When our house caught fire, I called Miller eighteen times. Eighteen times. Not a single one went through. After being rescued, I received a text from him. Miller: In a meeting. Don't make a scene. I lay in the ambulance, choking on smoke, unable to speak. The nurse helped me put on an oxygen mask. My phone screen was still lit, and I saw that his foster sister, Linda, had posted on Facebook: The burger my brother bought is just so delicious! It was attached with a video clip: She was sitting in the passenger seat of Miller's car with a burger spread out in front of her. I let out a faint laugh, and my mask fogged up. During our first year of marriage, I dropped a cookie crumb in his car. He kicked me out and didn't speak to me for two weeks. I spent a week begging for his forgiveness, promising never to let it happen again. For five years, I had barely dared to even take a sip of water in his car. Yet, his foster sister could sit in that very seat and eat a burger. Breadcrumbs clung to the leather upholstery, and he didn't find it dirty at all. I saved the video and sent it to him. "We're getting a divorce. Non-negotiable."

In our twenty years of marriage, he watched five World Cups in person. Every time, I packed his bags, stayed up waiting for his text that he'd landed safely, and listened to him recount goals and roars I never quite understood once he came home. This year, I was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. Less than three months left. For the first time, I asked something of him. "Don't go to the UMA World Cup. Stay home with me. We can watch it together." He was quiet for a long while, and then he booked the ticket anyway. "It's the last one," he said. "I don't want any regrets." I didn't try to stop him. The night the game kicked off, I lay alone in my hospital bed and turned on the broadcast. When the host cut to the kiss cam, I saw him. Sebastian Shaw was sitting in the middle of the stands, leaning into a silver-haired woman. The camera zoomed in as he bent his head to fix her scarf, smiling with a tenderness that looked almost young. It was a look he had never once given me in twenty years. The whole stadium was cheering them on like newlyweds. I smiled too, fumbled for my phone, and typed him a message. Linnea: All right then. I wish you both a long and happy life together. Farewell. 

The day of the departmental competition, the conference room erupted in applause.   I'd spent two weeks building that project model, but the name on the final slide was Sophie's.   She stood up, eyes glistening, voice catching in her throat. "Thank you for believing in me, Mr. Grant."   Jason sat at the head of the table, unmistakable warmth in his eyes. "You deserve it."   After the meeting, he called me into his office.   The first thing out of his mouth wasn't an explanation. It was a reprimand.   "Sophie just went through a divorce. She's in a really rough place, and this promotion means a lot to her. You're talented. Other opportunities will come. Don't make this into a fight."   I stared at the matching mugs on his desk.   I'd given them to him as an anniversary gift last year.   The other mug was in Sophie's hands now.   There was a faint lipstick mark on the rim.   I nodded, turned around, and placed my resignation letter on his desk.   This time, I was done being someone's stepping stone.

After five years together, Zachary's favorite complaint was that I was too cold. He said loving me was like trying to warm a block of ice. I never gave him the affection, reassurance, or endless admiration he thought he deserved. So he decided to remake me into his perfect girlfriend. Without my knowledge or consent, he had a neural device implanted in my brain. Its AI-powered compliance system could control my speech, my movements, and even my facial expressions. When I woke, my body obeyed his every command. He basked in my manufactured devotion without a flicker of guilt. Then he congratulated me on finally learning how to behave. Zachary trusted the woman he had programmed me to become so completely that he put me in charge of the financial due diligence for the largest acquisition his company had ever attempted. Three months later, his company filed for bankruptcy. He shoved the final due diligence report in my face. It contained inflated revenue projections and deliberately concealed liabilities. His hand closed around my throat. "Why did you falsify these numbers?" He demanded, panic and rage twisting his face. "Did you do this to destroy me?" I watched him come apart and gave him a perfectly reassuring smile. "I'm so sorry. Please don't be angry. I promise I won't let it happen again." Terror crept into his eyes. I leaned close to his ear and spoke in the soothing cadence of a customer-service bot. "Would you like me to generate more inspirational stories about broke losers who went on to make it big?"

In my past life, Ivy Sterling, an intern, spread vicious rumors everywhere that I couldn't hold the scalpel steady because my hands shook non-stop. The very next day, the chief of surgery yanked me from the lead position on a high-stakes operation for the richest billionaire and stuck her in as first assistant to get practice instead. Midway through the operation, Ivy messed up and sliced straight through a major artery. She came sprinting out of the OR sobbing, screaming for help. I fought my way past everyone to dive back inside and managed to stop the bleeding blindly, yanking that billionaire straight out of the Grim Reaper's cold grip. But the blood flow had been cut off for too long. The billionaire was still left permanently paralyzed on one side. Ivy ran crying to the chief of surgery, twisting the whole story. "Eunice did this on purpose! She messed up all the instruments when she handed over the case; that's why I cut it wrong!" she wailed. The chief of surgery joined her right away, forging evidence to pin every bit of blame for the medical accident squarely on me. They revoked my medical license. The billionaire's family launched a brutal online harassment campaign against me across every platform. I was hounded and harassed until I had no way out, and I jumped off a building to my death. The second I opened my eyes, I found myself back on the day before the scheduled billionaire's surgery.

