265 Book(s) Related to I

For thirty years, I've been the perfect Mrs. Morrison. Until that night when I heard my son Dylan publicly humiliate Della at the Country Club—the orphan I rescued ten years ago, who's become more of a daughter to me than my own son ever was.
"This is what happens when you adopt stray cats," he said.
When I waited for my husband Theo to defend us, he coldly replied: "Divorce it is, then. I'm tired of settling anyway."
In that moment, Della and I made the same decision: divorce.
The 54-year-old me and 29-year-old her left the Morrison mansion with four suitcases, moving into a lakeside cabin. The men thought we'd come crawling back within days—after all, we were just two women "without financial resources."
But when we started investigating the family finances, we discovered $150,000 in mysterious expenses. All flowing to one woman—Theo's college classmate, Becca Sterling.
Cancer treatment I could understand, but when I overheard what Theo said to her at the hospital... I realized I didn't know the man I'd shared a bed with for thirty years.

I died once.

Torn apart by the first love of the Alpha Prince who I thought loved me, bleeding out on a cold basement floor. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back in that luxury car heading to the Royal Territory—one year ago, about to walk into this beautiful trap because I saved an amnesiac stranger named "Alex."

In my past life, I was too naive, thinking that saving a wounded stranger would lead to true love. Little did I know he was Prince Marcus Blackwood, and I was just an ordinary Omega from a remote pack. When I naively requested to become his mate at the grand royal ceremony, I was met with mockery and hostility from the nobles.

This time, I won't make the same mistakes.

When Marcus gazes at me with those deep blue eyes, promising me the whole world, all I want is to run far away. When he appears in my room, using his Alpha pressure to force me to admit my feelings for him, I remember the terror of my past life's death.

But fate gave me an unexpected gift—Ryan, that warm Beta guard captain. When I discovered he was actually the thin boy I protected twelve years ago, everything changed.

Marcus can offer me a crown and power, but Ryan gives me true freedom and respect. Now I must choose: repeat my past mistakes and become Marcus's caged bird, or follow my heart and choose real love?

But will a rejected Alpha Prince let go so easily?

The moment I found myself bound in that warehouse, I was still foolishly hoping James would come to my rescue. Four years—I had washed countless shirts for him, written innumerable papers, even helped him pursue other girls. Everyone called me lovesick, but I believed I had a place in his heart.

Yet there he stood, pointing at Emily, saying, "I choose her." As the knife pierced my chest, all I felt was endless regret.

When my eyes flew open, I'd somehow returned to the first day of senior year! What shattered me even more was learning that my savior had never been James at all, but some tattooed guy on a motorcycle?

The fake hero was still playing Prince Charming, while my actual rescuer was... where?

This time around, I absolutely won't fall into the same trap!

Three years ago, Emma's life was shattered in a single night. When she awoke in the dark woods, the last face she saw became her eternal nightmare—Damien Cross, the man she once loved.

Now, her father's death and crushing debts have pushed her to the brink. Surrounded by creditors with nowhere to turn, Damien appears like a savior, offering an deal she cannot refuse: Marry me, and all debts will be erased.

"Love?" Emma laughs hysterically, "Rape first, then force me into marriage—is that your idea of love?"

"Emma, I swear I never meant to hurt you!" His voice trembles, "I love you!"

The luxurious Manhattan penthouse becomes her gilded cage. When she discovers his secret arrangements for "overseas treatment," her last thread of hope snaps. A desperate escape, shattered memories beginning to piece themselves back together...

What shocking secret lies buried in the truth?

I thought I married a cold-blooded businessman.

Three years of contract marriage, he lived at the other end of the hallway, never stepping into my room. I had the divorce papers signed, ready to tell him today.

Until that morning, I suddenly heard his thoughts.

When I walked into the dining room wearing a silk robe, he stared at his iPad, but his mind was screaming: "She's not wearing a bra... don't look! Three years of sitting here every morning, torturing myself..."

Wait, what?

This financial genius called the "Iceberg"—his head was full of me?

I started testing him. "Accidentally" brushing his throat while fixing his tie, his ears turned red instantly, internal meltdown: "She's touching me... calm down! Think about GDP growth rates!"

The most shocking part? I found my "lost" scarves and that pink lace underwear in his nightstand drawer.

Three years of coldness was actually three years of crazy restraint.

Now the question is: should I keep pretending I know nothing, or...

