Every woman in Harbor City said Randy Hall was the ultimate romantic, the kind of man who turned me into the most envied Mrs. Hall anyone had ever seen. Only I knew what it actually cost me to live that life. Day after day, I watched him bring home woman after woman like it was nothing. At some point, he even fell for a so-called top-tier house manager and let her run the entire household like she owned the place. She canceled all my credit cards, threw out my clothes and bags, and put me on a ten-dollar-a-day grocery budget. I wasn't even allowed to step outside after 8 p.m. Even when I got a critical notice from the hospital at 8:01, she still had the bodyguards block me at the door. I tried to stay calm. "My mom had a heart attack. I need to get to the hospital right now." Jade Allen didn't even blink. "House rules, ma'am. No one leaves after 8. Even if your mom dies, it doesn't change anything." My whole body was shaking with anger. I turned and went straight to Randy, begging him to let me go. He looked at me like I meant nothing. "As long as you're still Mrs. Hall, you don't get to break Jade's rules." I stared at the man I had loved for ten years, and he felt like a complete stranger. Fine. If that's the case, I don't need to be Mrs. Hall anymore.

In the fifth year of their marriage, Isaac Pinecroft hired a young secretary for Reina Morley. "Nina Irwin is my friend's daughter. She's young and a little hot tempered. Be patient with her and teach her slowly." When they first met, Reina had no idea that this girl would one day become a serious threat to her. It was not until three months after Nina joined the company that Reina saw that scene from the floor to ceiling window on the second floor. With her own eyes, she saw Nina tangled up with a man, pulling and struggling with him. That man was none other than Isaac, the husband she had been married to for five years. Reina waited for him downstairs, wanting him to give her a clear explanation. But he only said carelessly, "I'm just playing around with her. She insists on calling herself my mistress. How about this, we get divorced first. After three months, when I'm done having fun, we'll remarry." "Okay." Reina agreed without the slightest hesitation. 'But Isaac, there will never be any remarriage in my life. Since you choose someone else, then I'll grant your wish!'

I have a secret. Before I turn thirty, every thousand times I sleep with a man, I can shed a tear that turns into a pearl. And each pearl can grant one wish to a man. My husband is addicted to sex. He takes from me day and night. In just two years, he has drawn two pearls from me. With the first pearl, I wished for his health. With the second, I wished for him to become the richest man alive. Even after becoming the richest man, he is still addicted to me. He even takes me along on business trips. Then, the day before my thirtieth birthday, his secretary, Freya Wainwright, posted an update: The boss's wife moans so loudly every night. I'm jealous. I want to try it too. Noah Morrow was furious. He fired her on the spot. Then he pinned me beneath him, his voice low and seductive. "Honey, I want to do some fill-in-the-blanks. Right now." That night, he took me again and again, until a third pearl was finally formed. This time, I wished for us to have both sons and daughters, and to grow old together. The next day, Noah did not show up at my birthday party. At midnight, Freya posted on Instagram: I've tried it now. My waist is sore and my legs are weak, but I'm going to do the boss... until I die. Noah knelt in front of me, crying as he said, "Zoey, the doctor said your tearing is severe. For now, your body can't handle me anymore." "I have no feelings for her. She's just a substitute while you recover." A month later, Freya got pregnant. Noah coaxed me into divorcing him. "You know I made a wish. The only person truly meant to grow old with me is you." "Freya is very innocent. She cried and told me she's afraid people will call her a mistress, and even more afraid the child will be called a bastard." "Of course I don't want her and the baby to suffer." "Once she gives birth and the baby is registered, we can remarry. Okay?" I smiled and agreed. What he does not know is that I have endured all of this until now for one reason only. I have been waiting for him to divorce me first, and then marry someone else.

Three days after William Judson arranged for Freya Judson's mother to work as a nanny for his ex-wife, Greta Lennox, she was pushed from a high-rise and killed on the spot. Freya tore up the check and refused to let it go, determined to get justice for her mother. Instead, it cost her father his life. And all she could do was watch the man she had loved for six years step in to clean up Greta's mess and even destroy the evidence with his own hands. He said, "Your parents had lived long enough. But my son couldn't grow up without his mother. Don't blame me." Only then did Freya finally understand that William had never loved her. The one he had truly loved all along was that ruthless woman. So she drew up the divorce papers at once, erased her identity, and flew to Greybridge. The love William could never give her—she did not want it anymore.

My name is Scarlett Grey. After his ninety-ninth fight with his mistress, my husband, Ethan Chase, came to me again to vent. "Why don't you go kneel and apologize to her? If you hadn't paraded our daughter in front of her, she wouldn't be mad at me." He said it with a smile, as if joking. But I knew he meant every word. The last time I refused, he threw away my cat and cut off my mother's medical bills. So I swallowed everything, just to give my daughter a complete family. Until yesterday, when he deliberately fed my daughter an allergen, causing her to go into shock in my arms. In that moment, my heart turned to ashes. Seeing my silence, Ethan assumed I was unwilling. He was just about to scold me when I handed him the divorce papers. Softly, I said, "She's already tired of seeing me kneel. If we divorce to make her happy, she'll like that much more." Ethan raised an eyebrow, a trace of satisfaction in his eyes. "You're getting more sensible. Even learned how to please me." I didn't argue. I only smiled more gently. 'I simply didn't want him anymore.'  "Don't worry. Once Chloe forgives me, we'll remarry right away."

From the 99th floor, my husband hugged me as we stood by the floor-to-ceiling window.  Two months later, I found out I was pregnant... with quadruplets!  Clutching the report, both shocked and overjoyed, I couldn't wait to tell him this amazing news. Little did I expect to unintentionally hear War Field and his friend talking right then.

Father selected two potential spouses for my sister and me.  One was a medical professor returned from overseas—gentle, cultured, and possessed a grace as refined as polished jade. At my sister's birthday banquet, he clasped a pearl necklace around her neck, and everyone declared them a match made in heaven.  The other was a renowned opera performer from the Pyrus Garden, who was said to have ruined his voice in childhood, leaving him simple-minded and mute, avoiding the crowd whenever possible. My family considered him a curse, claiming he'd never amount to anything, yet I accepted him. After our marriage, I spent my days reviewing opera scripts with him and brewing throat-soothing tonics. He remained silent through it all, watching me with a gaze that seemed to be guarding a secret. One day, the opera troupe burned, the flames staining half the sky crimson. My sister and I lay trapped beneath the collapsed stage, our legs crushed by blazing beams. When he charged into the inferno, I stretched out my hand pleading: "Save me!" However, his gaze was locked on my sister. Without a moment's hesitation, he scooped her up and turned away. As the burning rafters crashed down upon me, "soldiers" flooded into the fire. One of them shouted, "Young Marshall!" In that moment, the truth was revealed. He was neither mute nor an actor. He was the Hodgson family's young marshal, commander of a formidable army. All those years, he had played the fool, hiding in the shadows to wait for my sister's betrothal to end. His voice rang clear through the roar of the flames: "Forgive me! I could only save one! Jennette must be kept safe!" He then added a final, cruel blow: "You destroyed my happiness! You will make it up with your life!" When I woke up, the heat was gone, and I realized I had returned to the very day Father selected our suitors.

