky - Susan, my mother-in-law. For a heartbeat, she just stood there, a dark shape against the city' s glow. Then she leaned forward and simply stepped off. The sound that followed was wet and final, a sickening thud that echoed off the pavement. It splattered across the clean, sterile crime scene, a graphic, final punctuation mark. I felt a genuine shock ripple through me. My knees buckled and I grabbed the detective' s arm for support. Tears, real this time, streamed down my face. My husband dead upstairs, my mother-in-law a broken thing on the concrete below. It was the perfect picture of a woman shattered by tragedy. Detective Johnson didn't move. He didn't comfort me. He just looked down at my hand on his arm, then back up at my face. His voice was low and steady, cutting through my manufactured sobs. "You did this." I froze. The world seemed to stop spinning. My breath caught in my throat. "What?" I whispered, my voice hoarse. "Your husband. Your mother-in-law," he said, his eyes drilling into me. "The other thirteen. You killed them all, didn't you, Sarah?" It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A certainty so absolute, so unexpected, it almost knocked me off my feet for real. This was not part of the plan. No one was supposed to see past the grieving widow. Inside, a cold, hard knot of fury began to tighten. This man, this stranger, was looking at me and seeing the truth. Or at least, a version of it. "How can you say that?" I cried, pulling my hand back as if I' d been burned. "My husband... my... Susan... they're dead! I just lost everything!" I let my voice rise, pitching it with hysteria and pain. "Detective, have you lost your mind?" I demanded, my voice shaking. "I was at my sister-in-law's house. All night. Call her. Alice. Alice Brown. She'll tell you." He waved the other officer off. His gaze remained locked on me, intense and unwavering. "I don't need to call anyone, Sarah," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I've been on this case from the beginning. Thirteen victims before tonight. A city in fear. But now I see the pattern. They all lead back to you." His certainty was terrifying. It was a solid wall I hadn't expected to hit so soon. He wasn't guessing. He knew something. And in that moment, under the flashing lights, with the scent of death hanging in the air, I knew this was just the beginning. The game was on.

The first sign was a text message glowing on Liam' s phone screen. "I miss you. When can I see you again?" it read, from a woman named Sarah. I was sitting on the edge of our bed, waiting for him, clutching the phone that held a history of his secret intimacy. When he walked out of the shower, naked save for the towel around his hips, I didn' t scream. I just held up the phone and said, "Her or me, Liam." He chose me, deleted her number, and swore it was a mistake. But the silence in our penthouse grew louder, his touch became a habit, and his eyes looked through me, not at me. I felt myself disappearing, desperate and pathetic, despite being the heiress to a real estate empire. So, I proposed to him, clutching at a phantom hope at a charity gala, only for his forced "Okay, Ava. Let' s get married" to ring hollow. The wedding preparations were a blur of my efforts, conspicuously absent of him. My friends and family saw the pity in my eyes, but I pushed on, convinced the vows would banish Sarah' s ghost. Then, on our painfully beautiful wedding day, as the officiant prepared to pronounce us, a small voice cut through the air. "Daddy?" A little girl, no more than five, stood at the aisle's entrance, huge tearful eyes fixed on Liam. His face went ashen. He dropped my hands as if burned, turned, and ran-away from me, our vows, everything-scooping the little girl into his arms. Sarah stood behind her, a triumphant, sorrowful look on her face. He abandoned me at the altar, humiliating me for the world to see. Deep down, a cold clarity told me this was always a possibility, and I was not unprepared. Taking the microphone, I announced, "The groom has a prior commitment. Enjoy the food. Consider it a celebration of my newfound freedom." I ordered security and called my lawyer. They had robbed me of my dignity, but I wouldn't let them rewrite my story. It was time to fight back.