When neuroscience PhD candidate Elena Rodriguez desperately needs a research partner for her marriage transition study, the last person she expects to volunteer is Ethan Mitchell—her college crush and campus golden boy who always seemed out of her league.
One marriage certificate, two agendas: she needs academic data, he needs to escape family pressure. What should have been a straightforward fake arrangement becomes infinitely more complicated when Elena accidentally develops an unexpected side effect after saying "I do"—she can hear her new husband's thoughts.
"She said yes... even if it's fake, she's my wife now..."
"I've been loving her for four years..."
"Want to kiss that concentrated frown away..."
When Ethan's carefully hidden four-year crush becomes Elena's personal mental soundtrack, and she discovers every "coincidental" college encounter was meticulously planned, the power dynamics of their fake marriage flip entirely.
Turns out the best way to use mind-reading is: first hear him fall, then make him completely yours.
A brilliant academic heroine × devoted STEM hero neural synchronization love experiment. When accidental telepathy meets fake marriage, when neuroscience meets real confessions, Elena's about to use this glitch-like ability to turn her fake husband into her real forever.

The sunset over Portland looks like something out of a postcard tonight. Too bad I won't be around to see many more of them.

Six months. That's what Dr. Martinez gave me this afternoon. Stage four stomach cancer, spreading fast. I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot for an hour afterward, trying to figure out who I'm supposed to call with news like this.

My phone buzzes—my brother, right on time. "You missed Dad's birthday dinner. Again." His voice has that familiar edge, the one that's been there since we were kids. Since Mom died giving birth to me twenty-four years ago.

He doesn't ask where I was. Doesn't ask if I'm okay. Just launches into the same old guilt trip about family obligations and responsibility. I want to tell him about the diagnosis, but what's the point? He's spent my entire life wishing it had been me instead of Mom.

Karen used to say I never grew up, that I was always playing the victim. Easy words from someone who never had to live with being the reason their mother died. She never saw the panic attacks, never noticed how I flinched when people raised their voices, never asked about the scars on my arms.

Now I'm dying, and I can't stop wondering—will anyone actually miss me? Or will they just feel relieved that the family burden is finally gone?

At the board meeting, he voted to dilute my equity.

"This is business, Elena. Not personal."

Three years of hidden marriage. I thought we were partners. But in that moment, I finally understood—I was just his technical supplier on the road to success.

What Ryan didn't know: that Technology Contribution Agreement he signed three years ago contained one clause. 70% of NexTech's core algorithm IP belongs to me. Personally.

Product launch day. Two hundred investors watching. I took the microphone.

He thought I'd present the tech specs like always.

He was wrong.

My name is Victoria Sterling. Thirty-seven, Silicon Valley CEO, millions in the bank.

I don't believe in love. But I believe in deals.

Fifty grand a month for a compliant companion and bed partner—that's been my life for three years. Until I met Ethan Cole: twenty-nine, Stanford dropout, bankrupt with $1.8M in debt, mother dying of cancer.

He's smart, he's handsome, and he's desperate.

Perfect prey.

I thought I controlled everything. Until two months later, when his creditor showed up in my office lobby and said:

"Ms. Sterling, do you know his real reason for approaching you?"

That's when I saw Ethan's face—

Pure, devastating guilt.

I woke up zip-tied in a speeding car, tape over my mouth, my wrists screaming in pain. My boyfriend Gregory's ex-girlfriend Marcella was driving us toward a cliff. Ninety miles an hour. I really thought I was going to die.

But when the police pulled us from the wreck, Gregory ran past my stretcher—straight to her.

"Marcella! Oh my god, what did you do?" He held her while I lay there covered in blood.

Gregory came to me later, crying and apologizing. I softened. I forgave him.

I had no idea that was just the beginning.

"Barren. Cursed. Worthless."
Those words from my mate still echoed as he tore our bond apart in front of everyone. Four years of humiliation. Four years thinking I was broken, while he was secretly popping fertility drugs when no one was looking.
The night they cast me out, I was dying, bleeding, utterly destroyed. My own mother hurled "cursed daughter" at my face before walking away forever.
But what I found in those ancient ruins shattered everything I thought I knew.
"The cursed one wasn't me—it was HIM!"

5 AM. Ryan transferred me $50,000.

I should've been grateful. Until I saw the email on his laptop—"Ashford-Martinez Wedding Venue Confirmation." White roses with peonies. Every detail I'd mentioned. Then I heard Sophia laughing on his phone.

I got it. Investment VP meets architect heiress. And me? Just a wedding planner with a severance check.

Three months later, Catherine Ashford hired me to plan an engagement party.

I took it. I needed to watch him put that ring on her finger.

The day of the party, Sophia took the stage: "This isn't my engagement party."

Lights went out. The screen lit up.

Ryan's face appeared, eyes red.