The first day of college. I arrived alone, luggage in tow, having traveled a great distance to get here. Before I reached the dormitory, I assumed my roommates would greet me warmly. I was wrong. In the first life, I opened the dormitory door. My roommate, Sloane Merritt, was the first to call my name, so I returned the courtesy and called hers. My other roommate, Celeste Vane, struck me as arrogant and dismissive, and less than a week into the semester, she arranged to have me killed. A car hit me and sent me flying. In the second life, I learned from my mistake and greeted Celeste first. Sloane decided I was only doing it because Celeste came from money and went around telling everyone I was a gold-digger. The whole school turned on me. She pushed me down a staircase. In the third life, I was smarter about it. I struck up a conversation with Iris Hale, the quiet, unremarkable one sitting in the corner, and called her name before anyone else's. Sloane and Celeste both decided I was looking down on them. They drugged my water. I lost my mind and was strangled to death in the psychiatric ward. In the fourth life, I looked at the three of them waiting for me to say their names. I kept my mouth shut. Whose name could I possibly say first and still come out alive?

For three years of marriage, I still hadn't conceived. At a White family dinner, my mother-in-law, Elizabeth White, brought in a young woman and announced she would give my husband, Sean White, an heir. "Sarah, your body clearly isn't fit for it. Don't hold back the White family's hundred-billion empire. Lily is young and healthy. As long as she carries a White heir, I'll give her $50 million as compensation." Sean got mad on the spot. He nearly called a private hospital then and there to book a vasectomy. Meanwhile, I raised my glass of red wine and smiled, calm and composed. "You're right. The White family heir is indeed important." The very next day, I introduced my father-in-law, Mark White, to a gentle and beautiful art consultant. "One person working is too slow. It's better if the father and the son team up. Either way, the baby will still carry the White name. Mom, wouldn't you agree?"

On the day of my launch event, my fiancé Damien Whitmore replaced my name as lead designer with his junior mentee's. Everyone backstage knew. I was the last to find out, standing in the wings when I finally saw the name on the screen. Jade Ellery tugged at his sleeve, her voice small and tentative. "Will Ellie be upset with me?" Damien looked down at her, his tone gentle. "She won't. She's followed me for years — she has more than enough recognition. You just got back to the country. You need this opportunity." I stood in the shadows, my nails pressing into my palm. That collection was born from the last spark of inspiration my mother left me before she died. I had stayed awake for seventy-two hours to finish the final draft. Damien knew that. He knew it perfectly well. He also remembered — five years ago, on a rainy night, when a competitor had stolen my work and I had crouched by the roadside, shaking and crying. He had held up the battered umbrella and crouched beside me to wipe my tears. "Ellie," he had said, "don't be afraid. From now on, I'll protect your name." After that, the battered umbrella stayed by the door of my studio. Even when its ribs broke, I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. But after the launch, he handed the award trophy to Jade in front of everyone. When a reporter asked whether I had been involved in the creative process, Damien gave a mild smile. "She hasn't been in the best shape lately. She just helped out with a few minor things." Outside, the rain fell in cold, heavy sheets. I looked at the battered umbrella propped against the wall, still dripping. The sound of each drop hitting the floor was unnervingly clear. And I realized, suddenly, that all those years I had held onto — every memory, every promise — were draining away just like the rainwater, until nothing was left.

The second I laid eyes on the groom, I knew it wasn't Aaron Lynch, but Samuel Lynch. Aaron's twin brother. The wedding venue buzzed with laughter and celebration. Amid the noise, Samuel bent toward me and spoke under his breath. "Yvonne, Aaron ran into something urgent. He'll make it to the ceremony later. And he asked me to fill in." Something urgent? What could possibly matter more than showing up to his own wedding? Nearby, the groomsmen were all smiles, raising glasses and offering congratulations. Yet their whispered conversation drifted straight to me. "Aaron's got guts. I'll give him that. Sending Samuel to stand in? What if Yvonne notices?" "What else was he supposed to do? Stella came back today. He headed to the airport at dawn to pick her up." "Relax. Yvonne's been hopelessly in love with him for years. Even if she finds out, she'll probably just let it slide." Stella Joyce? So that was the reason.

The old high school group chat had been silent for what felt like eight hundred years. Then, out of nowhere, the class president tagged me in it. Sterling Eaton: [@Rowan, I heard you opened a private dining restaurant downtown. Our reunion is tomorrow night, and we're having it at your place. We all just graduated, so nobody has much money. Thirty bucks a head. Think of it as us showing you a little support.] I looked up at the Black Pearl Three-Diamond plaque freshly mounted on the wall, then glanced at the premium bluefin tuna flown in that morning. Thirty dollars? That would not even cover the black truffle shavings for one plate. So I politely declined. Rowan Linden: [Sorry, but we're fully booked tomorrow night. We don't have any tables available. Maybe next time.] Two minutes later, Maxwell Howe posted an announcement in the group chat. Maxwell Howe: [Tomorrow night, Rowan's private dining place is hosting our reunion feast! Thirty dollars a head for all-you-can-eat premium seafood. Spots are limited, so sign up fast!] In less than ten minutes, more than fifty people had signed up. I stared at the messages and let out a cold laugh. Trying to dine and dash? Did they really think my security team was just for show?