The cold, tiled floor of the dungeon pressed against my cheek. I could hear the sounds of a victory feast, the laughter of soldiers loyal to him. My husband, General David, stood over me, his polished boots reflecting the dim torchlight. "Worthless," he spat, the word hitting harder than the back of his hand had moments before. He accused me of driving Bethany, my maid, to suicide, believing every lie she whispered. His boot pressed down on the back of my head, grinding my face into the filthy stone. "You will die down here," he promised, his voice low and final. And I did, alone and broken, my last breath a ragged gasp of despair. I opened my eyes to the dazzling white silk of a bridal suite, my wedding day. The memories weren' t a dream; they were seared into my soul. I was Amelia, an elite special forces operative, now reborn, sent back to the moment it all went wrong. My fiancé, David, was now a charismatic tech CEO, but I knew the cruel soul beneath the expensive suit was the same. Bethany, my maid of honor, my best friend, was the maid who betrayed me in my last life. I heard her soft, breathy voice from the adjoining room, "David, are you sure about this? Marrying Amelia… she doesn' t understand you." Then David's low murmur, "Bethany, don't. Not now." And her whimper, "I love you. I've always loved you." In my past life, I had burst through that door, heartbroken and furious, playing right into their hands. This time, my hand froze on the doorknob; I simply stood there, listening to the betrayal I knew was coming, that had already happened a lifetime ago. A cold calm settled over me. There would be no screaming match, no public drama. I turned away from the door, my plan for simple happiness shattered, replaced by a bitter necessity. "Everything is fine, Marcus," I told my security chief, my voice devoid of emotion. "Plans have changed. We' re leaving. There is no wedding." As I walked away, the memory of the dungeon flashed through my mind: "You will die down here, and no one will remember your name." A grim smile touched my lips. He was wrong. They would all remember my name.

Emma had agreed to pretend to be her boss's girlfriend at an event where his ex-wife planned to show up with the guy she had cheated with. "We'll see how this turns out."

Eliana reunited with her family, now ruined by fate: Dad jailed, Mom deathly ill, six crushed brothers, and a fake daughter who'd fled for richer prey. Everyone sneered. But at her command, Eliana summoned the Onyx Syndicate. Bars opened, sickness vanished, and her brothers rose-one walking again, others soaring in business, tech, and art. When society mocked the "country girl," she unmasked herself: miracle doctor, famed painter, genius hacker, shadow queen. A powerful tycoon held her close. "Country girl? She's my fiancée!" Eliana glared at him. "Dream on." Resolutely, he vowed never to let go.

On the day of their wedding anniversary, Joshua's mistress drugged Alicia, and she ended up in a stranger's bed. In one night, Alicia lost her innocence, while Joshua's mistress carried his child in her womb. Heartbroken and humiliated, Alicia demanded a divorce, but Joshua saw it as yet another tantrum. When they finally parted ways, she went on to become a renowned artist, sought out and admired by everyone. Consumed by regret, Joshua darkened her doorstep in hopes of reconciliation, only to find her in the arms of a powerful tycoon. "Say hello to your sister-in-law."

Clara had to die once to see who truly surrounded her-traitors and opportunists everywhere. After her rebirth, she swore to make her enemies pay. Her fiancé mocked, "You think you deserve me?" She punched him and ended the engagement. Her stepsister played innocent, but Clara shut her down with a cold retort. "Stop pretending! I'm tired of your little act!" They called her a loser, but Clara didn't bother defending herself. Instead, she revealed her real power: superstar, racing champion, and secret mogul. When her masks fell, chaos erupted. Her ex begged, and the crime lord claimed her, but Clara had already conquered them all.

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.

The whispers said that out of bitter jealousy, Hadley shoved Eric's beloved down the stairs, robbing the unborn child of life. To avenge, Eric forced Hadley abroad and completely cut her off. Years later, she reemerged, and they felt like strangers. When they met again, she was the nightclub's star, with men ready to pay fortunes just to glimpse her elusive performance. Unable to contain himself, Eric blocked her path, asking, "Is this truly how you earn a living now? Why not come back to me?" Hadley's lips curved faintly. "If you’re eager to see me, you’d better join the queue, darling."