And Architect_Soul—the stranger who held me through every breakdown...

My legs gave out.

"Get out! You AIDS-riddled whore!"

Father pointed at the door, Mother shrieked curses, my sister Emily cried trying to hold me back. But no one knew, I didn't have AIDS. I had stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

On a freezing October night, I was thrown out barefoot in my pajamas. Huddled under a bridge, I planned to return tomorrow with hospital proof, proof it was cancer, not AIDS.

Tomorrow they'll believe me. Tomorrow everything will be okay.

But when that man's shadow loomed over me, I suddenly realized—

Some people were never meant to have a tomorrow.

I was the most pathetic existence on campus.

Thick glasses, baggy sweaters, walking through the cafeteria like crossing a minefield. Albert, my childhood crush of three years, publicly mocked me as "a pathetic little dog following him around." Campus queen Madison crushed me under her heel. That rainy night, I gave up completely and swore to make them all pay.

Three months later, I returned.

Bronze skin, perfect curves, stunning hair—the entire campus was buzzing about this "mystery goddess." No one recognized that I was once the pathetic Molly Baker.

When Albert discovered the truth, it was too late. The man standing beside me shocked the entire school.

It took me three years to become the lead singer of the Pack choir. I thought my adoptive brother Derek, my fiancé Marcus, and my newly found biological brother were all my family.

Until the real daughter, Serena, came home.

She put wolfsbane extract in my throat tea. At the most important celebration, I opened my mouth and what came out was broken, ugly sound. Everyone thought I was jealous, deliberately sabotaging the performance.

My room went to her. My choir position went to her. Derek said "you need to understand what Serena suffered." Marcus said "don't be so petty." Finn looked at me like I was a stranger: "My sister is Serena. You're just a fake."

I walked in on Marcus kissing Serena. He said: "She's my fated mate."

That rainy night, I took off Silvercrest's necklace and walked into the storm. Elara died.

Five years later, Silvercrest's delegation came to Pinewood for business. Derek saw me serving tea, his cup clattered to the floor: "Elara?!"

I smiled politely: "Sir, you have the wrong person. My name is Lily."

Marcus knelt before me crying about his regrets. I looked at him calmly: "Sorry, Mr. Marcus. Lily doesn't know you."

Then Serena's crimes were exposed. She screamed and charged at me. I stood in front of the crying children and caught her wrist—

"Five years ago, Elara might have let you hit her. But Lily won't."

I died—not in the way you'd expect, but slowly, painfully, while he was entangled with her.

He called her his savior, the woman who sold everything to rescue his failing empire. Little did he know, it was my money, my life's work, that he squandered.

The betrayal burned hotter than any flame, and I vowed he'd pay.

Now, he's gone—a leap from the heights he once ruled, his fall as swift as his rise.

"They took eight years of my life, destroyed my family, and buried the truth under a mountain of lies. I walked out of Riverside State Penitentiary with nothing but a canvas bag and a marriage contract to a man in a coma—my last desperate chance at revenge.

But some sleeping princes aren't as helpless as they seem. And sometimes, the most beautiful love stories begin with the darkest plans for vengeance.

Justice may sleep, but it never dies. And when it awakens... it changes everything."

I thought that one night's mistake would be our biggest secret, until two pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test.

Patrick was my stepbrother, the forbidden territory I should stay away from, the person I thought would never belong to me. When I saw Luna's text, when I thought I was just his drunken substitute, I decided to disappear with this secret.

But on that stormy afternoon, when he blocked my path to the clinic, when he declared to everyone on the street "This is my baby! She's the woman I love!"—that's when I knew.

I fell in love with my dead fiancé's face.

For two months, I believed Kieran had returned from the dead—scarred, memory-lost, but alive. I watched him fall for another woman, endured his cold rejections, and felt our mate bond remain forever severed.

Until I discovered the truth.

The man I'd been desperately trying to save wasn't Kieran at all. He was Declan Blackwood—Kieran's twin brother, the one who was supposed to be dead. The real Kieran was gone forever, murdered in a conspiracy that ran deeper than I ever imagined.

And the most fucked-up part?

The moment I learned who Declan really was......

"I'm dying... please save me..." The last words Avery spoke into the phone. The last words Felix chose to ignore. Six months later, when the insurance money calls, Felix Sutton will discover that some mistakes can never be forgiven—and some debts can only be paid with your life.