My husband, Brandon Perry, went bankrupt overnight and rushed me and our son to a deserted island, claiming we needed to hide from his creditors. I was worried about him, so I turned back halfway—only to find him throwing a party at home, with a beautiful woman in his arms. His buddy teased him, "You dumped your wife and kid on that godforsaken island. How are they supposed to survive out there?" He answered like it was nothing. "Lily's dog food factory shut down, so I had all that leftover stock repackaged and shipped to the island. Enough to last them a few years." Lily Shaw nestled against him with a simpering smile. "Honey, you're so good to me and our baby." She rubbed her belly—still too early to show. He traced a finger down her nose, his voice dripping with indulgence. "You're so helpless, and way too soft. If I don't take care of you, who will? For your sake, I had no choice but to ship that tigress off to the middle of nowhere. If she found out you were pregnant, she'd eat you alive. Once you've had the baby and it's at least two, I'll bring them back. By then it'll be a done deal. She can throw all the tantrums she wants." I felt like I'd been struck by lightning. Cold sweat drenched my entire body. Three years later, he actually called. "Babe, how are you and our son doing? I'm coming to get you." I glanced at the man beside me and smiled to myself. "We're doing great, actually. My new husband's been wonderful—to me and to your son."

When Joy Quinn was four months pregnant, her husband Cedric Shaw brought home a woman who was seven months along. "JoJo, Wendy Nolan is the wife of a brother I owed my life to. He just passed away, leaving her and the baby with no one. I just couldn't turn them away. Don't worry—it's only for a little while, just until she finds her own place." Soft-hearted as she was, Joy agreed. She never expected that "a little while" would stretch into two full months. At first, she didn't think much of it. Until one night, when she got up and walked in on a scene that made her blood run cold. She stood outside that door for three hours. Inside, the two of them went at it three times. Watching Cedric's face twist with pleasure, again and again, Joy felt her heart being carved open with a knife. He hadn't laid a finger on her since she got pregnant—said he was afraid of hurting the baby. And yet Wendy was nine months pregnant, and they still managed to go three rounds. She wiped the tears from her eyes, picked up her phone, and made two calls. "I need to book a procedure. As soon as possible." "Mom, Cedric cheated on me. I'm getting a divorce and coming to you. Dad's been wanting to hand the company over to me, right? I'm on my way." She hung up and tore the 500-billion-dollar check in her hands to shreds. It was from her father—funds originally meant to back Cedric's new venture. From now on, she would never waste another cent on that man.

After three years of marriage, I was finally pregnant. When the doctor told us it was twins, my husband and I were over the moon. Derek became a completely different person. He cooked every meal, prepared soup every night, and doted on me so much I barely recognized him. "You want water? Just tell me! I'll get it! You're carrying precious cargo now — nothing can go wrong, you hear me?" Even my best friend, Vanessa, was thrilled for me. Every day, she drove over twenty miles to bring me supplements. I was genuinely touched. I waited quietly for my due date, until one night, I accidentally overheard a conversation between my husband and my best friend. "Don't worry, Nessa. Our baby is doing great inside her. It's already feeding off Joanne's son's nutrients." What did that mean? One of the babies inside me… belonged to my husband and Vanessa? Then I heard them — voices from inside my womb. Baby A: Mommy, help me! I'm so hungry! That thing keeps bullying me! Baby B: Shut up, weakling. Just lie there and let me drain you dry. Once we're born, Daddy will only have one son — me.

Seven years ago, I was the youngest chief forensic examiner in the city, about to uncover the truth behind the Red Dress killings. On the night I was about to crack the case, my fiancé Sean Shaw's first love conspired with the real killer to have me killed. She used my own scalpel to stage it as a guilt-driven suicide. By the time Sean stormed in with the police, she was drenched in blood, weeping as she claimed I killed myself to cover my tracks and tried to take her with me. All that remained was a perfectly staged body and an airtight alibi. Everyone believed her. Sean despised me. He publicly branded me a disgrace to the forensic field, the greatest shame of his life. The forensic center wiped my name from their records. My parents publicly disowned me. My college revoked my honors, and the mentor I once respected denied ever teaching me. My case became a cautionary tale, with colleagues condemning me for betraying the truth. Once a forensic prodigy, I became the police force's greatest disgrace. Seven years later, a nameless skeleton lay on the autopsy table. And from my own bones, they forced the truth buried for seven years back into the light.

Everyone knew Vincent King, the notorious crime lord, had a notorious allergy to women, except me, his fiancee. No other woman could lay a finger on him.  But then came that daredevil college student he casually saved, who refused to believe the rumors. She dogged his every step like a lovesick puppy, pushing her luck again and again.  Until the 99th time she sneaked into his bed. That was the last straw. Furious, Vincent ordered his men to toss her into the icy wasteland of the mountains.  No one expected an avalanche. The avalanche buried her alive, leaving her fate unknown. And Vincent? He snapped. He plunged into the blizzard after her, gone without a word.  Then came the live-streamed drone footage, the two of them, lost in a passionate kiss atop the mountain's summit.  Just like that, I was the joke of the entire elite. But that same night, Vincent collapsed, his allergies spiking to life-threatening levels.  Ghostly pale, he croaked at me, "She just wants a baby. Cut her some slack." A bitter laugh escaped me. Like I give a damn if she's baby-crazy? I 'd already picked a new husband the second he bolted into that storm.  But he 'd gotten one thing dead wrong. "He's the one bound to marry me, not me who's stuck with him."  

On the night before Timothy Callahan's aunt returned, he unusually took Brittany Oxford to a hotel.  That night, he made Brittany Oxford completely lose herself in a haze of overwhelming dizziness.  It was almost the most out of control Timothy had ever been.  "Timothy, what's wrong with you? You were too wild today."  When it was over, Brittany Oxford did not even have the strength to lift her eyes.  "Nothing. Get some rest first. I'm going to have a cigarette."  After saying that, he casually picked up the coat from the chair and walked onto the balcony to smoke.  Looking at his lonely back, Brittany Oxford wanted to go over and hug him. Just as she was about to step closer, she saw that he was making a video call.  And it was that very call that made Brittany Oxford realize that the person he had always loved was actually that woman who was ten years older than him! All these years, to him, she had been nothing more than a tool to vent his desire!

When I, Quinn Stout, found out my husband, Wyatt Gomez, was cheating, I wasn't surprised. What surprised me was who he was cheating with.