I was the real heiress, perfectly content doing nothing. My days were eat, sleep, repeat. Everyone laughed at me for having no ambition, but what they didn't know was that I'd already arrived. The older brother I'd claimed at Maplewood Home was a billionaire entrepreneur. The second was a high-ranking politician. The third was a feared crime lord. The fourth was a miracle-working physician. I had absolutely no reason to try. That was, until I was brought back to the wealthy Laine family. Jenna, the fake heiress, cornered me at the piano and told me to play, or I wasn't fit to be called a daughter of the Laine family. She slapped a switch against her own palm, her smile soft and practiced. "You grew up running wild in the countryside. You don't know how things work here. A young lady of high society needs more than money. She needs talent. If you can't even manage a basic piece, you'll embarrass Mom and Dad every time they take you out." I looked at her and didn't move my hands. "I'm tired. I want to sleep." I turned to leave. Then I heard the whistle of something cutting through the air, and a line of blood opened across my arm. "That attitude is unacceptable! Get back here and keep practicing!" I stood up and looked toward the living room. Richard and Gloria hadn't even glanced up. I looked at the wound seeping blood, and suddenly I didn't want to be here anymore. I sent a message to the family group chat. Vera: [Guys, I want to come home.] What Jenna didn't know was that those four lunatics would move heaven and earth for me. When they lost their minds, they never left anyone else a way out.

My fiancé's adopted sister was a well-known tarot reader across the countryside. Before any wedding in the village, couples would always ask her to read the tarot. A favorable draw meant a blessed union; an unfavorable draw meant disaster. Only those who drew favorable cards were permitted to register their marriage—a custom handed down in the village for centuries. In my ninth year with Jason, our ninety-ninth tarot reading came up as an unfavorable omen yet again. Before our hundredth attempt, I caught the sound of hushed voices through a crack in the door. "Jason, truth be told, every reading has actually been favorable. Angela is honestly quite pitiful, being kept completely in the dark like this." "Exactly. Angela is naive and strictly follows the rules. Aren't you afraid she'll run away heartbroken if she ever finds out?" Jason's voice carried no warmth whatsoever, "Eve has been spoiled rotten. She's terrified that Angela will steal away her special treatment once she marries into the family. Since I can't give Eve a marriage of her own... this is the only way I can make it up to her. "Besides, Angela drifted here after losing her memory. Even if she learned the truth, where could she possibly run to? "What's more, she is utterly miserable in love with me. A few sweet words and she'll forget all about it..." Every single word Jason uttered was like a thorn driving straight into my heart. It was never a matter of us being incompatible. He simply didn't want to marry me. My entire body went numb. Trembling, I pulled out my phone and typed out a reply to my mother. Angela: Mom, I'm not waiting for him anymore. I agree to the arranged marriage.

I was ten when the Jones family took me in. Andrew Jones was a year older than me. He'd call me a headache, but he still gave me the best room in the house. Relatives would whisper that I was just extra baggage. Andrew would slam his forks down on the spot and say, "She lives under our roof, so she's family. It's not for you to decide." Back then, I really believed Andrew would have my back forever. Then senior year came, and the Jones family started sponsoring a girl. Her name was Grace. She was smart, charming, and the very first day she stepped through the door, she was already sweet-talking Andrew, calling him "brother." I stood on the stairs and heard Andrew say impatiently, "I'm not your brother. I only have one sister." Grace didn't get upset at all. She just smiled and asked, "So if I work hard enough, maybe I could be your sister too?" Andrew let out a short scoff. "Not a chance." But after that, Grace would always fight to serve him food, wear his jacket, and knock on his room door with homework questions she didn't know how to do. At first, Andrew would shut the door. Slowly, he started letting her in. One night at dinner, Grace snagged the last shrimp off the plate. The one Andrew always used to save for me. She took a bite and looked at me with a smile. "You don't mind, do you? It's not like Andrew said it was yours." Andrew glanced my way. "It's just a shrimp. Don't be so petty." I froze, my fork hanging mid-air. Grace grinned, her eyes curling up. "It looks like Tara is about to cry." All the relatives turned to look at me. Back then, if anyone dared to make me feel small, Andrew would protect me with a cold face. But this time, he just put his bowl down, his voice heavy with annoyance. "Tara, can you stop expecting the whole family to baby you? You're not a kid anymore." I stared at him, my throat tightening like it was stuffed with cotton. It turned out that someone new hadn't just joined the family. My place had already been taken and moved away. That night, Mr. Jones asked me, "Tara, we got in touch with your birth parents. Do you want to go back and visit them?" I looked down at the name on the birth certificate that didn't belong to the Jones family. I whispered, "Yes. I won't live here anymore."