He killed me twice. This third time, I'll make him wish he was dead!
In my first life, I was a beloved queen, only to discover three years into my marriage that my husband William was having an affair with Anne—my most trusted lady-in-waiting!
That night, I caught them in each other's arms in my study. Anne was wearing my royal robes while William moaned her name...
"Margaret is just a figurehead. You're the one who should be queen," he told her.
When I confronted him, he had the audacity to sneer: "Women don't deserve power. Your very existence is a mistake."
Then he poisoned my wine. I died in agony, and the last thing I saw was Anne's triumphant smile and William's cold, merciless stare...
In my second life, I thought fleeing the palace would save me, but William had already laid the perfect trap!
On a snowy night in the wilderness, assassins surrounded me.
"You brought this on yourself. You learned secrets you shouldn't have," William said, looking down at me from his horse. "Anne is carrying my child. She's the true queen."
The blades fell, and my blood stained the snow crimson...
In my third life, I opened my eyes once more—back to that damned hunting ground! Back to the same assassin coming for my life!
But this time—
I won't let you succeed again!

The champagne in my glass had gone flat, but I barely noticed. From our VIP box at the Vienna State Opera House, I watched my husband lean close to the pianist Lucia—close enough that she was practically sitting in my lap.

Five years of marriage. Five years of playing the perfect Habsburg wife, smiling through charity galas and dinner parties, pretending I didn't see the way other women looked at Max, pretending I didn't care when he looked back.

The diamonds at my throat felt like a noose.

Every eye in the opera house was on us. The Viennese elite loved their gossip, and tonight I was serving it up on a silver platter. The wronged wife, the beautiful mistress, the scandal everyone had been waiting for.

I could have endured it. I'd endured worse.

But when my father collapsed in Berlin—his heart giving out—and I called Max with shaking fingers, all I got was his voicemail. Again and again.

That's when I understood. I hadn't been protecting a marriage. I'd been guarding a tomb.

The question wasn't whether I could bear this humiliation.

The question was: why should I?

"The night I miscarried our baby, my husband was toasting his mistress's award win."

Five years of secret marriage. I was Broadway producer Maximilian Cross's hidden wife while the world thought he was a golden bachelor. Only I knew who he was really fucking every night.

Until that bitch Vivienne Sterling showed up.

She became his "artistic muse." I became his live-in booty call. He took her to every important event, bought her custom jewelry, publicly searched for his "soulmate" on stage—while I played piano accompaniment like a goddamn background prop.

Here's the fucked up part: I collapsed on stage, miscarrying and bleeding out in the ER, while he was across town popping champagne for that homewrecker's Drama Desk win. Twenty-three emergency calls—all ignored because it was her "big night."

But baby, you think that's where this story ends?

One Instagram post destroyed them both. Five-year secret marriage exposed, entire internet calling Vivienne a homewrecker, investors pulling out, him going from Broadway king to street rat overnight.

Even better? That 27-year-old composer heir Dante had been crushing on me for ten years. He gave me roles, protection, and real love I'd never experienced.

One year later, Dante and I won the Tony for our musical. I stood under the spotlight, he cheered from the audience. My ex-husband? Watching our triumph from his shitty apartment while his side piece slings coffee for minimum wage.

To save my grandmother's bookstore, I signed a six-month fake dating contract with a stranger named Kai.

He's cold, rich, and too perfect to be real. Until I discovered he's a werewolf Alpha, his family calls me "Luna," and "fated mates" means—his wolf claimed me as his destiny five years ago.

The deadliest truth? He could've saved my bookstore from day one. The contract was just an excuse to get close.

When I confronted him, he said: "I wanted you to choose me because you liked me, not because fate forced you to."

Now his grandmother's dying, conservatives want his Alpha position, and this idiot says he'd rather lose everything than pressure me into marking him...

Should I hate him for the lie, or love the man willing to sacrifice it all for my choice?

When I was twenty, Samuel called off our engagement and chose Stella instead.

After the engagement party ended, he told me: "Stella saved my life once. Now her father wants to marry her off to that disgusting old man Harrison Burke. I can't just stand by and watch."

He said to give him three years to repay his debt of gratitude, and after three years he would come back to me.

Like a fool, I waited for him for three years.

During those three years, I went from being his fiancée to becoming his secret lover, telling myself it was only temporary.

Until that day, when he knew I had a heart condition but still made me go extreme skydiving for the sake of a business deal.

After that, I completely came to my senses and abandoned him. And he seemed to suddenly regret it.