On my wedding day, my husband Ferdinand Wallace's secretary had the audacity to replace every single flower arrangement with cheap artificial ones. "Mrs. Wallace, I am allergic to pollen. Artificial flowers are so much better. They never wilt, after all." I fired her on the spot and paid three times the original price to have the entire venue completely redone with fresh blooms. Before long, Ferdinand stormed in with a dark scowl on his face and demanded an explanation. "Judith did not mean any harm. You publicly fired her and humiliated her in front of everyone. Now she is in the hospital with a severe pollen allergy. Was that really necessary?" I let out a bitter laugh and shot back, "Do you think it is normal for her to turn our wedding into something that looks like a funeral? There were so many relatives watching. Ferdinand, I did what I did to protect your family's reputation." Ferdinand fell silent for a moment. Then he said, "You are right. After all, today is our wedding day. I will give her a warning." That night, he was more passionate than ever before. When I woke up the next morning, however, my private photos were spreading like wildfire across social media. My phone screen was flooded with vile, harassing text messages. Ferdinand stood there with his arm around his secretary, Judith Pearson. He stared at me with cruel satisfaction in his eyes. "Does it feel bad to be called a whore? You embarrassed Judith, so I am returning the favor with a hundred times the humiliation. If you beg me, I might consider putting a stop to the rumors." A sharp pang of heartbreak and fury rose in my chest. Without hesitation, I grabbed my phone and dialed my ruthless, domineering stepbrother. "I want them all destroyed. Not a single one of them gets to walk away."

I once believed that meeting Damian Crawford was the last gentle mercy my dying life could offer. A man stripped of his sight, a woman already walking toward death—we held each other tight in the dark, drawing whatever warmth we could from the illusion of love. I abandoned chemotherapy without regret, swallowed the searing pain of cancer, and worked until my body screamed, all so I could scrape together one more scrap of security for him and the baby I carried. I even signed the cornea donation papers with steady hands, dreaming that after I was gone, he might open his eyes to the world again because of me. Then, in the hospital director's office, I saw the photograph: Damian riding the waves, his eyes bright as stars, his arm slung around a girl glittering with jewels worth millions. In that single frozen moment, the truth crashed over me. This love had never been real. It was only a rich boy's casual bet, and every beat of my honest heart had been nothing more than after-dinner entertainment for him and his friends. When my father's savings were ground beneath expensive heels, when my mother's final legacy was turned into fireworks to impress his new lover, something inside me finally snapped clean. I tore the donation agreement to shreds, walked into the induction room, and lay down on the table with a calm, genuine smile. If they wanted to play games, I would play the biggest, cruelest one of all—and I would win it on my own terms.

"Is the surgery doable?" The girl with delicate features caught me off guard. I tried to warn her, but she shut me down without a second thought. My face burned, yet I shook it off and set up the procedure. Then the door flew open with a loud bang, and a man barged in. I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, she cried out. "Honey!" The girl flung herself into his arms and clung to him like he was her lifeline. As I watched them embrace, ice flooded my veins, and my blood ran cold. It hit me like a ton of bricks: the man she called her husband was my own, the same man I had married two years ago.

On our tenth wedding anniversary, my husband, Edmund Garrett, asked for the login details to all of my shopping apps. He told me he wanted to give me a gift I would remember for the rest of my life. "Over these ten years, I have remembered every single piece of clothing you bought and every meal you cooked," Edmund said with a warm smile. As a homemaker who had stayed home for an entire decade, I felt a rush of pure joy. After so many years of marriage, I was genuinely surprised that Edmund still had this thoughtful side to him. Yet on the actual anniversary day, he produced a divorce agreement along with a hundred-page Excel spreadsheet. "Delores, let's get a divorce. For the past ten years, we've been living on a 'go Dutch' basis—but I've kept a ledger of every penny you spent, the house you lived in, and the meals you ate. Now, you owe me ten million. You have two choices: pay up, or sign the divorce papers."

By the time Bella Chase had been stabbed eighty-eight times by the kidnappers, her husband, Xavier Donovan, was busy celebrating the birthday of yet another one of Sophia Lester's pet snakes, her hundred-and-eighth. Xavier's voice came through the phone, cold and impatient. "Bella, you've pulled this stunt one too many times. Next time, at least try something original. I told you I'd come see you after I finished celebrating with Sophia." Right before the line went dead, Bella heard Sophia's cheerful voice in the background. "Xavier, come blow out the candles." A tear slid down Bella's cheek, and she knew Xavier would not come to save her.

The day my father died, all seven of my uncles were brutally murdered before sunset.  Damian paid the price with his legs—carving his way through the gang in a crimson massacre to cement my power. "Don't be afraid, Raven. Those monsters are gone. You're safe now."  For years after his paralysis, I became obsessed. I hunted down ever experimental treatment, wore my knees raw praying at temples across the country, desperate for any miracle that might make him walk again. When Damian discovered what I was doing, he swallowed a bottle of pills one night, choosing to die rather than chain me to his broken body. They pumped his stomach just in time. When I rushed to his hospital bed, he lifted a shaking hand to wipe my tears. "Raven," he whispered, his cracked lips barely moving, "I won't let you waste your life on a cripple."  We held each other that night like drowning souls, vowing that not even death would tear us apart.  Then, seven years later, a girl with doe eyes and poison lips appeared at my door, clutching a stack of photos thick enough to choke on. "While you were praying in church," she purred, "Damian was busy trying every position in the Kama Sutra with me."  Her laugh was the sound of shattering glass. "Miss Gray, even beggars won't pick up damaged goods. No wonder Damian would rather play cripple than touch you. "After scrutinizing each damning photo one by one, I coldly ordered them dispatched to a notorious black-market auction pit.

Everyone knew Weston Cole was head over heels for me. He would have literally laid down his life in a heartbeat. When I was pregnant, he was paranoid about my rare blood type, and he even arranged for a live donor on standby just for me. After our baby arrived, he gave society the middle finger by letting our child take my last name. He did not want me to suffer through another pregnancy, so he got a vasectomy without any hesitation. Every socialite in our circle was green with envy. I bought into it too. I impulsively returned to our marital home one fateful day, only to have a security guard block my path. "This is private property," he barked. "I am his wife," I explained with a polite smile. The guard looked me up and down like I was trash. "Mr. Cole's wife is Ms. Blake," he said. "Who do you think you are? Try scamming someone who does not know better." My body went rigid. Hadley Blake was the walking blood bag Weston had procured for me.

In Stormvale, everyone knew that Violet Ainsley, a photographer still new to the industry, was the person Raymond Morrow, the hundred-billion-dollar tycoon, cherished most. She had only mentioned divorce once, and he had confined her to Evermont Estate, entangling with her in bed until they broke six beds. Looking at Violet's bruised body, a nearly crazed look had risen in his eyes. "Vivi, I can't live without you." And yet this same Raymond, who seemed so deeply in love, had long since gone behind Violet's back to finalize their divorce and had even registered his marriage to another woman, turning Violet into a complete joke. Violet submitted her application to become a wildlife photographer, then boarded a plane bound for the East African savanna. If someone could not be kept, she would stop wanting him.

