Ten years ago, I took the dark curse meant for Alpha Leo Frostmoon, and my mental development stopped dead forever at the age of five. My inner wolf burned through every last drop of its energy trying to purge the dark magic from my body, and eventually fell into a deep, unawakening sleep. Alpha Leo once swore an oath before the Moon Goddess herself. Even without a fated mate bond, he promised he would marry me once he came of age and keep me safe for my whole life. But later, he didn't think twice about using me as a bargaining chip just so he could form a mate bond with a high-born Gamma she-wolf, Amira Moonveil. He personally handed me over to the brutal, bloodthirsty Northern Wolf King, Carlos Hawthorne. "Ivy Vance, there's a nice older guy up north, why don't you go hang out with him, okay?" I traced the newly appeared inner wolf awakening mark on my collarbone, didn't say a word, and stepped across the border. After that, I became the White Wolf Queen, and the Northern Wolf King protected me with his life. As for Leo? He was on his knees outside my tent on blood moon night, his inner wolf wailing in gut-wrenching agony while the rebounding curse ate away at his heart. He sobbed, begging me to just turn around and look at him once.

My husband, Grant Huxley, loved to travel. He just never told me before he left.   He hated planning and never packed supplies. More often than not, he set off with nothing but his phone.   I wouldn't discover he was gone until the next day. Then I'd scramble to pack his bags, map out a route, and chase him across the world.   I thought he was just impulsive. I loved him, so I was willing to put up with it.   We had done this 98 times.   He had traveled through much of the world, and I had followed him every step of the way, bringing food, clothes, and medicine, then arranging his journey home.   For his 99th trip, he decided to cross an uninhabited desert.   As always, he left without saying goodbye or taking any supplies.   This time, though, I'd prepared everything in advance and reached the desert entrance early.   I couldn't wait to tell him that wherever he wanted to go from now on, I could go with him.   Instead, I found him pinning his childhood friend, Bianca Ellis, against his SUV, kissing her as though he couldn't get enough.   Bianca giggled and asked him, "We're going into an uninhabited desert this time, and we haven't brought a thing. What if she can't catch up?"   Grant laughed without a care. "Relax. She'll sniff me out. I run. She chases. We've played this game 98 times. Besides, she loves me too much to let anything happen to me."   They looked at each other and laughed.   Hidden from their view, I slowly lowered my backpack full of supplies to the ground.   This time, I wasn't going after him.   Whether he lived or died was no longer my concern.

Three days before our wedding, Lance Mitchell sent me the flight tickets for our honeymoon. I tapped open the booking. Three tickets total. Besides him and me, there was Alaine Torres. I thought it had to be a mistake, but Lance was right there, double-checking Alaine's passport number for the reservation. "Alaine just got laid off, she's been in a really bad place lately. This is the perfect chance to take her along to cheer her up." I clenched my phone so tight my knuckles whitened. "This is our honeymoon." He looked up and grinned, like I was overreacting over nothing. "It's just a trip, Trina. More people mean more fun, right?" He'd been like this for all seven years we'd been together. I'd lost count of how many times he'd put her first. On our very first date, Alaine had just gotten dumped, so the three of us ended up going to the movies together. When we first moved in together, she said she was terrified of thunder, so she crashed in our guest room for six whole months. The first time we introduced each other to our friend groups, she got wasted. Lance draped his own jacket over her shoulders, then told me, in my short little dress, to hail a cab and go home by myself. After a while, I'd even gotten used to it: booking three tickets whenever we went anywhere, setting three pairs of utensils on the table at dinner. But I'd kept lying to myself this whole time. Things would be different once we got married, I told myself. A marriage is supposed to have room for two people, and two people only. That delusion shattered for good during our wedding rehearsal. The hotel only had two dressing rooms left. One was a nice, spacious suite with its own private bathroom. The other was a cramped, dinky little closet they'd cleared out at the last minute, still half-stuffed with random decor and cleaning supplies. Lance handed the key card to the big, nice room straight to Alaine. "She has three different bridesmaid dresses to change into. You only have one wedding gown, you'll be fine squeezing into the smaller one." Even my makeup artist froze, her brush hovering midair, shocked he'd actually say that out loud. I stared right at him. "Lance, what about after we're married?" He blinked, confused. "What about it?" "Our home, our trips, our anniversaries down the line. Is it always going to be three of us?" His face tightened, and he frowned like I was being unreasonably difficult over nothing. "Trina Olivera, we're literally about to get married. Can you quit making a fuss over this out of nowhere?" I made up my mind right then. The wedding was three days out. That's when I'd decide once and for all. Either stay and go through with it, or walk away for good. No second chances, no take backs.

My husband had a terrible temper. Once, when we were on a trip, he asked what I wanted to eat. I said I was fine with anything, and he immediately turned the car around and drove straight home.  "Everything's 'whatever' to you. Why the hell did you even come out with me?" When we were picking out wedding rings, I lingered for a second to check out two more styles. Bam! He slammed the shop door so hard the whole place rattled. "Even picking a ring is this much of a hassle. Marrying you is so damn exhausting." On our anniversary, I got there right on the dot after working overtime. Thud! He shoved the entire cake onto the floor right in front of all our friends.  "You can't even remember a day like this? Do you even deserve to be my wife?" Staring at the mess all over the floor, I mumbled an apology and spent the entire ride home coaxing him back into a good mood. Then came the Thanksgiving Day dinner. He showed up with his female assistant and brought her along to join the meal.  When our son accidentally dropped a shrimp on his shirt mid-meal, he snapped at me loud enough for every single person at the table to hear. "He can't even hold a shrimp properly? What the hell have you been teaching him?" Right after that, his female assistant knocked over the wine glass sitting in front of him. The shards nicked the back of his hand. But he jumped up immediately, grabbed her hand to check it, his voice was soft as he asked, "Are you okay? You should be more careful, huh?" In that moment, as I stared at the overflowing concern in his eyes, it finally hit me. It wasn't that he couldn't control his temper. He just never bothered to hold it back for me. You know what? I'm done wasting my time kissing his ass.