My husband thinks I'm trying to destroy him. He's wrong. I'm dying to save him. I'm Persephone, and I have two secrets that are killing me: First—I've been covering up my drug-addicted husband's crimes for three years, watching Magnus hate me more with every lie I tell to protect him. Second—I have ALS. Two years to live, maybe less. But when his seductive ex-girlfriend returns promising a "cure" and I discover she's using him for lethal human experiments, I realize the most dangerous person in Magnus's life isn't me. It's the woman he trusts. Now I'm racing against my failing body and his growing paranoia to save the man who wishes I was dead. The irony? I'm about to grant his wish. Some love stories end with "till death do us part." Mine starts there...

I am Seraphina Cross, a professional heartbreaker who specializes in destroying arrogant, self-important men.

My target was tennis prodigy Phoenix Ashford, but after one wild night, I discovered I'd slept with the wrong man—his twin brother Caspian, heir to a business empire.

One mistake. One bloody game unleashed.

I drove Caspian to obsession, made Phoenix willing to die for me. When both brothers believed they'd won my heart, I bared my fangs.

"I'm sorry, Caspian... I choose Phoenix."

One sentence shattered a brotherhood forged in blood.

Fists flew. Betrayal cut deep. Hatred consumed them—two brothers at war over a woman who never loved either of them.

And the game has only just begun.

For three years, Gabriel forced me to watch myself rot in a cursed mirror, whispering: "This is the real you."

I tried using Jasper as withdrawal medication. I rewrote scripts with Orion. I endured every humiliation thinking it would set me free.

But every man who claimed to save me was just another puppeteer.

Gabriel wanted my soul. Jasper wanted a tool. Orion wanted his mission completed.

They all thought they were writing my story...

When I woke up in the hospital after the crash, I croaked "Bro" at my brother. He stared back like I was a stranger and coldly shot back, "I'm not your brother."

Even more bizarre, he pointed at some guy with an IV stand and said, "That's your brother." I clutched my sheets, faking amnesia, and followed this "fake brother" home, only to discover his leukemia medication and hear him coughing blood in the middle of the night.

Caught between my real brother's rejection and my "fake brother's" fragility, I'm spinning a web of lies between two "brothers"—where will this case of mistaken identity drag me?

I'm Vivian Miller, USC Film School graduate and Hollywood production assistant. For three years, I used my connections and resources to build my husband Rick into one of the hottest independent producers in town.

On our anniversary night, I prepared a three-layer cake and candlelit dinner, waiting for him to come home from the Oscar after-party. Instead, I got red lipstick stains on his shirt and the lingering scent of unfamiliar perfume.

When I discovered that woman was Oscar-nominated actress Amy Williams, everything clicked. She was his college sweetheart, his white moonlight. And me? Just her substitute.

The cruelest truth was yet to come—our wedding anniversary was Amy's birthday.

After our divorce, I thought leaving quietly would give me a fresh start. I was wrong. Amy wanted to destroy me completely. Online harassment, job offers rescinded, fans attacking me on the street... she wanted me erased.

But what she didn't know was that every project idea in Rick's company came from me. Those copyrights belonged to me all along.

Golden Globe red carpet, under the spotlight, when I stood before Rick and Amy, all of Hollywood had no idea what was about to unfold.

I thought I was saving a homeless man. I had no idea I was falling in love with Wall Street's most dangerous player.

When I found Ryan digging through garbage, he couldn't use my washing machine or figure out the coffee maker—a perfect man who needed my care. But why did he speak French like a native? Why did expensive watches keep "accidentally" appearing in his belongings?

When my family business suddenly faced bankruptcy, he always showed up at the perfect moment with mysterious funds and flawless solutions. I started to suspect something, but it was too late—I was already deeply in love with this enigmatic man.

Until that night at New York's most luxurious engagement party, when the spotlight hit the stage: "Ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome the second son of the Montgomery family—Ryan Montgomery!"

I stared at the stranger in a tuxedo on stage, that face I'd kissed countless times. He was the brother of Matthew Montgomery—the man I was supposed to marry!

Was it all calculated? Was my kindness just a pawn in their brothers' power game?

I used to create perfect weddings for other people, always dreaming that someday I'd plan my own. As Toronto's most sought-after wedding planner, I had it all mapped out—the venue, the flowers, the dress I'd been saving for since I was twenty-five.
Then I came home early from a client meeting and found my fiancé Philippe in our bed with his paralegal. The fight that followed was ugly—screaming, accusations, him telling me I was "obsessed with babies" and "suffocating." When I threw his ring at him and told him to get out, I didn't know the stress had triggered something devastating.
The miscarriage happened that night. The complications were worse—internal bleeding, emergency surgery, a doctor gently explaining that my chances of ever conceiving again were less than two percent. Philippe filed for divorce while I was still in the hospital.
I took the settlement money and bought a small diner in rural Quebec, telling myself I was starting fresh. For five years, I focused on work and avoided anything that reminded me of the family I'd never have. No dating, no relationships, no hope of ever holding my own child.
Until a hungry twelve-year-old boy appeared outside my diner in the snow, counting coins in his palm.