"Mm." The night had settled into a deep, quiet embrace. The master bedroom lay in disarray, the air tinged with the lingering scent of passion's aftermath. For three years now, Michael Jackson had claimed her night after night, drawing her into an unyielding embrace on the opulent bed they shared. Riley Sullivan lay exposed, her slender form held firmly in his strong hands, feeling the warmth of his breath against her skin. Once the tempest of emotions had subsided, Michael slipped into his robe, disappearing into the bathroom without so much as a glance back. Dressed once more, Riley's sense of routine returned as the bodyguard wordlessly led her down to the basement. There, Edwin, the butler, stood in silence, the blood-drawing instruments ready. "Mrs. Jackson, the medical team has informed us that Ms. Stone isn't well and requires a transfusion today." The sharp needle pierced her vein, and she watched as her life force ebbed away. The marriage had been arranged since Michael's first love, Chloe Stone, had been battling a debilitating blood disorder, and Riley's rare Rh-negative blood matched Chloe's.

Cordelia Gomez had been dating her blind boyfriend, Adrian Faulkner, for five whole years. Yet she was the very last person in the entire city to find out he was suddenly getting married. And the worst part? The woman he planned to marry was Beatrice Watson—the mastermind behind the murder of her parents. Even after hearing the news, Cordelia didn't cry or throw a fit. All she wanted was to get back the only keepsake her mom and dad had left behind. But to celebrate Beatrice's pregnancy, Adrian casually handed that last memento over to her without a second thought. His face stayed blank as he told her, “Cordelia, this is what we owe Beatrice. You've got no right to call her a murderer. Got any proof?” When Cordelia finally laid the evidence right in front of him, Adrian dropped to his knees like a madman and begged her not to leave.

On Valentine's Day, everyone was living it up on the yacht until my boyfriend Dylan threw me a curveball by daring me to confess to his uncle. "Go ahead and pour your heart out to him," he jeered, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "If he actually falls for you, congrats. You have just scored a one-way ticket into the Grant family. I might even have to bow and call you Mrs. Stone the next time we meet." Beside him, Vivian Carter, his so-called ideal woman, smirked with her lips still sticky sweet from the caramel iced latte they had clinked glasses over just minutes earlier. My fingers tightened around the watch in my pocket, a peace offering I had saved two months of wages to buy. My heart was already in ruins. Then a glowing subtitle blazed across my vision. A: [Ugh, men like him are the worst. Hey heroine, why not go for his uncle instead? That man is the real deal. He has been crazy about you for years and even gave up everything overseas to return for you.] Staring at Dylan Grant's smug face, I drew a sharp breath, tossed my skirt hem aside with deliberate flair, and fired back at him. "Fine. Watch me. If I pull this off, I will be stuffing your Christmas cards with cash myself."

The night my husband was away on a business trip, I received a membership deduction alert from a pharmacy chain: 11:00 PM, one box of emergency contraceptives, $138. I shot up in bed, thunderstruck, and checked Nathan's entire itinerary for the trip. Finally, on a travel app, I saw the registered guests for a luxury family suite: "Nathan Leeds, Rachel Sutton." I had my assistant pull up all of Rachel’s information within a minute. Among her three pinned Instagram posts, visible only to strangers, one displayed a marriage certificate with Nathan, another showed a family photo with their newborn child, and the latest was a fresh tourist snapshot of the three riding across the grasslands, captioned: "My husband finally has time for me and our baby. When this trip ends, we’ll be moving into his 2,000-square-meter mansion in northern Belrun!" I threw my phone to the floor in a fit of rage, leaving it shattered. "Nathan, I built you up from a penniless boy to the business mogul you are today. Since you dared to betray me, I'll be the one to drag you down!"

The year we hit rock bottom after I eloped with my uncle, Ethan Hayes, fate dropped a bombshell—I was pregnant. Remembering how he'd always dreamed of having a child, I raced to him, my heart pounding with hope. But instead of sharing my joy, I stumbled upon him cozying up to relatives he'd supposedly disowned. "Ethan, enough playing house. Don't wreck your future over some random niece," one taunted. Ethan arched a brow, looking amused. "Do I look that stupid to you?" The room erupted into knowing chuckles. "We get it. Now that Vivian's back, of course you're done slumming it." "Just pay the girl off," another cut in, faux sympathy oozing like syrup, "before she gets knocked up and things get messy." Ethan shrugged, his smirk razor-sharp. "If she's pregnant, she'll deal with it. What's the fuss? She's just a kid." Their hyena-like cackles followed me as I fled, my heart a block of ice. Gritting my teeth, I hailed a cab straight to the clinic. Young? Sure. But I could play dirty too.

For three years, I'd been living a lie—married in secret to my so-called uncle, though we shared no blood ties. At yet another family gathering, the elders were back at it, shoving potential suitors my way. Elias Bennett joined the chorus, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips as he teased. "Rosalind, you're not getting any younger. Let me hook you up with a decent guy, huh?" He'd tossed those same words at me in my previous life. Back then, I'd recklessly exposed our relationship to the entire family. I became his wife in broad daylight—only to be met with his icy indifference. Even during my dystocia, he'd jetted off abroad to share a candlelit dinner atop some skyscraper with his precious junior. The truth hit me like a freight train. I was just his consolation prize. She'd always been the one he truly wanted. So this time, I met his jab with a sugar-coated smile. "Sorry, Uncle, but my heart's already taken. We're tying the knot next month."

Every time I fought with David Shepard, my husband, he'd take me to the clerk's office to file for divorce. Then he'd wait quietly during the divorce waiting period, watching me act like a lovesick fool. During the divorce waiting period, he watched fireworks on a yacht with Serena Moore, his close friend, in his arms, while I prepared fancy meals, waiting for his return. By the fortieth period, he was escorting Serena to high-end banquets, while I imported expensive wool from the north to hand-knit winter scarves. At the fifty-fifth period, he was accompanying Serena for endoscopies, learning to make nutritious food, and even moving into her place to take care of her daily needs. I was done. I stopped trying to win him over. Instead, I bought myself an island across the ocean and made up my mind to cut all ties with this relationship. When two days remained in our final period, David bombarded my phone. "Cecilia! Where are you?" With half our home already emptied, I was busy packing the remaining belongings for shipment. "David, see you at the clerk's office the day after tomorrow morning. We're making it official. Divorce."