One hour before the haute couture wedding dress arrived, a notification popped up on the shared calendar account Felix Smith and I used, revealing a reminder that spanned five years. A Full Life for Shirley Jones. I clicked to see the details, my fingers freezing on the screen. First: Get Shirley Jones pregnant with my child before the wedding. Don't let her live out the rest of her days with regrets. Second: Claim Nancy Sterling is infertile, adopt the child, and let Nancy raise it as her own. Third: Ensure Shirley has a worry-free life, then grow old with Nancy. I stared at those three lines. My stomach churned, and a bitter taste filled my throat. Felix had a severe emotional fixation on purity. Once, when a woman tried to slip something into his drink, he flipped the table right then and there and had her shipped out of London immediately. We had been together for seven years. The night my parents died in a car crash and my relatives crowded outside the funeral home to squabble over the inheritance, he was the only one who stayed by my side, keeping watch all night without closing his eyes. He had draped his jacket over my shoulders. "Nancy, you still have me. My life has your back." But as it turned out, Shirley Jones had once shielded him from an accident, ruining her own health in the process. Because of that, he felt indebted to her. He felt so indebted that he was willing to trade our marriage to pay her back. In his eyes, I, Nancy Sterling, was tough enough, resilient enough, and perfectly capable of standing back up on my own. But Shirley was different. She needed a child, a status, and a patched-up future that he could provide. Felix's voice echoed from outside the door. "Nancy, the dress is here. Come out and try it on." I wiped away my tears. I took off that ten-million-dollar white gown, picked up my phone, and dialed a number.

After I started living with my boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend moved in with us. Arthur Sterling said, "She has nowhere else to go. It's just temporary." I smiled and said nothing, then turned around and dialed my ex's number. You have an ex, so do I. Why not make it a party?

When Kevin Johnson hijacked my promotion dinner yet again to celebrate Miranda Scott's success, I couldn't be bothered to set the record straight on who truly deserved the limelight.   I reserved the most tucked-away table and ordered my favorite dishes, intending to toast my endurance through seven long years as the runner-up.   But just as the plates arrived, Kevin handed the menu to Miranda.   "These are too greasy. Miranda is on a low-fat diet," he announced to the waiter. "Take these away and bring us something healthier." The waiter glanced at me, awaiting my input. Before I could speak, Miranda, chin propped on her hand, smiled sweetly, "Yvonne, you won't mind, will you? You're always so easygoing." Kevin chimed in, "Miranda just clinched a key qualification for the southern district project with EternalTech. Let's celebrate her success tonight." I watched my plate of smoked salmon, what I had craved the most after my promotion, vanish before my eyes, realizing I didn't even hold the priority for my own meal in his world. So, once the dinner wrapped up, I knew it was time to remove myself from the table of his life as well.

After a full year of marriage, my wife and I were still as crazy about each other as on the first day. All our friends were green with envy that I had landed such a sweet, gentle wife. But I alone knew just how uninhibited she really got between the sheets. We fit together perfectly, drawn to each other with a raw, primal attraction. We had messed around in the living room, the kitchen, the balcony, and the bathroom. There was not a single spot in our whole apartment that we had not tried. Then one day, I went back to her hometown with her to visit her family. As I dug through a storage box tucked under her old childhood bed, I stumbled upon an old medical record from her early childhood. Written clearly on the page, it stated that she had been born with vaginal agenesis, a condition in which the vaginal opening is absent. I froze solid right where I stood. An icy chill raced up my spine and left my whole body numb and cold. So then, who or what was it that had been underneath me all those countless days and nights over the past year?

Just before my tarot shop was about to close, the final customer came in, eager to unravel the mystery of her ongoing 8-year romance. When the Wheel of Fortune card appeared upright, I truly hoped for the best for her. "Luck is on your side," I reassured her, "and soon your story will have a perfect ending." Her laughter was as bright as her mood, and she tossed two plane tickets onto my tarot table with a flourish. "With your blessing," she declared, "I'm off to have my wedding in Glacialand the day after tomorrow." To my shock, the name of my fiancé, Sean Lewis, was on one of the tickets, and the date matched the day we had planned for our engagement. She calmly reapplied her lipstick, her gaze dripping with mockery. "You've predicted futures for so many couples," she mused. "How did you miss the fact that Sean's 'there's no one else I could ever marry' wasn't meant for you?"