Ten years of secret love, and what did I get? Watching him fall for another woman at MY art exhibition.

The most ridiculous part? He turned to me and said, "Harper, you have to help me win her over."

I orchestrated their romantic encounters, taught him how to charm women, even told him what flowers she liked. I was the perfect wingman, watching them fall in love while I licked my wounds in the dark.

Until Dr. Avery confronted me with one devastating question: "Do you really think he doesn't know you love him?"

When I finally screamed "I've loved you for ten years!" at Mason, his response froze my blood:

"I know. I've always known."

Turns out, my ten years of devotion were nothing more than a free emotional dumping ground to him—the convenient girl who would never leave. He enjoyed my care while pretending not to see my love, because that was safest, easiest.

Pathetic, right?

A woman wastes ten years loving a man, only to end up pushing him into someone else's arms.

Until Blake appeared.......

Have you ever loved someone so completely that you handed them the knife? Believed their lies so desperately that you never saw the blade coming?

"Love you? Christ, Sera, did you actually believe I could love someone so pathetically desperate for affection?" Dashiell's words cut deeper than any weapon, shattering a year of beautiful lies.

That night, beneath the blood moon, they killed me—not with claws or fangs, but with betrayal so complete it stopped my heart. But death wasn't the end. I opened my eyes on my 21st birthday, reborn with perfect clarity. This time, I won't be the naive girl who trusted too easily. Every cruel word, every drop of spilled blood, every sleepless night of agony—I'll repay it all.

Let the games begin. They created a monster, and now they'll face her wrath.

The day I walked in on my boyfriend screwing that blonde tramp, I dropped the homemade tiramisu right there on the floor—our two-year relationship smashed to bits, messier than the splattered cream.

I ducked into a bar, slamming back whiskey, when this guy in a sharp black suit sidles up, his voice smooth as silk laced with bourbon. I spat out, "Help me forget him," but ended up totally lost in the presidential suite. He backed me against the wall, tore open my blouse, his tongue circling my nipple before biting down hard, leaving me breathless. "You taste like candy, baby—tonight, I'm gonna eat you up."

But then my boyfriend FaceTimes, spots the guy behind me, and loses it, screaming, "Dad!"

I went ice-cold—my hookup was my boyfriend's stepdad? Even worse, this thirty-three-year-old powerhouse was Brooklyn's deadliest mob boss.

What began as a vengeful fling spiraled into a forbidden nightmare?

Centuries ago, the Kingdom of Drakmoor won a devastating war against the dragons—but victory came with a bloody price. To keep the dragon race imprisoned, humans must sacrifice one pure-blooded royal maiden to Dragon Valley each year, easing the searing curse that torments their enemies.

Rosalind, a lowly servant, never thought this brutal tradition would touch her life. She loved Sir Gareth, the noble knight captain, from afar, knowing his heart belonged to Lady Isabelle, the Duke's daughter who once saved his life.

When Sacrifice Day arrived and Isabelle was chosen, everything changed. Desperate to save his beloved, Gareth forced Rosalind to wear Isabelle's dress as a decoy. "The soldiers only want royal blood," he promised. "They won't hurt you."

But when the panicked soldiers lost their real sacrifice, they threw the "substitute" straight into Dragon Valley to avoid punishment.

As Rosalind faced certain death, she didn't know that the legendary Dragon King was watching her fall—his golden eyes fixed on the unexpected girl who had just changed his world forever.

My second husband's three children have never called me "Mom." Not once in seven years.
I've been cooking since 5 AM—twenty-pound turkey, forty potatoes, three pies from scratch. At dinner, my husband stands to give thanks: "To my beautiful children. To my dear Caroline, watching over us."
Caroline. His first wife. Dead six years, still the only mother in this house.
Everyone applauds. No one looks at me.
His eldest daughter calls out: "Margot, you forgot the gravy boat." His son grabs my homemade roll: "Kind of dry." Then leaves.
The next day, my stepdaughter demands I plan her $50,000 wedding—on a $15,000 budget. "Mom always made things work. But if you can't handle it..."
Seven years I've cooked their meals. Raised their children. Given up my restaurant to save his company.
Meanwhile, my own daughter takes out loans because my husband says she needs to "learn independence"—while his kids inherit millions.
That night, washing their dishes alone, my daughter whispers: "I hate how they treat you. Like you're their servant."
That's when I knew—I'm done being his second wife.