To make that poor girl happy, my fiancé put my virginity up for auction. At the auction, he raised his hand and immediately offered the highest bid in the room, buying my first time on the spot. Everyone said he truly loved me. They said he was only doing it to show the whole world how much I meant to him. Only then did I finally breathe a sigh of relief, a faint sweetness just beginning to bloom in my heart. But the very next second, I heard him lean close to my ear and say in a voice that was gentle yet cold, "I spent five hundred million dollars to buy you back. Your first time will go to Eira's brother. Once you give him a child, I'll marry you." I stared at the man in front of me in disbelief. The word "No" had barely left my lips when his face darkened. "Eira only has this one brother. If the Norwood family can't have an heir, she refuses to get surgery for her nearsightedness. Her eyes are the most beautiful thing about her. I will never let her lose that beauty because of your selfishness." That night, I was sent straight to Eira's brother's bed. My fiancé even coaxed me softly, "Be good. He's healthy. He'll definitely get you pregnant on the first try." I looked at the two-hundred-pound fat man in front of me, and all I felt was despair.

Eight months pregnant and writhing with severe contractions, I begged Ryan Johnson, my husband, to take me to the hospital, but he ordered me to endure it all because Olivia Wallace, his widowed elder brother's wife, was delivering the same day. To prevent my child from becoming the Johnson family's heir, Ryan locked me in an industrial freezer at minus four degrees Fahrenheit. "The firstborn must belong to Olivia. She has nothing, while you have all my love. You will leave the inheritance to her child. This freezer will delay your labor. You can give birth when it's your turn." The pain of the contractions made me want to die. I lost all dignity, kneeling and begging him to take me to the hospital. Ryan responded by kicking me to the ground. "You think I don't know what game you're playing? You just want to deliver early so you can claim the property my father left behind. How can you be so vicious? Willing to force a premature birth to compete with Olivia? Show some decency for yourself and your child!" My explanation was weak and fragmented. "My due date is any day now. The baby could come at any moment. I swear the child will never fight for the inheritance. I'll write a blood oath if I have to—I just want my baby to be safe!" Ryan pulled away the hem of his pants that I had desperately grabbed and let out a cold snort. "You're so calculating. Who knows if you're trying to trick me again? I'm the child's father, and I want the baby safe more than anyone. After Olivia gives birth, I'll come back for you." Later, when he saw the wailing newborn in Olivia's arms, he finally remembered me and sent James Davis, his secretary, to bring me to the hospital. But James's teeth chattered as he spoke. "Madam and the baby... They're both... gone...."

I was the apple of my parents' eye, and I had been the baby sister my two brothers had protected since the day I was born. On my eighteenth birthday, I pushed them out of harm's way just as a wooden beam came crashing down and knocked me out cold. When I came to, my body no longer belonged to me because a girl named Sussie Hayes had taken over, and she called herself a system invader. At first, my family lost their minds trying to kick this intruder out. Then one day, Sussie showed up with red-rimmed eyes and whispered her demand in a shaky voice. She said, "I hate to impose, but Nina Ellis can only return if you love me to bits." So they tried hard, and they bent over backward to treat her like family. My parents went from giving stiff, disgusted replies to asking about her favorite foods, and eventually they started bringing home little treats she loved without even thinking about it. My brothers stopped calling her the invader, and they began cooing her name, Sussie, as if she had always been their sister. After a year, Sussie completed her mission, and I finally got my body back. But when I opened my eyes and grinned like an idiot, all I saw was disappointment that they could not quite mask. They threw a welcome party for show, but behind closed doors they hurt me time and again while hoping to bring their precious Sussie back. After the ninety-ninth accident, I caught them murmuring where they thought I could not hear them. One of them said, "Three more days. If Sussie doesn't come back, we'll just have to put up with Nina." Little did they know that I had my own system waiting for me, and I had only three days left with them.

For fifteen years, I'd been trapped like a pampered prisoner by my obsessive vampire boyfriend, yet we'd never had a child. In his family, the firstborn always turned into a bottom-feeding vampire by their first birthday. He couldn't stomach the thought of our child becoming a mindless, bloodthirsty monster. But on our sixteenth anniversary, Soren Ash pinned me down, relentless, his voice a dark promise, thirteen times in a single night, begging for a child. Foolishly, I obeyed, enduring seven soul-crushing losses in three months without a word of protest. When our eighth child finally held on, I dared to hope, until I caught him whispering to a human girl. "Soren, thank you for making Elara lose seven babies just to give me the girl I wanted." "Sweetheart," he purred, his voice dripping with indulgence. "You've got me wrapped around your finger. Anything you want." "But I'm scared!" Her voice trembled. "I'm eight months pregnant. If our baby comes first and turns into a monster, what then?" After a heavy pause, he stroked her hair. "Relax. I've got the drugs to induce her. Elara's kid will be born before yours." The realization tore through me like a blade: my child was nothing but a disposable shield. Even its gender had been orchestrated by her! Clenching my shaking hands, I let go of every foolish dream of forever with him.

By the fifth year of caring for my paralyzed boyfriend, his legs had finally started to recover. Just as Elijah Ainsley and I were preparing for our wedding, the first love who had caused his paralysis suddenly came back with a child. To look after her and the child, he postponed the wedding again and again. Holding the wedding plans in my hands, I wanted to ask for his opinion one more time. But before I could say a word, I heard one of his friends trying to persuade him. “If she finds out you’ve already registered Yvette Latham’s child under your name, Stacie Quarles might really leave you. You should tell her the truth sooner rather than later.” I froze. The boyfriend who was supposed to be paralyzed and unable to stand was now standing by the window, looking completely unconcerned. He said, “I’ve been paralyzed for so many years, and she still couldn’t bear to leave me. Now it’s only the wedding that’s been postponed a few times. She’s not going to give up on me that easily. My father abandoned me and my mother when I was little. All I want now is to give my own child a little more fatherly love. What’s wrong with that?” I lowered my head and slowly slipped off the ring on my finger, the one that had never even fit properly. 'Elijah, this time, I'm really letting you go.'

For five grueling years, I hauled caskets to scrimp and save every penny for my son's treatment. Bursting with excitement to surprise my husband, Joel Chase, and my son, Lucian Chase, I raced home after traveling for a day and a night. That was when I caught the hospital director groveling before my husband. "Ms. Reed claims she will have the medical fees ready soon," the director said in an obsequious tone. "Should we keep cooking up fake treatment bills?" Joel rolled up his sleeve and flashed a watch that could buy this hospital ten times over. "Let her be," he said. "She has been through hell these years. She did not even tell us when she broke her leg months ago." My so-called best friend, Tessa Wilde, cut in, her voice dripping with doubt. "Joel, what if she is playing us? The Chase family could buy anything in the world." She added, "And let us be real. Lucian might not handle living with Sylvia Reed well." Lucian clung to her neck like a lifeline. "I would never want her as my mom!" he declared. He buried his face in Tessa's shoulder and added, "Living with her is a curse." Then, with a sugar-coated whine, he looked up at her. "Miss Wilde, I wish you were my mom instead." Joel paused, and his eyes softened as he looked at them. "Fine," he said. "Let us string her along for another six months." Without a word, I hurled the gifts into the trash can. The can produced a loud clang, and my heart made the same sound. So much for surprises. They would not need to keep testing me. I would walk away for good.