I walked in to cancel my order for the master-handcrafted traditional bridal set. The designer looked at me like I had lost my mind. "You've already paid in full. Aren't you going to wait for your husband to get back for a fitting?" I smiled and pushed the receipt back to her. "No need. He's busy picking out a diamond ring with his childhood sweetheart." We married three years ago, and Silas Brooks spent every single wedding anniversary in Ellenton. He always said it was for expanding the overseas market, but online trends told a different story. There were photo after photo of him and another woman feeding pigeons together. It was not until yesterday that I stumbled on a full, detailed wedding plan in an email from his assistant. Phoenix bridal set, traditional styling, seaside hotel, and every single detail catered exactly to that woman's taste. I had only ever daydreamed of one thing for our wedding, a sacred black wedding dress. He had frowned at the idea back then and said, "I had always thought traditional weddings were nicer. Why didn't we go with a phoenix bridal set instead?" Now, as I stood there signing the cancellation papers, I stared at that set stitched through and through with another woman's preferences, and right then and there, I finally decided to let it all go. The designer hesitantly handed me the pen. "Do you really still want to cancel the set?" I smiled and wiped my tears. "Yes. Cancel it." After all, countless other families who wanted a marriage alliance with me were too many to count. I did not need Silas, and I never had.

I had been the lover Zayn Lowe brought home and pampered for eight years. He once promised that if I proposed to him 100 times, he would make me his wife. But while I was excitedly getting ready for the 99th proposal, I unexpectedly heard his voice through the door, talking to a woman. "I've just come back, and you're already talking about our marriage? Aren't you worried the lover next to you will kick up a fuss?" Zayn let out a soft laugh. "Just a placeholder. As long as you're not upset, I've got ways to keep her in line. If she behaves, I'll even let her be our bridesmaid next week. Call it a reward for keeping us around all these years." The bouquet slipped from my hands and hit the floor. So after all these years, both the promise and the love had been nothing but a lie. I took out my phone and sent a message to my master. Vivian: The 8-year deal is over. I lost. I'll return the day after tomorrow to help you run the family business.

To celebrate our seventh anniversary, James Ludwig spent three months modifying an off-road camper van by hand, and said he wanted to take me on a tour of Newland. The night before we were set to leave, I went to the van to stow our luggage, only to find a six-year-old boy’s growth journal and a family photo tucked in a hidden compartment in the van's undercarriage storage. In the photo, James stood protectively beside a heavily pregnant woman, and this very camper van was in the background. James pulled open the door and climbed in. When he saw the photo in my hand, he immediately pulled me into a hug in a panic. "Honey, let me explain! That’s a junior schoolmate I sponsored. Seven years ago, I got drunk and had a one-time mistake with her… "She has raised the baby alone, never thinking about sabotaging our family. Now the boy is six, and he keeps begging to see snow-capped mountains. I have to fulfill my responsibility as his father! "This van was modified specifically for you! I won’t bring them tomorrow, it’ll just be the two of us on the trip, okay?" I looked at the childproof edge guards taped all around the cabin, and the ambient light on the wall felt painfully blinding. I didn’t push him away. I just gently pulled my hand out of his and said, "Okay." The next morning, he went out in high spirits to buy my favorite breakfast. I left the car key behind, slung a simple travel bag over my shoulder, and boarded a bus heading south. I had thought we were driving toward a wild, romantic frontier, never expecting it to be a crowded trip for three. This stolen seven-year dream... it was finally time to wake up.

I helped my boyfriend build his startup from nothing. I pitched to thirty firms. Landed a seven-figure contract by drinking myself into a hospital bed with a bleeding ulcer. He filled in the new intern's name and handed it to her. The group chat lit up. "Vivienne busts her ass, and some girl just bats her eyes at the boss. Guess who wins?" That night, the intern posted a story. Visible only to me. The photo showed Damian's oversized desk. Thanks, Damian, for the big project. Who cares if some old hag wrecked her stomach over it? Damian still puts me first. Below it, his instant reply. Dummy. I landed this account just so you could get your full-time offer. I stared at the IV bruises on the back of my hand. The cold settled in. I didn't even have the energy to be angry. I checked out the next morning. Walked straight to his office and slapped my buyout agreement on his desk, along with my key card. He seems to have forgotten something. Those investors with eight-figure portfolios? They backed me. Not his flimsy little house of cards.

The day I, Isla Wilcox, found out his first love, the woman he had never gotten over, was coming back to New York, I finally tore off the sweet, obedient mask I had worn for three years. I drugged Blake Stanton into a hotel room, dragged him, laid him in the bathtub, and tied his wrists with his own necktie. I kissed him, bit him, and touched him in ways the old Isla would never have dared. By morning, I was pretending nothing had happened. I stood beside his buddies from childhood, wearing a worried expression, and helped them search for New York's missing golden boy, the Stanton family's heir everyone treated as royalty. I was reckless in the way only someone with nothing left to lose could be, making one last mess before I was discarded for good. A cheap substitute was always meant to be used and discarded. When that circle of elites finally found him and realized I was the reckless idiot who had dared to kidnap him, they would probably dump me in the ocean and let the fish handle the evidence. At least, that was what I thought. Then one day, I heard his two most ruthless friends smoking outside the door and whispering to each other. "Blake put Ximena on a flight back to Africa overnight. Can we now ask Isla to let him out to at least eat a damn sandwich?" "Blake said Isla's been insecure lately, so she can do whatever she wants with him. Anyone who tries to play hero and interrupts his little bondage session will answer to him personally." I stood behind the door and froze. 'What?'