My husband Steven was in late-stage cancer, but he suddenly insisted on divorcing me.

He said it was for my own good, but I absolutely refused.

We loved each other so much - how could I possibly abandon him at a time like this?

Until I was going through some paperwork and accidentally found an $1.8 billion trust fund - but I wasn't the beneficiary.

Why would my soon-to-be ex-husband transfer our family's massive fortune to someone else?

After I discovered the truth, he quickly ended up in the hospital in critical condition. And on the very night his resuscitation failed, I had him cremated.

I'm the Santos family heiress—born into the kind of wealth and power that people kill for. For eighteen years, I've adored my "brother" Diego with all my heart—that golden, gorgeous surfing champion who's the pride of our family.

Then came that shark attack. A mysterious lifeguard nearly died saving us. When that DNA report landed on my desk, my world shattered completely: this beaten-up kid Lucas from the slums—he's my real blood brother!

And Diego? The boy I've cherished like family for eighteen years? Not one drop of Santos blood in his veins.

Blood or bond—who do I choose?

Four Betas surrounded me like hungry beasts craving my attention. Marcus's muscles, Felix's innocence, Leo's silence, Nero's mystery—they thought they were enjoying the body of a fallen queen.

They had no idea I was thinking of another man.

When Marcus's lips were about to touch my neck—

Victor's ghost appeared.

"I've only been dead three months, Bella. And you're already having this much fun?"

My bleeding lover questioned me, and I had to maintain my queen's dignity in front of four shocked Betas.

This was my hell—numbing pain with alcohol during the day, filling emptiness with flesh at night, yet never able to forget that dead Alpha.

Three months ago, Victor breathed his last in my arms, his blood staining my white dress red.

Until I realized all this pain had one name: Dante Crimson.

And now, that demon called Dante forced me to miscarry, killing mine and Victor's child.

My childhood friend, Victor's sworn brother, the traitor who personally destroyed our love.

So I began the most dangerous game—using my body as bait, tears as disguise, weaving a revenge web with each Beta lover. Everyone thought I'd gone mad, fallen, finished.

But they forgot who I was—a dominant Omega, rare bloodline capable of controlling Beta armies.

"I was never drunk, Dante. Every night, every tear, every moan was calculated."

This is the story of how a woman reforged herself in brokenness, weaving death traps between lovers' beds.

My roommate's violent ex-boyfriend stormed our dorm with a knife. I rushed out to protect her and got stabbed, bleeding all over the floor.

I desperately pounded on her door for help: "Hestia! Save me! Open up!" Dead silence from inside. That BITCH stood right behind the door, listening to me take my last breath.

Even more disgusting, she cried to my boyfriend Brian:

"I don't know why this happened... Connor was just crazy... Freya insisted on going out to reason with him... I tried to stop her but couldn't..."

Watching her collapse into Brian's arms playing innocent, I died filled with rage.

Reborn two weeks earlier, I'm personally collecting this blood debt!

Have you ever been treated like a stand-in for your dead sibling by your own mother? I have.

Have you ever been murdered by your own mother? I have.

My name is Aira, and today is my sister Lily's birthday. It's also the anniversary of my death—the day the washing machine became my coffin.

"Why couldn't it have been you who died?"

After four long years, my mom finally got her wish.

For three years, I've watched his routine so intently my eyes have calloused. Detective Nate Blackwood—the man who swore in court my parents "resisted arrest and assaulted officers"—became my only reason to keep breathing.

I approached him through his lost brother, crafting a gentle persona, manufacturing chance encounters, always with odorless, tasteless poison tucked away in my bag. But when he instinctively shielded me during the restaurant robbery, when the light in his eyes as he said "family is everything" made me falter—I panicked.

How could the man I've hated for three years make my heart race? In this revenge-driven charade, who's really falling into whose trap?

At eleven p.m., I'm staring at the charity foundation's financial report, barely able to focus on the numbers—Theron is "networking" again, but for three years now, his "networking" has always involved another woman. Then my phone rings. It's Tommy, the paparazzo: "Mrs. Sterling, your husband's on his private yacht, all over some 22-year-old blonde intern!"

Thirty-seven times. Have you ever tried treating your husband's affairs like routine maintenance? Smiling at reporters while quietly wiring money to delete photos? I believed his bullshit promises that he'd "change," convinced myself this was just the price of a high-society marriage. But looking at the photos in my email—there in the bedroom of the yacht he "only uses for business meetings"—is a girl whose face I saw at the company just yesterday.