“Gloria Morley, the pink Birkin you had your eye on last time is finally here! It was the exact color your husband specifically asked for, so you can come pick it up anytime!” The Hermès sales associate sounded excited, with a hint of urgency in her voice.   I was sitting on the couch, clutching the remote in my hand, my fingertips turning cold.   Last time?   I had clearly pointed at the striking orange red one in the display window and begged Warren Morley for it for half a month.   “Are you sure... it’s pink?” My throat tightened.   “Of course, Mrs. Morley,” the sales associate said with certainty. “Mr. Morley specifically emphasized that he wanted the softest shade, a cherry blossom pink.”   After the call ended, I stood up, ready to call Warren Morley and ask whether he had remembered it wrong.   But after only two steps, I kicked an unopened delivery box under the desk.   The logo printed on it was instantly familiar. It was the luxury lingerie brand he often bought for me.   For some reason, I bent down and picked it up.   After untying the ribbon, I found a black lace bustier inside, with the tags still attached.   Instinctively, I checked the size.   75B.   In that instant, my whole body went cold.   I wore a 70C.   I had been wearing that size for ten years.

Once again, Eric Jones, my husband, ranked first globally as the photographer that female models most wanted to spend the night with. Yet he had never taken a single photo of me, his wife. When reporters asked, he couldn't hide the adoration in his eyes. "Only I get to admire my wife. No one else gets to see her." On my birthday, I excitedly changed into a lace nightgown and, for the first time, asked him to take a photo. Minutes passed without the shutter sounding. Behind the camera, only Eric's stiff expression remained. "Never mind," he said. My excitement vanished, replaced by confusion. "What's wrong?" "Well..." He gave a dry chuckle. "Photography is work, after all. I don't want to mix work with you." With that, he put the camera away and headed into the bathroom. The darkroom door was slightly ajar, casting a red glow. I went in. On the workstation lay a photo album titled "Hailey Roberts' Private Diary." I flipped through it. Photos of every kind—different levels of intimacy, every imaginable pose—filled the album.

After the IVF finally worked, I flew back to Minton with the baby I had fought so hard to conceive, planning to surprise Adrian Ford. A friend had tried to warn me. Said that while I was overseas these past few years, Adrian had picked up a clingy, drama-loving female secretary. At first, I didn't think much of it. Back then, all it took was a slight frown from me, and Adrian would immediately get rid of anyone who annoyed me. Until I got home and realized the passcode to the villa had been changed. When I entered our wedding anniversary again, the door suddenly opened. A woman wearing my pajamas leaned lazily against the doorframe, all curves and attitude, brows raised like she owned the place. "Where did this beggar come from? You seriously came all the way to the Ford family's place to ask for handouts? Get lost. If you don't leave, I'm letting the dog out." Looking at how arrogant she was, I was so mad I almost laughed. "Call Adrian out here. I'd love to ask him how he ended up bringing just anyone off the street into this house. And I also wanted to ask him whether he still wanted the child in my belly, the only heir the Ford family had been waiting generations for."

It all started when, days before our wedding, I refused Damian's outrageous demand to let his sacred first love replace me as the bride for a month. Devastated, she fled to the highway and died in a gruesome crash. That same night, Damian pinned me against the wall, his fingers digging into my throat. "I already agreed to marry you. Was her one damn wish too much for you?" To avenge her, he hired a stand-in to torture me relentlessly. He killed my unborn child with a single kick. He framed my father for fraud, leaving him to die behind bars. The shock sent my mother into cardiac arrest, straight to the ICU. Then, when I begged him to sign the hospital forms, I found him moaning into that fake's neck, their bodies glued together. "Damian, I'm carrying your child now. How long must I keep playing dead?" Damian's breath was ragged. "Not yet. Let her bleed a little longer, or she'll never learn. That half-dead mother of hers still dangles by my money." His sacred first love was alive. My "atonement"? Just their twisted game. My child. My parents. Pawns in their cruelty. I waited until dawn, stumbling to the hospital with the unsigned forms, only to learn my mother had slit her wrists hours earlier. Her last words shattered me. "Kate... I refuse to be your chains." The morgue's sterile stench choked me as I touched her, lifeless and waxen. I clawed at her hand, once so warm, now frozen.

In the fifth year of our marriage, Ricardo Latham and I started trying for a baby. That day, I had just placed a pillow under my hips and adjusted into position when Ricardo's phone suddenly rang. He did not hesitate for even a second. He got out of bed immediately and started getting dressed. "A friend asked me to go play golf. I'll make it up to you tomorrow." This was already the ninety-ninth time our attempt to conceive had been interrupted. I looked at him and suddenly said, "Ricardo, let's get divorced." His hand paused as he fastened his watch, as if he found it ridiculous. "You want a divorce just because I'm going to play golf?" I picked up his phone, unlocked it, and pointed to the message on the screen: Tomorrow I want to try a hole in one with you. Ricardo frowned. "Just because of that?" I nodded calmly. "Yes. Just because of that."

At the awards ceremony, my boyfriend Owen, the fire brigade captain, disappeared backstage after taking a call. There I stood alone in my evening gown, accepting his "Firefighter of the Year" medal for him. "Looks like Captain Parker's got priorities higher than awards tonight!" the host quipped. The audience roared with laughter while I stood frozen, my limbs numb with embarrassment. When I returned home, no hero's embrace awaited me, just the choking reek of gas. Then boom! The world shattered. As neighbors dug me from the wreckage, a message flashed from Owen's trainee: a photo of him shirtless, dead asleep in his dorm bed. Her caption stabbed at me. Claire: Just so you know, the captain's too wiped to come home. Says with you there, the place could never blow up.

Adrian showed up at my birthday party again, with Lila by his side. His arm was wrapped around her waist as he introduced her to the guests. "This is Serena's best friend, and Vale Corporation's newest partner." My fingers tightened around my champagne glass, turning pale. Just last week, Lila had stolen the project I had spent three years securing. Adrian leaned in close, his voice low against my ear. "You should thank me, babe. I helped you preserve such a precious friendship." After that, Lila wore my jewelry to charity galas. She used my personal makeup artist. She even attended Hawthorne Group's shareholders' meeting in my place. On the family hunting day, Adrian let her ride my horse. He adjusted her stirrups himself, then said to me without even looking up, "Your riding is poor. Don't slow everyone down." I stood at the edge of the field, watching them clear obstacles side by side. The elders of the Hawthorne family smiled in approval. "Lila and Adrian make a perfect match." On the way back, a storm poured down. No one remembered that I had no car. Adrian sent me a message. Adrian: Figure it out yourself. Don't ruin the mood. I slipped off my engagement ring and replied with a single word. Serena: Alright. My phone lit up again. It was a message from Victor. Victor: Serena, did you ever receive that letter back then?

Mark Wood and I were both facing divorce agreements. He received the twins and ancestral properties, whereas I got 20% of the assets and a villa. I quickly reviewed and calmly signed it.

The day my husband, Robert Harding, was kidnapped and shot in the head by his enemies, I completely broke down. I jumped off a cliff and sank into the sea. After they pulled me up from the deep sea, I felt like every bone in my body was broken. As I drifted back to consciousness, I heard him joking with his new lover, Loretta Flood. Loretta laughed, light and carefree, her voice teasing. "Monica almost died for you—more loyal than a dog—and you're still willing to trick her again?" Monica Gordon—that was my name. "Not anymore," Robert said flatly. "It was just a blood bag I set up. Now I know where her heart lies. Just keep your mouths shut, okay?" The people around him burst into laughter and whispered promises that I'd never find out. I lay in the ICU, crying until my heart went cold. He had cruelly crushed and torn apart every genuine feeling I had for him. Robert didn't know that this was the last time I would ever love him. My love turned to ashes, never to return.

After three years, I finally found Mark Davis, my husband, who had disappeared during our honeymoon. Yet no matter how heartbroken or hysterical I became, the amnesiac man standing before me remained cold and unruffled. "The heir of the Davis Family you're talking about—that's not me. Stop looking for me. Iris will make me sleep on the couch again if you keep this up." The undisguised affection for Iris Perry, another woman, in his words tore my heart to shreds. Just as I was about to give up, I accidentally overheard Daniel Parker, his friend, confronting him. "Three years ago, you faked your death during your honeymoon with Addison to be with Iris. Now you want to reclaim your comfortable life as the young master of the Davis Family while pretending to have amnesia in front of her! Don't you think you've wronged her too much?" Mark drained his glass. "Iris is already pregnant with my child. I must bring her into the family." My heart died completely. Turning away, I intercepted Mark's parents, who were rushing over. "Mom, Dad, I've seen him myself. He isn't Mark."

A few days ago, my husband Everett Gordon's mistress burst into tears once more because of me. This time, his punishment was to send me straight to the pet hospital so I could donate blood for the injured vicious dog that belonged to his mistress, Zaria Clayton. He did not care about the scratches covering my body. He did not care about the chunks of flesh torn away by bites. He did not even care that the dog had ripped open my lower abdomen, leaving a bloody wound and causing me to lose our child. He simply launched into another lecture. "Men keeping women on the side is the most ordinary thing in the world. Loving you and staying faithful to only you for a lifetime are two completely separate matters. When exactly will you learn to be sensible? You injured the dog so badly that it lost too much blood, and you made Zaria cry again. This blood donation counts as your apology to her." After I woke from the shock of the blood donation, Everett brought both the woman and the dog back home and once again tossed my luggage outside. "Zaria has not recovered these past few days. I will stay with her for a while. She gets scared whenever you are around." This time, I did not cry or make a scene. I calmly picked up my luggage and handed him a divorce agreement. He took it with a scoff and signed his name without a second thought. "Alyssa, next time, come up with a new trick. I am tired of this fake-divorce-papers game." It was true that in the past I had tried dozens of times to win back his heart by suggesting divorce, but he had always seen through the bluffs. Yet today he failed to notice that this document was real.

All my life, I was the picture of compliance. Tell me to walk east, and not once would the west cross my mind. When my affluent biological parents brought me back, my foster sister, Hailey Johnson, whispered smugly, "I'm going to be the rightful Miss Johnson. You'd better get out of here!" I nodded meekly and, without any hesitation, dashed into the chaotic highway traffic. My parents raced after me, yanking me back into the car, their faces ghostly pale with shock. My brother, Sam Johnson, cast a shadowed look in my direction, murmuring, "Stir up trouble again, and you'll be back in that doghouse before you know it." That evening found me obediently curled up in a dog cage. Sam was flabbergasted, pulling me out with gritted teeth, his face a mask of disbelief. Later, when Hailey feigned sickness and Sam pressured me to donate blood, I took a blade and, without a second thought, cut open my wrist. My parents burst in just as the blood began to flow. Panicked, they clamped down on the wound, shouting, "Doctor! We need a doctor!" Sam's face mirrored their dread. It took him a while to stammer, "I only asked for a little blood for Hailey, not for her to do this." I blinked in acknowledgment. Sam was right. He never actually taught me that. It was the human traffickers, during those five grueling years after my parents had given me away, who drilled the rules into me.

My name was Liliana Cortes, and with a single sentence, I could make Wall Street shake. I had three of the most powerful men in the world protecting me. My husband, Levi Alvarez, was the most feared shark in cross-border finance. If someone so much as made a joke at my expense, he could wipe out their entire circle before the week was over. My closest friend, Zachary Burgess, headed investigations at the IRS. With a flick of his wrist, he could send an entire family to prison. My younger brother, Dylan Cortes, had launched his own quant fund at seventeen. He had turned our family into one of the richest and most powerful names in the world, and not just anyone even got the chance to curry favor with him. On my thirtieth birthday, I sat in a rooftop restaurant, pregnancy test results in hand, and waited for twelve hours. Instead, I got a cold notification saying Dylan was dead, that his fund had imploded amid allegations of regulatory violations, and that he had jumped to his death. And there was Levi, standing with the police, making sure Dylan's death was officially ruled a suicide. I snapped and demanded answers. Zachary grabbed my hand and pressed my thumb down on the cremation authorization form. "Your brother is already dead. The least he can do now is take the blame for someone who still has a future. Willow wasn't born with what you had. She wasn't born a Cortes. The least you can do is give her this one thing."

At six years old, I played a game called "Red Light, Green Light" with my brother, Leo Fields. That game made you freeze when the leader turned around. But I turned into an actual wooden statue. My mind stayed stuck at six years old, and Grandma was devastated by it. Overnight, Leo became a different person. He scraped by on scholarships and collected scrap metal to keep us alive. The once proud boy did not even flinch when classmates called him a beggar. But if a stranger dared to call me "slow," he would fly into a rage defending me. That night, he held me tight while his tears fell in silence. He whispered, "Our Mae isn't a fool. You're just still growing up. Promise me, okay? Never leave my side, not even half a step away." I nodded like the clueless child I was and dogged his heels like a lost puppy for three long years. Everything changed when Molly Wells appeared. All it took was one touch of my grubby, mud-caked fingers smearing her pristine white skirt. Leo finally cracked. He shoved me out the door with a raw and breaking voice. "Mae Fields, you've ruined my life already. Must you ruin Molly's too? Why can't you ever just stop being such a goddamn burden?" In that moment, my muddled mind finally sharpened with a brutal, cutting clarity. I finally understood that to him, I was his greatest misfortune. I slipped into the custom-built coffin Grandma kept in the backyard. I clenched my eyes shut and started counting under my breath. The game began.

My name is Amber Summers. Damien Blackwell and I grew up together in a psychiatric ward—childhood sweethearts, if you could call it that. In our circles, people said the Blackwell family had produced a king and queen of the underworld. No one dared cross either of us. "Amber, we're demons who crawled out of hell. We should hold each other close and keep each other warm. Neither of us gets to leave." On Damien's birthday, I delivered the final piece of his empire—the deal that completed everything he'd been building toward. What I got in return was the news that our twin sons had been killed in a car accident. The driver had been drunk. He fled the scene. On the eve of the trial, Damien set off fireworks across the entire city to celebrate his "recovery." He stood before me, holding the hand of a pregnant girl. "Joy is the only light in my life. She's the one who saved me. This matter ends here. Stop making a scene." My eyes were bloodshot. "Damien—they were your sons too." His voice was flat, almost bored. "The boys are dead. But you still have me. You're still Mrs. Blackwell. We can have more children. But Joy—her father is the only family she has left in this world."

Elijah Jagger only liked women with pure, untouched bodies. I had thought it was just a joke. It was not until I found out I was pregnant that I realized the housekeeper was changing one bloodstained sheet after another every night, and the hallway outside the operating room for virginity restoration was always crowded. For the sake of the baby, I kept giving in. I endured it until I was seven months pregnant. When no new women appeared in the house anymore, I finally realized Elijah had developed real feelings for his latest lover. I did not cry, and I did not make a scene. I simply asked him to sign the consent form for my abortion. Not only did he refuse to sign it, he tore it to pieces and stared at me coldly as he said, "I told you long ago, they were just women for amusement. Any woman in Everest City understands that rule. As my wife, you should understand even better that tolerance and virtue are a woman's best dowry. If you insist on being this willful, it only proves you are not fit to stay in the Jagger family." Watching the torn scraps whirl through the air, I gave up arguing with him any further. As I bent down to pick up the pieces, I thought of the envelope Molly Jagger had given me before she died, and of something she had once said, "If you want to leave, you can do so anytime."

My wife had a violent allergic reaction to men. Even the slightest touch would send her skin erupting in painful red welts. Three years of marriage passed without a single moment of intimacy between us. We had even resorted to IVF just to have our child. Then came the hospital incident. During a routine checkup, we got caught in the middle of a vicious brawl. I took three stab wounds while shielding her, and I bled out on the linoleum floor. Only the image of her face and our unborn child kept me from slipping away. The day I left the hospital, my phone buzzed with an anonymous video. There she was, passionate and breathless, tangled up with some faceless man. Her skin glowed without a single flaw except for the purple hickeys scattered across her chest. Not one welt in sight. I looked up to see her standing right beside me, carefully peeling an apple. A mask was clamped over her face, her collar was buttoned to her chin, and gloves swallowed her hands. She looked wrapped up like a damn biohazard. The video was shot yesterday. My hand shook as I reached for her collar. A sharp smack stung my fingers. She slapped them away hard enough to hurt. "Don't touch me!" she hissed as she scrambled back. "Stay the hell away from me!" Her eyes raked over me like I was something rotten. That was when the knife twisted in my gut. She wasn't allergic to men. Just me. The second she vanished into the bathroom, I grabbed my phone and punched in the number I hadn't dialed in five years. The phone barely vibrated before his voice crackled through, sharp with urgency. "Send me your damn location. I'm coming right now."

My husband, Zane Forrest, was supposed to be the best bomb disposal expert in the state. He cut the wrong wire during our daughter's hostage crisis anyway. The look on his face didn't change, not even when the timer flickered and started climbing faster. That was when he called Yara Wells for backup—his childhood friend who had never defused a real bomb in her life. She showed up with a pair of craft scissors and a coffee thermos that smelled like burnt coffee. I watched her snip something inside the panel, and the countdown jumped from ten minutes to forty-five seconds. "Zane, what is she doing?" I screamed. He just clicked his tool case shut and stood up. Yara grinned at me like we were all sharing some private joke at a backyard barbecue. My knees hit the concrete floor, and I begged him to save our daughter before the explosion turned her into smoke. "Serena Hayes, quit the theatrics," he said. "Yara specializes in delaying explosions. If she pulls off a last-second rescue, she'll earn the Best Rookie Award at the annual convention." I couldn't breathe. I scrambled for my phone and called every other expert within two hundred miles, but none of them would take the job. They all said the same thing: nobody competes with Zane Forrest on his own turf. Desperation made my voice crack as I accused Yara of operating without a license. Zane didn't argue. He just pulled a spare vest from his bag and strapped a small bomb to my ribs. The adhesive felt cold through my shirt. "Lodge your complaint, or I press the detonator," he said. "Your call." His thumb rested on the switch like he was holding a coffee mug. "Twenty-five hours from now, I'll bring our daughter home myself. Happy ending for all, right?" I stared at the timer on my chest. "Zane, we're down to the last twenty-four hours before that bomb goes off."

When enemies came for revenge, I had my leg shattered saving Damian Black.   He dropped to his knees before me, eyes bloodshot with fury and grief, and swore through gritted teeth, "Victoria Blake, I'll claw my way to the top. No one will ever hurt you again, not while I live."   Seven years later, he hurled me from my wheelchair, for some gold-digging tramp, all because I'd splashed wine on her.   "Victoria." His voice was a blade against my throat. "I warned you. Don't you dare touch her."   The next words shattered what was left of my heart. "Get the hell out of that seat. It's hers now."   He flung the divorce papers at me like trash.   "Twenty million dollars." His laugh was colder than winter steel. "Consider it payment for that useless leg of yours. Try hurting her again, and I'll bury you."   I tore the damn papers to confetti and flung them straight at his smug face. "Damian," I hissed, venom and fire in every syllable, "That leg? Just the start of what you'll repay in blood. Wanna wash your hands of me? Then you and your little tramp better be ready to pay with your lives!"

I loved Charles Anderson for ten years, yet he hated me to the bone. He resented me for occupying the position of Mrs. Anderson, making Freya Scott, his first love, suffer endlessly. It wasn't until I was diagnosed with ALS that he finally sat by my bedside, feeding me my favorite strawberries in my final moments. With red-rimmed eyes, he said, "Ava, let's not meet in our next life." Yet after my death, he shot himself before my grave. When I opened my eyes again, I had been reborn at the critical moment when the Scott family went bankrupt, and someone had to take the blame and go to prison. In my past life, my younger sister, Freya Scott, took our father's place in prison and died miserably within a year. This made Charles hate me forever. This time, I stepped forward. "Dad, I'll go to prison. Let Charles marry Freya." I took on all the guilt, wishing that he and his first love would finally be together.

In Javilia, I, Ava Jones, the most pathetic heiress, and my stepsister, Karina Jones, the most domineering heiress, happened to be from the same family. When Karina Jones forced my head into the toilet bowl, Jeffery Shepard, the Shepard Family's young master, who was on the run, blew two holes through both her hands. "She's the future lady of this city! Let me see who dares lay a finger on her!" Burning with resentment, Karina tormented me even more viciously while sabotaging Jeffery's rise to power. After ten grueling years, