My twin sister, Wendy Parker, and I had both been accepted into the same college, or so my parents believed. The night before orientation week began, our entire family gathered around the dining table, trying to persuade me to take Wendy's place in the Freshman Challenge Program, where students were put through intense physical training, wilderness survival exercises, and demanding team challenges. Mom sliced off a piece of steak, the exact food I had hated since childhood, and placed it on my plate. Her voice softened into an unusual gentleness that felt almost forced. "Sienna, Wendy's skin is so sensitive. If she gets badly sunburned, it will take her forever to recover." Dad immediately agreed, nodding as though he had made the most reasonable suggestion in the world. "You're her older sister. You've always been the stronger one. Just take her place for these few weeks, and I'll give you some extra spending money next month. How does that sound?" They had probably already forgotten what happened last summer. Because of my severe UV allergy, I developed a serious case of solar dermatitis. Blisters covered my entire body, and I spent 2 weeks in unbearable pain that felt like it would never end. I calmly finished chewing the steak before looking up. "Okay." The moment I agreed, they excitedly started discussing which dresses Wendy should pack for her island vacation. In their eyes, I was the strong older daughter who could endure anything. So naturally, whenever their spoiled little princess couldn't handle something, I was the one who had to step in. They were certain I would give in, just like I always had. But they had no idea... The acceptance letter I received wasn't from a local college. It was from Westbridge University, a world-renowned school thousands of miles away from home. And while they were busy planning Wendy's vacation, I was preparing to leave everything behind.

Just off my night shift, I watched as the junior intern dropped to her knees in front of me with a thud. "Victoria, my mother is critically ill and being resuscitated in the ICU," she sobbed. "Please, cover this four-hour shift for me!" In my previous life, thinking of our camaraderie as classmates, I had taken over her shift. That night, a patient in the department suddenly went into heart failure. But she sneaked back and tampered with the medical orders, pinning the fatal medication error entirely on me. The day the disciplinary decision was handed down, I—who had spent eight grueling years earning my medical doctorate—became the murderous quack vilified across the internet. My grandmother, who had been a respected family physician all her life, collapsed from a brain hemorrhage and died on the hospital steps. She had been on her way to beg the hospital director for mercy on my behalf. The intern, however, filed a formal complaint against me, successfully securing a permanent position and becoming the department's rising star. At the commendation ceremony, she looked down at me as I held my grandmother's memorial photo and smiled faintly. "Victoria, medicine is too sacred a calling to allow any selfishness, don't you think?" she said. Unable to endure the endless harassment and threats from the patient's family, I swallowed sleeping pills in my rental apartment. Reborn into this life, I now faced the junior intern again. She held the shift schedule, sobbing, tears streaming down her face. "Victoria, my mother really isn't going to make it," she pleaded. "Please, cover for me for a little while..." I kept my face blank. "Oh, so you wanna see her one last time?" I replied coldly. "Quit on the spot and go wait for her in the morgue."

The high-end couture design I had spent three months creating was now on the main presentation screen at Aurelia Atelier.   The person presenting it was Vivian Blake, my boyfriend's sweet, fragile-looking childhood friend.   As the senior executives broke into thunderous applause, I stormed into the conference room and exposed her lie.   Vivian instantly burst into tears and turned the accusation back on me. "Madeline, I know you want the promotion. But you can't steal my work."   I took out my encrypted sketches and fabric sampling records and threw them onto the table.   But Daniel Vaughn, my boyfriend and the design director, snatched up the sketches and tore them apart.   "Madeline, stop making a scene. Vivian worked so hard on this project that her stomach trouble flared up. It was bad enough that you were jealous of her. Now you're trying to destroy her in front of senior management? "At tomorrow's morning meeting, you will apologize to Vivian in front of the whole company. If you don't apologize, our engagement party will be postponed indefinitely. Madeline, I don't need a vicious woman as my wife."   I looked at the torn sketches scattered across the floor, and my heart went cold.   "No need to postpone it. The engagement is over."

The second I laid eyes on the groom at  the wedding, 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. My eyes keep stinging with tears. Amidst all the laughter and cheer, my best friend looks at me with concern: "Yvonne, are you really going through with this wedding?" I sit back down in front of the makeup mirror: "Yes, of course I'm going through with it!" I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes and send a message to Aaron's archrival—the man who has been pursuing me for six years: Yvonne: Mr. Norman, you once said you wanted to marry me. Does that offer still stand?

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.

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."

During my family's charity gala, Zoey Shaw, my boyfriend's female best friend, burst through the doors. Her clothes were torn, and her face was covered in blood. In front of all the business leaders present, she shouted furiously, "Sienna Sterling! Your brother got me pregnant, and your parents even sent people to hunt me down! If you don't compensate me with ten million dollars and Lakeside Villa, I'll sue him for rape!" My boyfriend was the first to rush over. He pulled her protectively into his arms and yelled at me, "Zoey has no power or influence. Does that mean your whole family can bully her like this? You're all so vicious!" The guests slammed their hands on the table and angrily cursed, "He made a mistake but refuses to take responsibility. What kind of man is the Sterling heir?" I looked at Zoey, who insisted on compensation, then at my furious boyfriend. I was speechless. My brother... was never a man to begin with.

I was the pampered wife of Jules Hawthorne, the legendary heir in Auraville's old-money circles. My younger half-sister somehow found out about how loaded he was. "Brigitte, let me have your husband. You've been trying to get a divorce anyway, haven't you? As long as you help me get into his bed, I'll get Dad to return your mom's ashes to you." I knew all too well how dangerous that man was, and I turned her down. She held a grudge, teamed up with that bastard of a father, tied me up on a yacht, and dumped me overboard. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day my half-sister forced me to give Jules up. "Fine," I said. "The password to his villa is six zeros. Just let yourself in tonight." I even played the caring sister and laid out a sexy outfit for her. Little did she know the person in Hillside Villa that night wasn't my husband. It was a dreaded drug lord.

The floor-to-ceiling mirror in the VIP suite of the city's most exclusive bridal atelier revealed every flicker of unease on my face. The couture gown I'd waited 12 whole months for was caught tight around my hips, swollen slightly from the ovulation shots. No matter how hard the seamstress pulled, the zipper refused to budge. Edmund Carter, my fiancé, leaned back against the velvet sofa and sipped his espresso, perfectly composed. "Don't force it, Tessa. You'll warp the fabric, and it'll ruin the line." He glanced over at the corner where Celeste Landon—his childhood first love, still willowy and flawless—sat watching us. "Celeste just got back from overseas, and she needs a showstopper for tonight's charity gala. The measurements would fit her like a glove. Let her borrow it for the night." The shop staff exchanged astonishing glances. Edmund stepped in front of me, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his gaze soft with the practiced tenderness I'd once fallen for. "Your hormones are all out of whack from the fertility treatments, and you've put on weight. If you walked the red carpet in this, the tabloids would tear you apart. "Be a good girl and take it off. I'll have the atelier remake a looser version in your current size tomorrow." I'd given up my career as a principal ballerina to give him a family. And now, even the wedding dress I'd dreamed of my whole life was being handed off to another woman. I held his gaze for several seconds. No tears, no trembling lip. I just grabbed the invisible zipper at my back and ripped it down. The gown slipped off my shoulders and pooled in a heap of silk and lace at my feet. "No need. If it fits her so well, she can keep the dress. And she can keep you right along with it."