My stomach turns as I call Tommy back: "Don't delete them. Send the photos to every media outlet." I grab my car keys and rush out the door, asking myself: Do I really want to play the perfect Mrs. Sterling this time? No—but am I ready to blow up my entire life?

Five years ago, my sister vanished the night before her wedding. She left behind a crying newborn in a crib and a mafia heir on the verge of losing control.

And I was forced into her place—the temporary bride, the contract wife, the whispered “replacement” in every gilded hallway.

I thought I only had to survive five years. Five years to earn what I was promised, and then walk away from this city of shadows and blood.

I clawed my way through bullets, politics, and betrayal. I earned respect. I gained power.
And somehow... I tasted a tenderness I was never meant to have.

Now, with only ten days left on our marriage contract, I thought everything was finally under control. I thought freedom and power were within reach.

Until she came back—wrapped in grace, dripping secrets, smiling as if she owned the world she abandoned.

She looked at me and said, “Little sister, give me back my life.”

My precognitive gift should have been a blessing. Instead, it became my curse.

At six, I could predict any sports outcome. My parents turned me into their money-printing machine—basement prison, electric torture, carved punishments for every mistake. They called me "princess" while salting my wounds.

When my gift earned them tens of millions, they showered me with the most expensive toys. When my predictions cost them fortunes, they didn't hesitate to sell me to a criminal syndicate as collateral.

Standing on the edge of that thirty-second floor, watching my deranged father reach out with those words: "It's all because of you, you worthless piece of trash!"

As I plummeted through the air, I swore an oath—if there's a next life, I'll make them pay.

I never thought something like this would happen to me! My mom works as a servant at this estate, and I was losing sleep over tuition for my senior year. Then out of the blue, the lady of the house shows up at our door offering me a full scholarship to this elite prep school - uniforms, living expenses, everything covered!

Just one condition: keep tabs on her son who just came back from abroad. The guy seemed cold at first, but he always had my back at school and would talk about us applying to colleges together. I was actually starting to fall for him.

Then my mom got diagnosed with a serious illness, and the lady laid it out straight: either help her get hold of something her son has, or she cuts off my mom's treatment money. It's my mom on one side and someone who genuinely cares about me on the other. I'm literally going insane here - which side am I supposed to choose?

"You're just adopted. Know your place."
"She's your sister—what's so hard about letting her have it?"

Those two sentences were my life sentence.
I gift-wrapped my pain, mistook silence for virtue,
foolishly believing that if I just endured enough, someone might love me back.

Until the day I watched my sister take my fiancé, while they all acted like she deserved him more than I did.

That's when it hit me—I'd been fighting for a seat at a table that was never set for me.

No screaming. No begging. I just turned around and picked up Sophia.

Walking away wasn't giving up. It was finally getting it—you can't make a home where you were never meant to belong.

Have you ever pressed your cheek against your mother's cold skin, pretending she was just sleeping?
For seven days, I climbed on chairs to steal cookies, sweeping up broken glass with my bare hands when the jar slipped—terrified any sound might disturb her eternal sleep. I pulled her favorite blue dress over her still body and whispered, "You're not cold now, Mommy. You're not cold."
I was five years old, and I thought death was something you could fix with a blanket.
Dad's study stayed locked until the day we buried him. That's when I found them—hidden behind loose boards in the wall. Videotapes he'd never watched. Letters he'd never sent. And phone records showing the calls Mom made in those final days.
Twenty-three missed calls. Twenty-three attempts to reach the man she was dying to forgive.
keep wondering about that final call my mother tried to make to my father—did he ever know she reached out? Was his coldness toward her truly indifference, or was it a kind of love I was too young to recognize?
Some secrets die with their keepers. But the questions—the questions bury themselves in your bones and grow.

I died clutching our unborn baby's ultrasound photo while he fucked another woman in our marriage bed. But death isn't the end—

I died loving him. When I watched his hands touch her skin, his lips kiss hers where we once swore our vows, love became hatred. Now he'll taste my wrath." Three months pregnant, dying alone, yet forced to watch their moonlit intimacy. I couldn't stop it, couldn't scream—only witness him choose her. But a ghost's fury burns hotter than the moon's light."

He thought I'd vanished, so he welcomed her into our sanctuary without hesitation—playing with the console I gave him, sharing our secrets with her. I watched it all, and hatred consumed what love remained.

I thought death was the cruelest pain, until I saw him tenderly bandaging her wounds, almost kissing her in the place where we pledged our souls. That moment taught me—some agonies transcend death itself.

Three days ago I was his beloved. Now I'm a restless spirit, condemned to witness every touch between them. But they don't know—my hatred burns fiercer than my love ever did.