On our tenth wedding anniversary, I told Jack Lawson to meet me at City Hall to get a divorce. "All this over that beat-up old bracelet?" he said with a sharp, dismissive snicker. I nodded. My voice was steady. "Yeah." That gold bracelet was the only thing my mom left me. I had begged him for three months to take it to a professional polisher. I made him swear he wouldn't melt it down, no matter what. Three days ago, he went down south with a female director from his company to meet clients. When he came back, he told me he'd lost my bracelet on the trip. I almost believed him—until last night, when the director posted a photo on social media. Around her pale, slim wrist was a gold bracelet I would recognize in the dark. Her caption read: Thanks, Mr. Lawson, for making my wish come true. He'd commented right underneath it. Jack: [It suits you perfectly] The comment was deleted within seconds, but I'd already seen it. I stared at the tiny engraved characters on the inside of the bracelet in the photo for a long time. Then I turned and poured the soup I'd kept warm for him straight down the kitchen sink. We'd been classmates for nineteen years, married for ten. He used to memorize every little thing I liked. Now that director mattered more than everything that was important to me. I brought up divorce.  He glanced at a new text from her, frowned, annoyed that I was dragging this out, and said, "Stop making a big deal out of nothing, okay? I'll buy you a much more expensive one later." He grabbed his coat and walked out without looking back.  I watched him disappear out the door, then slipped my wedding ring off my finger and set it right on top of the prospectus he cared about more than anything else. After that, I typed a reply to the Milan Jewelry studio that had offered me a position ten separate times. Me: I'm in. I'll catch the flight tomorrow night. Also, please freeze all custom client lists under my name.

"Nora, ten years ago you were cornered in an alley and raped by a group of men. Ethan only stayed with you out of pity. He didn't even look down on you, so letting me borrow him for a day isn't asking too much." The guests in the wedding dressing room were stunned. Sophie covered her mouth in embarrassment and looked at Ethan. "Ethan, did I say something wrong? I'm just so happy for Nora." Ethan was silent for two seconds. "Sophie, you shouldn't have brought that up today of all days. Apologize!" The best men whispered among themselves, "Ethan, you already agreed to marry her to make up for what happened. Otherwise, you and Sophie would have made such a great couple!" I stood frozen, my teeth biting into my lip until blood seeped through. "I'm so sorry, it's all my fault," Sophie apologized through tears. Years of pent-up grievance and coldness instantly shattered my reason. I rushed forward and slapped her hard across the face. Ethan blocked Sophie. "Why are you so angry? Sophie, don't cry. I'll stay with you all day today." So the love I thought was real was nothing but his compensation to me. Now that he'd compensated enough, it was time for me to bow out.

For the past 10 years, my family had lived by one rule: every dispute was settled by an anonymous family vote, and every relative got a say. Somehow, my younger sister never lost. When she wrecked my car, 19 people voted that I should compensate her for emotional distress. When she took my birthday present, 27 voted that I should let her keep it because I was the older sister. The 99th vote was called because my sister slept with my fiancé, Ronan Prescott. The result was the same as always. "Cecily is too controlling. That's what drove them into each other's arms." "Cecily, just apologize to both of them and we'll pretend none of this happened." I shook with rage. Ronan wrapped his arms around me, crying. "I swear this is the last vote. I'll love you forever." Then came the 100th vote. The question on the screen read: If Cecily's sister is pregnant with Ronan's child, should Cecily step aside? I hadn't even voted before the result appeared. Yes: 29. No: 0. I stared at the screen for a long time. Then I smiled. From that moment on, whether they were family or the man I loved, they were nothing more than 29 strangers to me.

Arthur, my partner and lover of four years, handed everything I owned over to his assistant Sofia. “Sign all your shares to her. Spend the night with Tony. Make this your final contribution to our company,” he said coldly, as if sending me to a crime boss’s bed was nothing more than drinking a cup of coffee. He forced spiked red wine down my throat. My stomach burned. Bruises bloomed on my wrists from his tight grip. Sofia stood by, eyes glistening. “I’m sorry, Anna. My family lost everything. I can’t afford to fail.” They thought the drug would break me and throw me away. But they never knew — the Anna who opened her eyes was no longer the coder who burned midnight oil for them. I’ve been reborn. I carry thirty long years of fury, and I am here for revenge.

On the 700th day since I, Camille Donovan, lost my sight, I underwent a corneal transplant surgery. After my vision recovered, I planned to give my boyfriend, Victor Pierce, a surprise. But when I pushed the door open, I found him all over each other with my best friend, Naomi Prescot, on the sofa. At the sound of the door opening, the two of them froze as if someone had hit the pause button. "Camille? Why did you come back by yourself?" Victor's voice was tight. I stared at the tips of my shoes, my hands trembling. "The surgery was postponed. The nurse said the stitches would be removed next week." Victor visibly relaxed and stepped over to guide me by the arm, smiling. "Take it slow, the floor is slippery." In the dead of night, I tossed and turned unable to sleep. I’d just sat up when I heard them whispering on the balcony. "Once she finds out the truth and stops funding us, the two of us will not only be utterly disgraced, we'll also have nothing left," Naomi said. "That's why I didn't tell her." Victor paused for a moment. "We have to keep it from her the whole time. Once we get full control of her property, a blind woman like her will have no choice but to do whatever we say." Turns out in this three-person dynamic, they didn't just want me blind physically—they wanted me blind at heart too.