During a sophomore health screening, a doctor found a lump in my breast. She asked whether I had been under a lot of stress or sleeping poorly. I said nothing. The bed by the window belonged to a roommate who constantly said, "I just tell it like it is." If I took too long in the shower, she called me fat and slow. When I won a scholarship, she sneered that poor students only knew how to grind for grades. Whenever I called home, she loudly mimicked my voice and made the whole room laugh.  If I got upset, she always shut me down with the same excuse. "I just tell it like it is. Don't be so sensitive." Then came the day I returned to the dorm with my screening report, and she snatched it from me. "A breast lump? That's hilarious. It's so on-brand for you. You're always bottling everything up. Who else can you blame?" I watched her laugh until her eyes crinkled, then suddenly smiled too. "You're right." From then on, I made sure I never disappointed her. When she edited her selfies, I commented, "Why does your nose look different every day?" When she ran for student council representative, I raised my hand and said, "She was caught having someone sign in for her last semester. Is she really the right person to enforce the rules?" When she acted sweet in front of her crush, I asked, "Should I play the voice message where you called him a mama's boy last night?" The first time I made Rebecca cry, everyone in the dorm told me to ease up. I gave them the same answer she always gave me. "I just tell it like it is." Four months later, she was rushed to the ER with heart palpitations. The doctor said the episode had been brought on by extreme emotional distress. I looked down at her and smiled. "Don't be so sensitive. It was just a joke."

My friend Ryan Cooper had talked me into applying to the Elite Founders Club, the university's entrepreneurship club, which claimed to accept "only the elite." The moment I reached the recruitment booth, the club president, Madison Blake, blocked me with a tablet in her arms. "Hold it. This is an exclusive circle for exceptional people. We use a strict four-part screening system, and anyone who falls short is out." She looked me up and down with open disdain. "Average-looking, with no standout features. You fail the looks requirement. No luxury watch, and not a single designer logo on your suit. You fail the style requirement. You came from an ordinary public high school instead of an exclusive prep school abroad. You fail the education requirement. And your voice isn't deep. You don't even use vocal fry. You sound weak, so that's another fail." She closed her tablet and delivered her verdict without a trace of courtesy. "Sorry. You didn't make the cut." Then she shoved me aside and beamed at Tyler Brooks, who wore a limited-edition watch. "Tyler's family invested eight figures in his project. A perfect score. Come right in!" The freshmen nearby snickered. Ryan started to defend me, but I raised a hand to stop him and adjusted my cuff. Madison had no idea that my unbranded suit had been made by a master tailor. I had stayed close to home because my family's current project was here. As for Tyler's proposal, it had reached my family's investment division the previous week. It hadn't even passed the preliminary review. Madison loved shutting people out, and that suited me just fine. I would show her who really had the power to shut someone out.

My fiancé, Jacob West, always said his first love had faked an illness and tricked him out of all his money. Ever since then, he'd hated manipulative women more than anything. For the past eight years, I'd done everything I could to prove I wasn't one of them. Even when acute gastroenteritis had me doubled over in pain, I gritted my teeth, called myself a cab, and went to the hospital alone. Then came the day I was filming my rebrand as a food creator, building my own personal brand. One careless moment, and the knife sliced straight into my right thumb. Blood splattered across the tile floor. I sucked in a sharp breath from the pain. Figuring Jacob would be home soon, I snapped a quick photo and texted him, asking if he could grab a box of Band-Aids on his way back. A voice message came almost instantly. "Cheryl, I've seen you move apartments by yourself without whining once. Today Betty scraped her knee, and don't tell me you didn't see it in the group chat. You seriously had to cut your hand right now just to compete for attention? Really?" I stared at the tissue soaked through with blood. My mind went completely blank. Ten minutes later, his assistant, Betty Shaw, posted a new update. Location was the VIP ward of the city's most exclusive private hospital. In the video, Jacob was kneeling beside her bed, gently blowing on her scraped knee as if he were afraid she'd feel even the slightest sting. The caption read: It's just a tiny scrape, but Mr. West insisted on canceling his meeting and bringing me to the hospital. Even the doctor laughed and said we were making too big a deal out of it." Turns out... He didn't hate manipulative women. He just didn't care when the person getting hurt was me.

After ten years together, my CEO boyfriend finally proposed. But when it came time to exchange rings, he slipped the one that was supposed to be mine onto the finger of a rising A-list actress instead. "It's how the entertainment industry works. Before we officially announce the marriage, my female spokesperson has to wear the wedding ring first. It's called building hype. You're just a regular person. What's wrong with making a tiny sacrifice for my business empire?" The entire room erupted. That woman proudly held up her hand, showing off the massive ten-carat diamond sparkling on her ring finger. I simply withdrew my hand and said calmly, "Alright. I get the rules." On our wedding day, my boyfriend stood on the stage in a custom-made tuxedo, waiting for me. Instead, I walked down the aisle arm in arm with the nation's most sought-after movie star, a man worth hundreds of billions. Under my ex-boyfriend's shattered gaze, I smiled faintly. "I forgot to tell you something. The princess of the capital's elite has rules too. Since you let someone else wear my wedding ring, then naturally, I should replace my groom with someone who has even more commercial value."

To inspect the products from a new factory, I showed up at my high school reunion wearing an old tracksuit that had already started pilling. The moment I pushed open the private room door, I saw Flora Jones, our former class rep, sitting in my ex Eric Cook's arms as the two of them drank together. He glanced at me and immediately started mocking me. "Well, well. Look who finally showed up. The hardworking queen herself. Did your little street business go bankrupt? Can't even afford a decent outfit anymore?" Flora leaned against him and rolled her eyes. "Don't make fun of her. After all, she doesn't have the ability to become the chief driver of the female CEO of Sterling Department Store like you did. I heard your female boss is old and ugly, but apparently she's completely devoted to you." Eric smiled proudly and tossed a car key onto the table. "Of course she is. That old woman is obsessed with me. She even gave me a Bentley worth millions as a bonus. Chloe, if you're really about to starve, just come beg me. I can still get you a spot at the mall selling lingerie." As he spoke, he proudly placed several Sterling Department Store Supreme VIP Black Cards on the table. I stared at those fake cards made from discarded scraps and almost laughed. I was 28 years old. I wasn't old or ugly. I was the only founder and owner of Sterling Department Store. The so-called black cards Eric was using to show off were actually low-quality counterfeits that had slipped through the cracks when my team and I helped the police shut down a fake goods operation a few days ago. Flora lifted her wine glass and looked at me with a mocking smile. "Chloe, what are you standing there for? Aren't you going to toast the man you used to look down on?"

My first two husbands had both dropped dead from sudden heart attacks the moment I fled back to my parents' home after they beat me. I handpicked my third husband. He ran a small business and always played a philanthropist, dabbling in charity.  But the very day we got married, he shattered three of my ribs. Three days later, I was holed up in a hospital in my hometown, a thousand miles away, nursing my wounds. Suddenly, several cops kicked the door open with a bang and barged in. "Stella, your husband was dismembered at home last night." The sudden news jolted me so hard that the medicine bowl slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. My eyes, red-rimmed and wet, locked onto the lead, Officer Langford. "Officer Langford, why do they all meet a violent end after abusing me? Is there really such a thing as divine retribution?" Officer Langford whipped out a pair of silver cuffs and snapped them onto my wrists. "Drop the innocent act, Stella. You're the murderer." I stared at him in utter disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about? My husband was dismembered at home, but he shattered my ribs! I've been laid up at my parents' place, a thousand miles away, for three whole days!"