The financial aid selection was underway when my roommate, Bianca Sterling, came to me with red eyes and a desperate grip on my wrist. "Iris, my family went under. My grandmother is in the ICU. Please, I need you to give me your slot." In my last life, I had let her have it. She took the grant money and bought a designer handbag and then posted an exposé accusing me of fraud. The school expelled me on the spot. I walked out of the gates in a daze, and a runaway truck ended everything. I opened my eyes to find Bianca clutching my hand with tears streaming down her face. "Iris, I have nowhere left to turn..." I shook her off, pulled out my phone, and hit record. "Fine. Show me the bankruptcy filing and your grandmother's ICU records."

On the day of my thesis exhibition, my project had been given the most prominent spot in the gallery. It was my concept for a luxury estate designed for destination weddings. The walkway lined with white roses, the glass conservatory, and the timber-framed ceremony pavilion represented six months of sleepless nights. I, Zoey Cline, had designed every inch of it myself. My professor stood beside me and asked, "Zoey, are you applying to Warren Group with this portfolio, or entering the project in the Global Destination Design Awards?" Before I could answer, someone behind me laughed. "Obviously, she's applying to Warren Group with it. Isn't this basically her fantasy version of Mr. Warren's wedding venue?" "The groundskeeper's daughter grew up at Warren Villa, and now she actually thinks she'll become Mrs. Warren?" "I heard she reworked the processional path more than thirty times. She's probably been picturing herself walking down that aisle for years." Laughter swept through the gallery. Then Vincent Warren walked in holding Madison Robles' hand. Someone shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Mr. Warren, are you planning to use Zoey's venue design for your wedding?" Vincent gave my drawings a dismissive glance. "The design is acceptable," he said coldly. Then his gaze shifted to me. "She isn't."

During the quarterly meeting, that young nurse Eve interrupted my presentation—laser pointer aimed at my eyes. "Serena, this hospital isn't your personal ATM. If you're embezzling now, you'll run it into the ground tomorrow." Then my husband stepped in, slapping a thick stack of "evidence" onto the table. "Three years. How much have you bled this hospital dry?!" Silence. Not a single staff member I'd trained spoke up for me. They demanded my membership files and cut my pay to a janitor's wage. I didn't fight it. I simply complied. Later, they knelt before me, begging for forgiveness.

"Honey... Slow down. It feels so fucking good!" Thiago Lambert held my legs and drove deep into me, sweat dripping from his body in heavy, hot drops onto my face. Moans slipped from my lips before I could stop them. Even without looking, I knew my whole body was trembling, my cheeks flushed with an intoxicating heat. I was dreaming again. My name was Liliana Jenkins, and for three years, ever since his brother Samuel Lambert died, Thiago had been drowning in grief. He wouldn't touch me. He wouldn't take me to bed. My loneliness grew unbearable, and desire began finding its way into my dreams. A year ago, Naomi Bradley, Samuel's widow, accidentally walked in on me during one of those dreams. She didn't look embarrassed or disgusted. After that day, she would occasionally share intimate advice with me, teaching me how to please a man, how to seduce Thiago, and how to make him want me again. I honestly thought she had become my best friend, the kind of woman I could tell anything to. That belief lasted until the dream changed. In the dream, the woman moaning beneath Thiago was no longer me. It was Naomi. My husband, the man who had refused my body for so long, wore an expression of pure pleasure I had never once seen on his face. I told myself it was only a dream and tried not to think too much about it. On our anniversary, I even came home early without telling Thiago, planning to surprise him. Then a fire broke out in the second-floor bedroom. The moment I opened the door, my nightmare became real.

Everyone said that when a beastman mated with a human, it wasn't just this incredible, toe-curling experience. It'd also make you physically stronger. Word on the street was that beastmen were amazing in bed, seriously well-endowed, and could go all night long. But my beastman, Colin Yeats, just wouldn't give me a chance to see for myself, no matter what I did. He kept turning me down, over and over again. Then, this time, he was right in the middle of his heat, and I had hidden every last one of his suppressants. I could hear him in the bathroom, letting out these painful, muffled groans. I put on this innocent-but-sexy white slip dress, and I headed over to the bathroom door. Through the frosted glass, I could just make out his lean, toned figure and the way his hand kept moving as he tried to take the edge off by himself. Right when I was smirking to myself and reaching for the door to push it open, I heard this whisper thick with desire. "Gia, help me."