On the day my father lost everything and jumped to his death, I climbed into bed with Crestmont's most powerful heir and begged him to save my younger brother. Ethan Caldwell kissed every inch of me like a man possessed, then was so brutal with me that I nearly died in his bed.   The next morning, he threw a hospital notice at me stating that my brother had been critically injured and might not survive.   "You broke off our engagement in front of everyone and broke my leg. Then your father set a trap, seized the Caldwell family business, and drove my mother to her death! This is payback, Claire, and it's only just begun."   I knelt on the cold tile floor, too numb to react.   For the next three years, Ethan kept me locked in the basement and tortured me every day, but he refused to let me die. Whenever I tried to take my own life, he ordered the doctors to stop my brother's life-saving medication.   Then his first love tricked me into having an abortion and had my baby thrown away as medical waste.   After that, I stopped fighting. The injuries I suffered while saving Ethan from a fire had triggered progressive organ failure, and I had only a few days left to live.

At a convenience store inside a gas station, the young woman beside me and I reached for the same pack of gum. "Go with the sugar-free mint," we said at the same time. We laughed, and she told me her fiance smoked and always chewed that brand to freshen his breath. I smiled and said my husband kept the same gum in his car. "What a coincidence!" she said, pointing through the window toward the pumps. "Look at him. He bought me a new car for our second anniversary, and he even insists on filling it up himself." I followed her finger to a brand-new Audi with temporary plates. My parents' wedding fund had paid for it. The man leaning against the door, chewing the same gum, was my husband, Grant Miller. The convenience-store window reflected my pale face, but she kept smiling. "Would your husband ever buy you a car this expensive?"

For our 3rd anniversary, Julian Stone gifted me an expensive Aurora Diamond necklace. Overjoyed, I put it on and posted a picture on Instagram. Chloe: 3 years have passed, yet the starlight remains unchanged. A few minutes later, my best friend Sofia Lloyd sent me a screenshot on WhatsApp. It was an Instagram post from Lexi Chase, Julian's newly hired intern. She had posted it just one minute before me. In the photo was a massive, flawless Aurora Diamond center stone. The necklace resting against her collarbone was identical to mine, but her diamond was larger and far more brilliant. Below it, her caption read: He says offcuts are only for brushing others off, but the center stone will always belong to me. I opened my chat with Julian and checked the message he had sent 5 minutes earlier. Julian: Babe, do you love the necklace? I had it specially customized overseas just for you. It's one of a kind. I listened in complete silence. Walking over to the vanity, I unclasped the "one of a kind" necklace and dropped it straight into the trash can. My response was immediate. Chloe: I love it. In fact, I've decided to prepare a huge surprise for you in return.

I was never blessed with an ounce of drive. My greatest dream is to live a laid-back life and avoid all unnecessary struggle. Yet I was tracked down and brought back to the capital's prominent Hale household, where every family member was a relentless overachiever. I couldn't be bothered to head downstairs for meals, so I had takeout hung on the doorknob. But they were convinced I locked myself in my room holding cross-border video calls, plotting to seize power of the family conglomerate. I slept in until the afternoon and skipped the company's weekly meeting. They assumed I'd secretly met the group's largest shareholder. Mia Hale, the fake heiress, slammed her chopsticks down before the whole family. "What game are you playing? If you wield such powerful connections behind you, show them to us!" she snapped. I stared blankly. "… The only thing behind me is my bed." No one believed me. That day, my eldest brother, Kenton Hale, slammed a check for 50 million dollars right in my face. "Take this money and leave for Hawaii, never come back, the Hale family has no use for someone as scheming as you," he said.  I was so ecstatic I nearly dropped to my knees to thank him on the spot! These lunatics who would fight tooth and nail over the family fortune—I couldn't stand playing along with their charade for one more second. With 50 million dollars tucked safely in my pocket, I was off to Hawaii to gaze at the ocean and laze around to my heart's content!

My roommate, Leah Stone, was obsessed with low-budget short drama series. On our very first day sharing the apartment, Leah excitedly led a deranged vagrant through the doorway. He stank terribly and drooled constantly. Stunned by what I saw, I listened as she proudly explained her "bargain-hunting theory for the underprivileged."  She said, "That's how every short drama goes. A down-and-out vagrant is almost always an amnesiac elite heir from the capital's upper circle. I'm making an early investment. Once he regains his memories, I'll become a billionaire's wife!" In my past life, out of years of friendly affection, I feared she would be in danger and forced the vagrant out of the flat. Yet that man smashed the window and broke in the middle of the night, beating me to death with a wooden club. Leah, whom I'd regarded as my closest friend, hid trembling inside the wardrobe. Later, she even tearfully claimed on camera. "It's all her fault. She lacked compassion and provoked the vagrant, completely ruining my chance to marry into wealth!" When I opened my eyes again, I was transported back to the moment Leah brought the vagrant into our home. I stared at Leah's greedy face, lost in her fantasy of joining high society, and let out a cold laugh. I dragged my luggage stuffed full of clothes out without hesitation and cleared out the master bedroom that same night. "My best friend, to uphold your dignity as a future billionaire's spouse, you can have this apartment to nurture your bond! I'm moving out right away. I won't stay and play third wheel to your cross-class romance."

I went to the old castle's rose garden to take wedding photos. But my fiancé, Ivo Beck, insisted on bringing his adopted sister, Daphne Sullivan. Daphne complained that it wasn't photogenic enough, trampled the flowers with her high heels, and even uprooted the century‑old rose bushes. To film a prank video, she even grabbed a handful of mud and threw it at the limping cleaning lady, Margot Sherwood, who was sweeping the ground. When Margot came to confront them, my fiancé shoved her to the ground to defend Daphne. In my previous life, afraid of making trouble, I forced my fiancé to pay compensation and apologize. As a result, Daphne was exposed on social media, and unable to bear the cyberbullying, she overdosed. My fiancé blamed everything on me. On our wedding night, he knocked me unconscious with a shovel and buried me alive deep in the rose garden. He spat, "Wren Ellison, Daphne is dead. Are you happy now? A vicious woman like you deserves to turn into mud and serve as fertilizer for her flowers!" Mud filled my mouth and nose, and I suffocated to death in agony. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in front of the flower bed, watching my fiancé spit in Margot's face. He had no idea that Margot's son was a powerful mafia boss who never let anyone mess with his mother.

The day Emmett Archer finally clawed his way out of the slums, he threw me a lavish, high-profile wedding that shook the entire city. A diamond-encrusted wedding gown worth millions, and a gemstone ring worth tens of millions. Everyone praised him as a man of loyalty and devotion, sighing with admiration that even after rising to prominence, he still refused to let go of the woman who had endured the hardest days with him. My heart swelled with warmth, believing that after years of poverty and steadfast companionship, we had finally earned our lifetime of happiness. But on the wedding day, the gown I had carefully prepared vanished into thin air. Emmett looked deeply guilty. "It's my fault," he said. "Security slipped up. The wedding will have to be postponed." Seeing his remorseful expression, my heart softened. I secretly changed into the haute couture wedding gown worth over a hundred million that my father, the richest man in the country, had prepared for me. I was eager to surprise him, my heart brimming with joy. But the moment I stepped into the wedding venue, I saw him tenderly holding his ex-wife's hand. The instant our eyes met, a flicker of panic crossed Emmett's eyes before his brows furrowed. "Why are you here?" he demanded. Before I could speak, his thin lips parted. "Since you've already seen everything, I might as well tell you," he continued. "These past few years, I only kept you around because you were poor and obedient." "I divorced Vera Langdon back then because I couldn't bear to let the woman I loved suffer with me," he added. "Now that I've made it, slum trash like you isn't fit to be Mrs. Archer," he finished. He casually tossed a black card my way. "This card is more than enough to pay you off for those cheap years of your youth," he said. "Enough for you to find the richest man in the slums and marry him." I looked down at the card, my gaze ice-cold. "In that case, my father needn't bother sending the wedding gift," I said.

On my second day back at work after giving birth, during a presentation in the conference room, he suddenly pinched his nose and cut me off: "Why do you always smell like... pee and milk? You really need to watch your image around here." Dozens of eyes swiveled toward me in unison. I stood motionless, but my fingers slowly dug into my palm. Because everything he said was true. After a vaginal delivery, I couldn't control my bladder or my milk. I'd leak if I sat too long, if I got emotional—even crying would make me leak. For this presentation, I'd specifically worn a sanitary pad and four layers of nursing pads, and I hadn't even dared to drink a sip of water before leaving. But he still thought I was an embarrassment. "Amara, take a leave to recuperate for now. The company can't hand the VP position to someone who can't even control her own body."  I looked at the man who had once held my hand outside the delivery room and said, "You worked so hard, my love," and suddenly he felt like a stranger. But he didn't know that if it weren't for me, my father would never have invested in this company. What he personally ended that day wasn't just my position. He'd also cut off the entire company's lifeline.

The seventh time I landed in Valdoria to pay my respects to my late fiancé, I suddenly received a private message from a fan: Hello, I can't log into my late husband's Facebook. I really want to see the private photos he kept hidden while he was alive. Could you help me? I was a code-breaking blogger with millions of followers. After some tinkering, I successfully logged into the account. The moment I opened the photo album, I froze. Over a thousand photos stared back at me, all of them intimate pictures of my fiancé, Ezra Reed, and my best friend, Isla Monroe. Before I could even react, a new post popped up, showing the location as St. Dunstan's Cathedral. There was Ezra, down on one knee, looking lovingly at Isla as he held out a diamond ring. My blood ran cold, and my hands shook so badly I could barely grip my phone. My fiancé—the same man who was supposed to have died in a car explosion seven years ago—was actually getting married to my best friend. I snapped my head up toward the driver. "Turn the car around!" I shouted. "We're not going to the cemetery. Take me to St. Dunstan's Cathedral instead!"

At Nathaniel Vanguard's funeral, a seventeen-year-old stranger falls to her knees in front of me and calls me "Mom." I think she is just delirious with grief. That is, until the estate lawyer reads the will out loud. "Sixty percent of Mr. Vanguard's shares will be left entirely to his daughter, Stella Vanguard." The entire chapel falls dead silent, and every pair of eyes darts toward me. After all, everyone in our circle knows Nathaniel and I never had children. My fingers dig into my black clutch until they go numb. A second later, a familiar woman emerges from the crowd, her eyes rimmed red with tears. "Victoria," Serena Chase says softly. "Nathaniel told me you were too fragile to endure the pain of childbirth. So all these years, I had a child for you. I raised her for you." She pauses, her gaze shifting to Nathaniel's portrait. "He said you had a heart of gold. He knew that once he was gone, you would treat Stella like your own flesh and blood." I stand frozen, suddenly transported back twenty years. Nathaniel holds my medical report, swearing that my infertility doesn't matter. He only needs me. Every year, he takes me to the orphanage, whispering that adopting a child will be a blessing. It isn't true love. He has simply factored my entire life into his twisted game. "He's dead, Victoria. Just let it go," someone whispers in the crowd. I slowly look up at the lawyer. "Are you finished reading his will?" He nods stiffly. I pull a crisp folder from my clutch. "Great. Then it's time to read mine."

On the night my own father sold me to Wesley Foster, he stared at my face for a long time.   Only later did I learn that I looked a lot like the first love he had always wanted but never had.   I heard that his first love was a well-known lawyer in Astoria City, while I was nothing but a kept woman—pushed onto him by my own family.   Wesley asked me, "What do you want?"   Clutching the hem of my dress, I said quietly, "An employment contract."   He laughed so hard that even the ash fell from his cigarette.   "You're already a kept woman, and you still want a fixed salary?"   I nodded seriously and counted on my fingers as I said, "During the time I'm being kept, it would be best to write down the exact services involved. Every transfer should be clearly stated as a voluntary gift. That way, when we break up, it'll be easier to settle the accounts."   Wesley pinched my chin, as if he were looking at a disobedient stray cat.   "You're good at pretending. Fine, I'll play along."   The next day, he tossed me a supplementary card and told me to buy something decent.   I immediately spent twenty-nine dollars and ninety cents on a copy of Labor Law.

My research vessel was caught in a storm in the deep sea, and fourteen crew members were in danger of losing their lives at any moment.   At the critical moment, I requested that Julian Lawson, the tycoon of maritime rescue operations, send a rescue helicopter to save us.   Julian looked at the weather map, his voice frighteningly calm. "The wind speed has exceeded the safety limit today. The rescue cost is too high. It doesn't make commercial sense. Use the lifeboat to save yourselves first."   I gripped the radio, trembling in the pouring rain.   But the next second, I heard him order the rescue team, "Turn Rescue Ship No. 1 around and escort Nina's private yacht back to port. She has a heart condition. We can't afford any mistakes."   Nina Sullivan was his first love, who had just returned to the country.   All these years, she had always told everyone that she had a serious heart condition, that she couldn't handle any scares or intense stimulation.   But I never imagined that while the people truly trapped in danger were still waiting for rescue in the middle of the storm, he had already sent the last remaining rescue resources to her side.   I looked at the weakening signal on the radar and wiped the rain from my face.   Julian was still lecturing me over the radio.   "As a team leader, you need to learn how to stay calm. Don't panic every time you encounter rough seas."   I completely shut off the locator in my hand, took off my wedding ring, and threw it into the storm-ravaged ocean.   This time, I would save myself.

Victor Thorne and I had an agreement: the day his company went public, we'd finally go public too. But that day, what I got wasn't a proposal. It was a private Instagram Close Friends story he'd forgotten to hide from me. "Ten years of storms, and today I finally have the right to marry my little princess." The photo attached showed him holding hands with his first love outside a city hall overseas. On her finger sat a pink diamond, the very same one my mother had given me for my coming-of-age gift. I was about to confront him when a text from Victor's secretary lit up my screen. Secretary: Stella Vance, Lily Miller has been in poor health ever since she saved Victor. He's worked himself to the bone these past ten years just to pay for her treatment.  Secretary: You already have everything. Please give Victor back to her. Don't make this ugly. So that was it. I'd hidden my identity and poured the entire Vances' resources into propping him up, lifting him from a penniless nobody into a multi-billion-dollar new-money tycoon. And in their eyes, I was just some woman trying to steal another woman's man. I stared at my phone, let out a cold laugh, and dialed home. "Initiate the short-selling contingency. I want Thorne Industries bankrupt on day one of trading," I said. "While you're at it, dig into that sickly first love of his. The debt she owes for stealing my place as his savior all those years ago, it's time to collect, principal and interest. And one more thing. Tomorrow night, at the Vances' gala, make sure Victor gets an invitation. I want him to see, up close, exactly what he threw away."

On our class graduation trip, we stayed in an eco-cabin in the primeval forest of the Everden region. The guest handbook clearly forbade opening the heavy animal-proof balcony door at night. But to shoot a viral video titled Snow White and the Forest Animals, my roommate, Vesper Marlowe, secretly removed the animal-proof bolt in the middle of the night and scattered sausages all over the balcony. In my previous life, the scent attracted a starving black bear. The moment it broke down the door, Vesper and the other roommates shoved me out of the bedroom and deadbolted the inner door. As the black bear crushed my skull in its jaws while I was still alive, she hid in the safe room, live-streaming, tearfully claiming that her best friend had died tragically protecting her. After that, she gained three million followers overnight, achieving both fame and fortune. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the moment Vesper had just removed the animal-proof bolt. She was holding a plate of sausages, rolling her eyes at me. "Don't be so selfish, okay?" she said. "Those poor little things. What's wrong with leaving a door open for them? Besides, I'm an animal magnet. They can sense a person's nature; they'll only want to get close to me." I looked at the pitch-black forest outside the window, listening to the faint, heavy panting carried on the wind. I calmly picked up my phone and jacket and walked out of the room. "You're right," I said. "You're Snow White. I won't disturb you making friends with the animals."