It was our seventh wedding anniversary, and our family decided to take a yacht trip out to sea. No one could have predicted the sudden, violent typhoon that struck, sweeping both me and my half-sister, Selene Fuller, into the churning ocean. My husband, Roderick Barton, fought the raging waves with everything he had to drag me back onto the deck. But the moment I was safe, he turned right around and dove back into the abyss, choosing to die with my sister. "Bianca, it wasn't Selene's fault that you were switched at birth and had to endure twenty years of hardship," he shouted over the storm. "She was just a little girl back then. Yet she carried that guilt every day, constantly giving in to you, even giving me up. Today, I am saving your life on her behalf. Whatever she owes you is paid in full. If there is a next life, please, don't choose me again." When I opened my eyes again, the roaring wind was gone. I was back in the past, staring at Selene as she slid the marriage agreement with the Barton family across the table to me. "Bianca, I've done my research," Selene said, her voice dripping with sisterly affection. "The Bartons are old money with centuries of pedigree. Every single heir is famous for how exceptionally well they treat their spouses. If you marry Roderick, you will lead a happy life." Would I be happy? If I hadn't already died once, perhaps a blissfully ignorant version of me would have believed her. In my previous life, that was exactly what happened. Moved by her words, I willingly married Roderick.

It was near midnight at the veterinary clinic, and I was just about to shrug off my scrubs. Suddenly, a frantic young woman rushed in, tears streaming down her face as she cradled a convulsing Golden Retriever. "Please, you have to save him! I don't care how much it costs!" she shouted. I immediately snapped into work mode and rushed the dog into the emergency room. During a brief lull in the resuscitation, the girl finally caught her breath. Her cheeks flushed a soft pink as she started babbling about her husband. "He gave me this dog as an engagement gift," she said, a shy smile playing on her lips. "He's a medical examiner, so he always looks so cold and serious. But the second I even frown, he'll literally drop his scalpel and run over to soothe me." I was just about to smile and joke about the stark contrast when her phone screen lit up on the counter.  My smile froze, and a cold dread washed over me. On her lock screen was a photo of a man holding her tightly in his arms, flashing a sickeningly doting smile. It was my husband, who claimed he was pulling an all-nighter at work.

Vance Hildreth said the studio wasn't turning a profit. For three years straight, I never drew a salary. I paid the rent out of my own pocket, hounded clients for outstanding payments, and even settled for the cheapest printer paper available. He told me we'd tough it out for six more months. Once the projects got on solid ground, he'd pay me back every cent I was owed. Later, his childhood sweetheart opened a coffee shop, and I brought a flower basket to celebrate the launch. The moment I stepped inside, I saw an imported coffee machine sitting on the counter. It cost 150,000 dollars. The invoice was made out to our studio. I stared at that piece of paper for a very long time. It dawned on me then—he was never short of money. The truth was simple: that money was just never meant to be spent on me.

I was twenty-eight years old, married for five years, and the day my ex-husband called me a washed-up hag and threw me out, he handed me three thousand dollars. "Take it. For old times' sake." He said that with the mistress standing right behind him, holding the suitcase I had packed, telling me to hurry up. I didn't cry. I took the money, tucked it away, and walked out of the home I'd lived in for five years. What my ex-husband didn't know was that his father, Edward Landry, found me the very next day. Fifty-five years old, more than half his hair had gone white. He stood in the doorway of my rented room with a brown envelope in his hands. "Lena," he said. "You've been wronged all these years." He handed me the envelope. Inside was a notarized will and a property transfer agreement. Three companies. Two homes. A commercial unit. All of it. In my name. "Dad, what is this..." "Don't call me Dad anymore." His voice was steady. "Call me Edward. "I want to marry you."

In the seventh year of our platonic relationship, my fiancé brought home an entire box of sex toys. He pinned me down and tried each one on me, filming every reaction with his camera. After feeding me the last pink pill, he stood up and took a call from his assistant. Still trembling with anticipation, I grabbed the camera. But when I played back the videos, I found detailed notes at the end of each clip. Notes meant for someone else. "The bulk-bought lace set is cheap. Book a private fitting for Chloe. "Metal cuffs can cause bruising. Pick a softer material for Chloe. "Unknown side effects of the enhancement pill. Let me see how Mia reacts first." The camera slipped through my fingers. I looked up in disbelief and found Julian staring down at me, furious. "Mia. Who said you could touch my things?" My heart hammered against my ribs. Sweat beaded across my forehead. A wave of heat spread through my body, and my throat tightened as I rasped out the only words I could manage. "Julian. Something's wrong. I think it was the pill." A flicker of excitement crossed his eyes. He raised the camera again and aimed it at me. "Ten at once was clearly too much. I'll cut it to five when I give them to Chloe." He muttered something about a work emergency and walked out with the camera. He never looked back. Before I blacked out, I used every bit of strength I had left to call him. His voice came through sharp and impatient. "I'm not a doctor. What do you expect me to do? If you're that desperate, take care of it yourself." I would never call Julian again.

It was our third wedding anniversary, yet my husband's secretary posted a new update on social media. Sara Lynch: Twisted my ankle earlier. So grateful you rushed to help me. In the photo, my husband's big hand covered her injured foot. The wedding band on his finger was painfully familiar, glinting starkly under the lights for anyone to spot. I glanced at the whole table of cold home-cooked meals, a sharp, bitter laugh rising in my throat. I headed straight to his office. There she was, wearing my personal house slippers, her head nestled lazily on his shoulder. He did not try to explain or defend himself at all. She did not even flinch, completely unfazed. I laid the fully signed divorce papers flat on his desk and said evenly, "Mike, I want a divorce." He gaped at me, convinced I'd lost my mind. He had no idea my phone held 23 screenshots, eight audio clips, plus two full years of bank transfer records tracking every hidden payment he'd made to her. I'd also written an unredacted exposé, saved and ready to publish instantly. My three million followers were waiting to read every detail of his nasty affair.

In one month, I'd be marrying Callum Johnson. I was all smiles as I picked up my phone and filmed a video. "I'm so excited. In one month, I get to spend forever with the man I love. I know our future is going to be amazing. I want two kids, one who takes after him and one who takes after me." I posted it and two DMs came in not long after I posted it. Unknown ID: Summer, I'm you from ten years in the future. You're not happy. Unknown ID: You never had those two kids. You hemorrhaged during delivery, and your body never recovered... The sender's username was gibberish, and the profile picture was the default stock avatar. Even so, a cold knot of panic settled in my chest. I typed back. Summer: What about Callum? Where was he while I was bleeding out? She replied. Unknown ID: He was off traveling with the woman he actually loves. The marriage license he got you is fake. He's in love with someone else. He never loved you. Before I could ask anything more, she sent another message. Unknown ID: Leave Callum if you can. You'll have a better life without him. Don't get married. The ending turns out the same either way.

I listed my husband, Randal Roper, on a secondhand marketplace, just to address his deep-rooted emotional neglect. The price tag was ten cents with a note: A three-month free trial is available. Non-refundable. Honestly, I only did it to get a reaction out of him. But that very night, someone actually bought it. The next day, a well-dressed woman showed up at my door with a contract in hand. "Hi, there. I'm here to pick up my trial item." Randal grabbed his suitcase, grinning from ear to ear, and walked off with her. He didn't even look back. Three months later, he was on my doorstep, disheveled and begging to return. I shut the door and said coldly, "Sorry, small business. All sales final."

On my birthday, I opened the shared photo album with Damien like always. The newest photo showed a girl wearing the wedding necklace I'd designed, smiling softly at the camera. Damien's call came through at the same moment. "So, do you like this year's gift?" he asked, all warmth and ease. My voice shook. In the rearview mirror, my own panicked eyes stared back at me, a strained smile pulling at my mouth. "Damien," I forced out, fingers locking around the steering wheel, "you uploaded that to the wrong album, right?" The man on the other end laughed, easy and unbothered. "Nope, right album. That's your birthday gift this year." The silence stretched on both ends. My mouth opened, but no sound made it out. "I pulled your access to the album," he said. "Don't stress, the wedding's still on. The necklace is just a loaner for her. "I'll swing by later with the flowers and cake," he added. "Happy birthday, Olivia." I snapped a photo of the Portsworth teaching offer lying on my passenger seat and dropped it straight into the shared album. Then I dialed a fresh number, my voice perfectly even. "Professor Bennett, I'm getting on a plane to Portsworth next month."

In the third year of our marriage, Chase Hargrove became obsessed with all that toxic online advice about "opting out of responsibility." He stopped handing over his paycheck. His phone never left his hand. Every day, he flirted shamelessly with other women. Even when I asked him to pour me a cup of coffee, he pretended not to hear me. Eventually, I stopped putting up with it. I stopped doing housework, stopped caring about his meals, and spent every day shopping, dining out, and hanging around with other men. And honestly? Life without playing the frumpy housewife at home felt amazing. Until one day, Chase finally got tired of fooling around and decided he wanted to return to family life. But the moment he saw my visibly pregnant belly, he froze in shock. Hooking my arm around my new man's, I smiled and handed him the divorce papers. "Sign them when you have time," I said lightly. "Don't delay my honeymoon."

My boyfriend tried to stop me from competing for a promotion, so his precious first love could have a clear shot at it. I said yes. After she finished her presentation, she crowed about it all over Instagram for everyone to see. "A mistress is just someone who isn't loved. The man who truly loves you will lay everything at your feet." So I turned around and filed a transfer request. The form named the position: R&D Department Manager, the exact job my boyfriend had been dreaming about for years. Among the four billion men on this planet, when one went rotten, you'd throw him out and get a new one. But a good job? There'd only be one. And nobody could take mine.

In my fifth year as Kael's secret mistress, I was finally crowned Luna. Lyra, the woman who once screamed at me, calling me cheap and filthy, signed the termination contract without a word of protest. Before she left, she asked me softly, "Elara, do you believe in karma?" I scoffed. If there were such a thing as karma, I wouldn't be sitting where I was sitting. If she wanted someone to blame, she could blame her own withered inner wolf for failing to hold on to an Alpha's heart. Seven years into our mating, Kael never grew tired of me. Lyra's twins, Darian and Elowen, treated me as their real mother. I thought karma was nothing but the howling of the losers. Until today. I caught the scent of someone else's heat on Kael's suit jacket, sickeningly sweet and cloying. And caught between my fingertips: a single, long, pink curl...