My husband claimed he had been given a second chance at life. In his so-called previous life, he said I drained all his savings in our sixth year of marriage and ran off with a college frat boy. He claimed the betrayal shattered him, leaving him destitute until loan sharks broke his legs in a pouring rainstorm. So, in this lifetime, he beat me to the punch. While I was pouring my heart and soul into our family, he was having an affair and had already fathered twins with his assistant. Holding his petite assistant in his arms, he glared at me with pure venom. "This is karma, Sarah. Since you're destined to stab me in the back, why the hell should I stay faithful to you?" I stared at the two toddlers, already walking, and a sudden realization hit me. "You've been cheating on me for a long time, Christian. What if, in your 'previous life', I only found someone else because I discovered your filthy little secret first?" Christian's face drained of color. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. In this split second, I knew I had hit the nail on the head.

My name is Jocelyn Hart. All I did was invite my professor, Thomas Langford, out for a birthday dinner. But my finger slipped, and instead of texting "I'm about to have my birthday," I sent "I'm about to have a baby." Thomas went silent for three minutes. First, he asked if I was still coming back to campus. Then he told me to put my thesis on hold for now. Finally, he sent me a thousand-dollar transfer. The note read: A little gift for the little one. Don't push yourself. I almost fell out of my chair laughing and rushed to explain it was a typo. His reply: I've been thinking you just put on some weight lately. Didn't want to ask. But the next day, a screenshot of our conversation appeared on CampusWhisper, the campus anonymous forum. Whoever posted it had cropped out every bit of context before and after, leaving only the transfer and "Don't push yourself." The caption read: A grad school early-admission candidate is suspected to be pregnant. Her professor privately sent her money to take care of her, and she's still keeping her spot? Makes you wonder whose baby it really is. My roommate, Natalie Whitfield, stood at the door of our room with a sigh and her phone in hand. "Don't blame everyone for jumping to conclusions. Your professor already sent you money, and you still expect to keep your nomination spot? It just doesn't look right." The department responded quickly. They sent a notice: "Your nomination has been suspended pending an internal review." I looked at that screenshot, cropped down to half a conversation, and smiled. "That's fine. Let's wait for the review, then."

Three days before our engagement party, I saw a new Labubu charm hanging from the rearview mirror in Ethan Cole's car.   I asked him where it came from.   Ethan didn't even look at me.   "A friend gave it to me. It's just a little trinket. Stop being so suspicious."   I said nothing else.   That night, I came across a private alt account belonging to Lily Hart, my assistant.   The post read: I finally managed to get a limited-edition Labubu charm for my boyfriend. I waited in line for three hours, my hands frozen red, but he said he loved it. It's already hanging in his car now.   The photo showed the same Labubu charm with the pink strap.   I opened her profile. It was filled with posts about her relationship.   I scrolled through them one by one.   Then, in a restaurant photo she posted, I saw the rosary bracelet on a man's wrist. It was the blessed rosary bracelet I had gotten for Ethan at a chapel last year. There was only one like it in the world.   He had said he would wear it forever. He had kept that promise. He just wore it to see another woman.   That night, I messaged the wedding planning company.   Hannah: Keep the engagement party schedule as planned.   Hannah: But I want to replace the opening video.   I didn't know why Ethan cheated. I only knew that anyone who betrayed love and commitment had to pay a painful price.

I was the only werewolf in my pack who carried the Moon Goddess's power.   I could burn my wolf soul to heal others and offer blessings.   Each blessing took part of my life and left me in unbearable pain.   But for Kyle Mercer, the strongest warrior in the pack and my fated mate, I accepted every cost.   The year the wolf plague broke out, more than half of the adult werewolves in our pack died. I burned my wolf soul for the first time, and Kyle escaped infection.   During the pack war, we faced an enemy far stronger than we were and had almost no chance of winning. I burned my wolf soul for the second time, and that was how Kyle lived to see victory.   Now he was challenging the Alpha of the strongest neighboring pack.   He said that once he returned victorious, he would hold a grand marking ceremony with me and make me his Luna.   So I burned my weakened wolf soul once more, all so my hero could return in triumph.   But three days passed. News had already spread from the neighboring pack that a new Alpha had taken power, yet Kyle still never came for me.   "Luna, stop waiting," the High Priestess told me with pity. "Kyle, now the Alpha, marked his stepsister, Lena, the day after he took power."   At that moment, the bond deep in my soul snapped with a sharp crack. Blood rushed into my mouth.   Through the bond, I heard Kyle's apologies and promises.   "Lena was ambushed and injured at my ascension ceremony. I can't leave her right now. I was afraid she wouldn't make it, so I decided to mark her. I didn't want her to leave this world with regrets. Wait for me, Ariana. Once Lena recovers, I will marry you."   I quietly wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and gave him no answer.   Three days later, I returned my divine power to the Moon Goddess.   From that moment on, his life had nothing to do with mine.

My mother told me she had a terminal illness and asked me for half a million dollars for surgery. I sold my car, ended the lease on my downtown apartment, asked my boss for an advance on my bonus, and borrowed some money from friends. I finally scraped together enough to give her. But the moment my mother got the money, she turned around and used it to cover the down payment on a house for my brother, Lyle Vale. When I found out, my mother waved a hand impatiently and snapped. "I'm your mother. So what if I lied to you? I raised you for so many years. Isn't it only right that you give me money? Anyway, the house is already bought, and you can't get that money back." But what my mother didn't know was that the half a million dollars was actually the money that would save her life.

When I was four and still couldn't talk, my mom called me a "freak" and walked out on me without even looking back. By the time I hit sixteen, I was already starting to make waves in the scientific research community. Suddenly, she was crying in front of the cameras, claiming she'd finally found me and just wanted to bring me home. Having been starved of affection my whole life, my heart melted instantly, and I genuinely believed she was ready to love me. But the second I refused to hand my research findings over to my younger sister, she pushed me into the sea with her own hands, "killing" me all over again. I was eighteen that year, and it finally clicked that everything my mom did was always for my sister. The maternal love I had desperately craved was nothing but a bad joke. Against all odds, I survived, only to watch my sister use my hard work to give high-profile lectures. Overnight, she became the "genius girl" everyone in the industry couldn't stop praising. Five years later, I sat in the audience at her project presentation. Watching her explain my research with that smug look on her face, I couldn't help but stand up and clap loudly. "Amazing presentation!" Every single person in the room whipped around to look at me. I just let out a cold smile. "Too bad it's not actually yours, no matter how good it sounds."

My husband claimed he was allergic to perfume.   For six years of marriage, I could only buy fragrance-free detergent.   He said any scent would make him dizzy, and a strong one could even send him into shock.   Then, on the day of our son's parent-teacher meeting, I found a bottle of women's perfume in his car. There was also a scarf on the passenger seat.   Before I could say a word, the car's Bluetooth system rang, and a sweet, coy female voice came through.   "Mr. Carter, don't let Mrs. Carter touch the perfume bottle I left in your car. A woman like her, who spends all day in the kitchen, definitely wouldn't know how expensive it is."   I looked at my husband's pale face, unscrewed the bottle, and poured the entire thing over his suit.   "Aren't you allergic? Today, I'm going to watch you breathe it in."   If he managed to breathe it in, I would send him to the hospital.   If he couldn't, I would divorce him.

I was the fake heiress. I'd been betrothed to the Vance family since childhood. After my family went bankrupt, I was sent to Sterling Vance's side as soon as I turned 18. By day, I accompanied him to all sorts of events. By night, I endured his sexual brutality. In return, he gave me a monthly allowance of one million dollars. Then the real heiress, Willa Winthrop, was found. When she learned that the Winthrop family had a marriage alliance with the Vances, she threw a tantrum in front of our parents. "She's a fake who's been living in the wrong nest all these years. Isn't it time to return what doesn't belong to her? "That includes the engagement that was supposed to be mine!" The next day, she went to Sterling's grandmother and said, "Grandma Vance, I'm the real heiress to the Winthrop family. I'm the one truly betrothed to Sterling. "I want to stay by Sterling's side. I promise I'll do much better than Zara." Then she came to me, barely hiding the triumph in her eyes. "Grandma Vance has already agreed. She said you're just a fake, that you don't match Sterling's status. In a couple of days, she'll send you away, and I'll move into the Vance mansion." She thought I'd be furious. Instead, my eyes welled up with tears of relief. Finally… I was about to be free.

My parents were textbook narcissists. My dad was obsessed with making money and never gave a damn about his family. My mom was a total princess. All she ever cared about was pampering herself—never whether I lived or died. The year they got divorced, the judge asked me who I wanted to live with. I said, "Neither." After that, I was sent to an orphanage. I spent three years there, learning firsthand how cold people could be. I also learned something even more valuable—how to survive, fight back, and win in a dog-eat-dog world. On the day I started college, my dad texted me. Dad: Dad's company needs investors. Marry into a wealthy family, and we can finally be a real family again. A message from my mom popped up right after. Mom: Mom found true love, but his son has kidney failure. Can you get tested? If you're a match, you can donate a kidney. I stared at those two messages, then looked up at the man sitting across from me. They abandoned me once. Now they wanted to squeeze every last drop of value out of me. Fine. Don't blame me for playing dirty. I sent them both the same one-word reply. Sharon: Pass.

For ten years, I gutted fish at a wet market for a living. Then I took in a ridiculously handsome mute as my helper. The guy had a dark, intimidating stare and a body carved like he'd walked out of a fitness magazine. He just couldn't talk. That didn't stop me from working him to the bone every single day. One afternoon, while I was making him scrape the scales off a hundred snakeheads with his bare hands, strange floating comments suddenly appeared in front of my eyes. A: [The crown prince of a billionaire family got turned into her fish market errand boy? His vocal cords were only damaged because someone sabotaged him. Once his voice recovers and he takes over the company, the first thing he'll do is dump this woman in the middle of the ocean!] B: [Didn't she pinch Mr. Stone's face with fish-smelling hands last week because she thought he was working too slowly? Yikes. I can already hear the countdown clock ticking toward her death.] The fish knife slipped from my hand and clattered onto the cutting board. Without hesitation, I transferred every penny I had in my bank account, all two thousand dollars, to him. "We're done here. Just leave. I'm shutting this stall down." The man, who always looked like he could kill someone with one glance, suddenly reddened around the eyes. His long fingers, still covered with fish scales, wrapped tightly around my waist. With trembling breath and a broken whisper, he managed to force out a sentence. "Please don't fire me. I'm really fast at cleaning fish."

I was released from prison. A year ago, I drove a paring knife clean through my childhood sweetheart, Lucian Blackwell. Because he wanted to move overseas. Because he wanted to leave me. I loved him. I loved him so much I wanted to chop him into pieces and swallow him spoonful by spoonful, bones and all. That way, he would belong to me forever. Now, I was out. I was going to kick down his front door, fasten a heavy dog leash around his neck, and put a knife in him all over again. Then I would die with him. But when I kicked the door open, the man I hated enough to grind into dust was crouched in the middle of a ruin, wearing an old shirt washed almost white. He looked up. Those charming eyes that had once looked down on everyone were now red-rimmed and raw. He walked toward me, took my hand, and pressed the shard of glass I had just picked up hard against his own throat. "Evie, welcome home. Can you keep me as your pet now?"

The day before final submission for the eight-figure project I had spent six months chasing, my boss forced his niece onto the team. "You only graduated high school. What makes you think you can present to the review panel? I graduated from Hawthorne University. This project belongs in my hands." Chloe Whitman was dressed head to toe in designer couture when she slapped a change confirmation form onto my desk. Beside her, Victor Whitman tapped his knuckles against the tabletop. "Hand over the project. You can keep a 10% share of the commission. Young people need to learn how to be team players." I stared at the words "10% share of the commission" on the form. Under the desk, my fingers dug hard into my palm. This proposal had cost me two straight months of sleepless nights. But I didn't say a word. There was no point arguing with shameless people. It was better to teach them the law. I signed the change confirmation form and handed her the data drive loaded with all the project files. Chloe took the drive with a smug smile, then turned and headed back to her desk to prepare for tomorrow's final bid review. What she didn't know was that the core technical requirements specifically called for a Grade-A encryption algorithm. Without it, the bid could be treated as fraudulent, with possible criminal consequences. And I was the sole patent holder for that algorithm. When Chloe took the drive, she wiped her fingertips against the casing in disgust. "You're really using a drive this old to store project files for an eight-figure bid?" She tossed the drive onto the desk. The metal buckle struck the surface with a sharp click.

The silver needle had barely brushed my wristbone before it crumbled into ash inside the black blood. The Nightblood healer collapsed at the coffin's edge, his voice breaking apart in terror. "Your Majesty, His Majesty has broken the Blood Marriage Agreement. Your Heart of EternalNight is already withered. 90 days at most. You'll decay into ash from the bones outward, fully conscious all the way through." I wiped the dark crimson stain from my lips and asked, almost casually, "What if someone drinks my blood?" The healer turned ghost-white. "It's royal oathback blood. Once swallowed, it rots from within. Not even the ancestor can undo it." I smiled. That was perfect. Tonight, Carlyle Sinclair would carve the Crownmark of Blood straight out of my chest and pour it into the coronation chalice of his so-called human saintess. He even wanted me, the cast-off queen, standing behind her, cup in hand, watching her swallow my sovereignty before my eyes. He called me cold, jealous, unfit to sit on the throne of a queen any longer. He said Leah Stone feared pain, darkness, and blood itself. So she was given my chamber, my Bloodwood Coffin, and my Blood Moonstone Necklace. Even my Heart of EternalNight, I had kept alive for him for 10 years, was to be split open and laid down as her path. But he had forgotten something. The Crownmark of Blood could command Blood Lanterns only once. What truly sustained EternalNight City was my 10 years of source blood. And there was another truth no one knew. When the 13 Enforcers of the Holy Sanctum once backed Carlyle's rise to the throne, it was not for him. It was for me. Since they insisted on calling my blood a wedding blessing, then I would turn this wedding into the greatest judgment the capital had ever witnessed.

When Sean Scott's company was drowning in a PR crisis, I signed up for a volunteer teaching program. The day the media reported that I, his fiancée, was heading to Beattyville, the poorest town in the state, to teach, his company's stock finally stopped crashing and began to climb. I spent five years teaching in that forgotten town. And for those same five years, Sean carried on with Sophia White, a young woman from Beattyville whom I had personally helped leave the mountains. On the last day of my service, a flash flood buried me beneath a mudslide. A drone search was the only way to find me. But every drone in the city had been reassigned by Sean, just so he could stage a birthday light show for Sophia at Empire Shore. The spectacle dominated the trending charts for 40 hours straight. Only after the buzz died down did rescuers pull me from the flood debris. When I finally made it back, I discovered that Sean and Sophia had legally married five years earlier. "Her family has a strange rule," Sean said casually, spinning the wedding ring on his finger. "She had to marry the first man she met after leaving the mountains at 18, or she would be cast out of the family." "I did it to help her. Don't you always want a wedding? Fine. The wedding can still be yours. We'll sort out the paperwork later." He expected me to react the way I had five years ago, crying, arguing, refusing to let it go. Instead, I opened an email from UNICEF inviting me to become an overseas rural education field officer. I accepted the offer and booked a one-way ticket abroad. "You can give her the wedding instead," I said. "This time, I'm not coming back." If he wanted to stay trapped in a world that revolved around passion and desire, then I would choose distant horizons and a future of my own.

I was planning my father's sixtieth birthday celebration, and a month beforehand, I had made my husband, Warren Smith, promise he would be there.   Ever since my mother passed away, what my father wanted most was for his son-in-law to raise a toast to him in front of the family.   Warren agreed right away. "Relax. No matter how busy things get, I'll be there. Your dad's getting the first toast." On the day of the party, all three tables were packed with relatives. Wearing his brand-new outfit, my father looked toward the door every few minutes.   But Warren never came. His phone was off.   The relatives started murmuring among themselves. My father kept smiling and making excuses for him, saying traffic must have held him up and that he would arrive soon.   I was sweating with anxiety. I opened WhatsApp, planning to message one of his colleagues, but a Facebook post from his secretary, Lucy Quinn, caught my eye instead.   My cousin, Julia Lynn, suddenly tugged on my sleeve and held out her phone.   On the screen, Warren stood in a tailored suit, wine glass in hand, toasting a strange middle-aged woman with a smile on his face.   Lucy stood beside him, grinning as she said, "Mom, see? I told you the truth. My husband treats me like a queen."

After work, I hailed a cab and ended up with a female driver. She asked, "Your white hair is beautiful. Why hide it under a wig?" I have albinism. My skin and hair have been white since birth. People often treat me like a freak, so I never leave the house without a wig. That was why I cherished this rare bit of kindness, slipping the wig off and chatting with her the whole way home. When I got out, she handed me a wedding invitation. "I'm getting married tomorrow. You're welcome to come." The groom's name on the card read Tristan Merrick. The same Tristan I'd been carrying on a six-year secret romance with at the office. The next day, I went to the wedding venue. Tristan, who had never once been affectionate with me in public, was now holding her hand in front of every guest, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She introduced him to me brightly. "This is my husband, Tris." The Tristan I had loved for ten years gave me a polite, unfamiliar smile. "Hello. I'm Sera's husband." I looked at the matching wedding bands glittering on their fingers, paraded out for the world to see. So it was only with me that he had ever bothered to hide. A laugh slipped out of me. "Tristan, congratulations on your wedding."

A scheming intern who thought she could charm the owner. The owner smiled back and then taught her the true cost of audacity.

I stumbled upon the phone memo of my boyfriend, Yale Clark, by sheer accident. What I found there wasn't a collection of sweet messages, but rather an elaborate scheme to create his perfect woman. Plan A: Train her to smile with her lips curving up at a precise 15 degrees, just like Yvonne. Plan B: Get her to ditch spicy food, since Yvonne had never been a fan. Ultimate Goal: Shape her into the flawless shadow that would ease my heartache over losing Yvonne. I became the unwitting subject of this twisted experiment. He saw me merely as a reflection of his dream girl, slowly erasing the essence of who I truly was. With a sneer plastered on my face, I walked into his carefully orchestrated proposal dinner, hand in hand with another woman. I turned to him, who stood there in shock, and said, "Honey, meet Yvonne Smith, the new designer we just hired at my company. Your long-admired muse is now officially mine."

Carter Hale's anniversary gift sat on the coffee table, the ribbon still perfectly curled around the box.   I untied it and lifted the lid. Inside lay a black lace lingerie set. The size tag read 36D.   For three full seconds, I could not move.   I had worn a 36A for ten years. Carter could not possibly have forgotten something like that. Unless the gift had never been meant for me.   Slowly, I looked up.   Carter was already watching me. Panic flashed through his eyes, and behind it was something he failed to hide in time.   It was guilt.   At that moment, a memory from our wedding day came rushing back.   During the bridesmaid games before the ceremony, Vivienne Whitley had deliberately put him on the spot.   She smiled sweetly and asked, "Do you know the bride's bra size? Get it right, and we'll let you in."   Carter answered before he even had time to think. "36D."   The room fell into a dead silence.   In the end, my mother was the one who broke the silence. Her face flushed with embarrassment as she leaned in and whispered, "Carter, Sienna is a 36A."   At the time, I told myself he had only said the wrong thing because he was nervous.   Now I finally understood the truth. Carter had not misspoken. He had remembered the size of another woman.

"Rachel," Davis murmured against my ear, pinning me in front of my husband's memorial portrait. His teeth grazed my earlobe lightly. "What do you think my brother's thinking up in heaven, watching us like this?" The brother he was talking about? The same man who used to whip me with a belt whenever he lost his temper. The same man who had only just died. The priest's prayers still echoed through the mourning hall. The entire Ward family was grieving for Jones Ward. No one knew that on the day Jones died, Davis Ward had been at the crash site. He stood alone in the rain, watching the ambulance arrive, watching it leave, watching his brother disappear forever. And no one knew that later that night, when I knelt before him in a crimson dress, desperate enough to trade away my pride for survival, he looked down at me with desire and obsession burning in his eyes. Then he spoke. "Rachel, I've been waiting for this. Waiting for you to come to me for seven years."

I was born to play with men's hearts. This time, though, I was the one who got played. He handed over every penny he made doing construction work, spoiled me with endless emotional support, and shined like a little sun in my otherwise gray world. For him, I settled down. I traded custom couture for cheap street clothes and was ready to spend the rest of my life struggling beside him. Today was his birthday. I stood outside a private room, carrying a cake I'd baked myself to save him money, when I accidentally overheard a conversation. "Steven, was Zona really that dumb to believe you're some poor nobody?" "If she weren't dumb, how would she make my acting look this good?" he scoffed. "I pretended to be devoted for a few months, and the queen of players fell for it hook, line, and sinker." Gone was the honest, hardworking guy I knew. His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Next month, once my engagement to the eldest daughter of the Wood family is announced, I'll toss her twenty grand and call it a day. She's just a toy. Did she really think she was good enough to marry into our Reed family?" I looked down at the homemade cake in my hands and suddenly laughed. So this time... I was the one being toyed with. I tossed the cake into the trash and dialed my father's number. "Dad, I agree to the marriage alliance. But I'll only marry into the Stone family."

Five years ago, the Ginkgo Biloba Nature Reserve hired me as a consultant. Two years later, I discovered a mutated, dying ginkgo sapling within the sanctuary. After three weeks of tireless effort, I successfully nursed it back to life. Because of this achievement, I was interviewed by a major television network. In the news broadcasts, people hailed me as the Guardian of the Ginkgo. Then, my fiancé’s childhood sweetheart came to the reserve. I discovered her plotting with a ruthless ring of poachers to smuggle the golden ginkgo out and sell it.  Before I could call for help, she silenced me in the most brutal way imaginable. She had the poachers encase my lifeless body in mud and shove it deep into the hollow of the tree. Before long, flesh-eating ants stripped my bones completely bare. When the police finally arrived, she framed me as an accomplice, claiming that I was the one who had let the poachers inside. To made her story more real, she fabricated a chat history on her phone. In those forged messages, I was the one who had reached out to the smugglers, demanding over a hundred million dollars to traffic the golden ginkgo. According to her story, I had taken the blood money and vanished. Confronted with this evidence, everyone believed her lies. My fiancé hated me with all his heart and immediately posted a statement on Twitter, ending our engagement. The Ginkgo Natural Reserve stripped me of my title and struck my name from their records, and my own father disowned me, regarding me as the family's greatest shame. Even the network that had once lauded me published a lengthy, humiliating apology, claiming they had been utterly deceived by a fraud. My face was plastered across wanted posters online, and everyone cursed me, hoping I would be caught soon. Just like that, I was transformed from the Guardian of the Ginkgo into its destroyer. Three years later, my university professors and his graduate students came to save the dying ginkgo tree. There, they uncovered the secret hidden deep within the wood. And they found me.

My husband's mother, Hazel Dumore, was trapped in a malfunctioning cable car, suspended three hundred feet in the air. My husband, Mason Dunmore, the ace rescue captain on the scene, fired up a livestream and sent his first love Jennifer Clarke up to handle it. She'd been back on active duty less than a week. Jennifer stood out on the windswept platform with the rope bag clutched to her chest, hair whipping in every direction. She couldn't even tell two carabiners apart. She looked over at him, eyes wet and red-rimmed. "Mason, I'm scared. What if I let you down?" He clipped her harness for her himself. The car's outer shell had already split open, but he ignored that, ignored the wind, and walked her through every single step. Ten full minutes of patient coaching before he finally cleared her to descend. The comment section exploded. A: [Is this chick even qualified? Someone's literally about to die up there.] B: [Captain Dunmore is right there. Nothing's gonna happen.] Then Jennifer's hand twitched. She locked the hook onto a decorative bracket. The bracket snapped. Hazel dropped three hundred feet and died on impact. My husband carried Jennifer out of the wreckage. She was sobbing into his neck. He spared me one glance. Flat. Indifferent. "Sign the release form before you take your mother's body out of here. She was a lost cause from the start. Jennifer just got reinstated. I'm not letting your mother torch Jennifer's career over this." I froze for a beat. Then it hit me. He thought the woman under the sheet was my mom. I turned to the camera and smiled. Not a kind one. "That release? Not mine to sign."

At Beastfolk Academy's graduation ball, only one bonded pair was allowed to lead the first dance. My mate walked straight past me without a second thought and held out his hand to the girl who had been pretending to possess a high-ranking bloodline. He said to me, "Sorry, she's a once-in-a-century genius. You're just an ordinary orphan. For the future of the Pack, I have to choose her." I watched them step onto the dance floor. Then, I calmly reached up and unclasped the old collar that had been masking my scent. The moment my true bloodline was released, its pressure crashed through the hall like a tidal wave. The so-called genius went deathly pale. In the next second, her knees hit the floor, her body trembling uncontrollably. Every high-ranking wolf in the room felt their pulse spike at the scent rolling off me. Their instincts screamed at them to submit. My Alpha whipped around, disbelief flashing across his face before it twisted into a feverish look of obsession. But it was too late. The Alpha King, who had been sitting expressionless at the head of the hall, rose from his throne. Then he walked toward me and dropped to one knee. He said, "My Queen, I finally found you."

The company's daily revenue rose and fell with the number of hours I slept. If I got just six hours of sleep, the company barely managed to break even. With eight hours, the finance team would rake in a cool million. And if I hit the 10-hour mark, the legal department could land contracts worth tens of millions. Two years ago, I battled three sleepless nights in a row, and chaos erupted as three projects went off the rails. The chairman almost ended up in the hospital from stress. After witnessing the fallout firsthand, he quickly arranged for me to have a private office complete with a king-sized bed. It came stocked with an aroma diffuser, blackout shades, white noise machines, and everything I could possibly need. They even brought in a massage therapist and a sleep consultant to ensure I was well taken care of. My sole performance indicator was to get quality sleep. Every month, I had no responsibilities, yet I still pocketed a million-dollar salary.

At my sister's engagement party, a woman from my husband's unit, Liana Pearce, drugged me and my sister's fiancé. The humiliating footage was projected for everyone to see. My sister slit her wrist on the spot, fury and shame nearly killing her. I was frantic, sick with guilt, but my husband, Tristan Locke, slapped me across the face in front of everyone. "You've already gone this far, and you still have the gall to call Liana a slut?" When Liana still wasn't satisfied, Tristan locked me in the spare room. The day I came out of that dark room, he was waiting for me. He smoothed the loose strands of the hair behind my ear and murmured, "Be good, don't make a scene, and I'll give you whatever you want." I bit down hard on his arm, accusing him of his unfairness. He knew. He knew I had been framed. He simply kicked me away and walked off without a backward glance. The next day, I received a severed finger and a note written in blood from my sister at the psychiatric hospital: Sister, if you don't die, then I will die first. I broke completely. When I returned to the base, Liana and Tristan were in the garden, mouth to mouth, feeding each other wine. Liana looked at me with open contempt. "Oh dear, your wife is back. Watch yourself!" "So what if she's back? She's a slut," Tristan said, and the wine glass in his hand smashed against my forehead. The warm blood cooled slowly along my brow, and the last shred of love in my heart died with it. A moment later, a reply from Section 9 lit up my screen. Section 9: In four days, we welcome you back.

Seraphina Hawthorne was the most tolerant woman in high society, the kind who handpicked mistresses for her own husband, Damien Hawthorne. When he took a liking to a woman working in a bar, she drank herself sick there until she coaxed that woman's number out of her. When he set his sights on a college girl, Seraphina knelt outside the campus gates begging the girl to have dinner with him. When he wanted a married woman, Seraphina swallowed her pride and pleaded with the woman's husband for a divorce. No matter how recklessly Damien played around, she had only one rule: Be home by ten. So when the headlines broke that Damien had spent the night with a mysterious woman, every one of his lovers came weeping at her door. "We trusted you like a big sister, that's the only reason we ever felt safe leaving Damien with you!" Seraphina pulled out a thick stack of property deeds. "These are the parting gifts he asked me to hand out. The locations vary, so it's first come, first served." The women exchanged looks, then lunged for the deeds, elbowing each other aside. Only one woman lingered until the end. She stroked her stomach with a smug, certain smile. "I'm pregnant."

To pave the way for my stepsister's entertainment career, my stepmother and biological father packaged me up and handed me over to the most feared heir of the Veridon elite circle—the Williams heir. I just smiled and said, "Sure, I'd love to see how well my Puppy's behaving today." They thought I'd lost my mind. "Your sister was born to be a star. She needs Mr. Williams's resources. You're worthless anyway. Being noticed by Mr. Williams is the best thing that could happen to you. And now you're losing it. Don't go offending him." I kept my head down, pretending to tremble, as they shoved me into the car heading to the Veridon suburban private club. They thought I was scared, but they didn't see the message that had just popped up on my phone screen. Puppy (Julian Williams): Babe, I'm at the club. Can I see you tonight? And when are you sending my 200-dollar allowance this month? I glanced at the screen, a slight smile on my lips, and slowly typed back. Me: Don't rush, I will be there soon. This time I'll hand you the allowance in person.

Senior year was brutal. So I picked up an online boyfriend to let off steam.   He was intense and tender in all the right ways, always ready to indulge every kink I had.   I was the eternal runner-up, and every time I failed to outscore my arch-rival, I'd run to him for comfort.   Stella: Babe, would you put on a butler's costume for me tonight?   Sweetie: Sure.   That night, we had a private video call.   He kept the camera on himself from the neck down, his voice low and rough. "Babe. Show me your legs."   I knew exactly what he wanted. I aimed the camera at my legs and listened to his breathing on the other end.   My stress, every last bit of it, finally let go.   Then my gaze snagged on something in the corner of the screen. A water bottle, half-hidden at the edge of the frame.   'Wait. Wasn't that the same water bottle the top student in our class used?'

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 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.

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."

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...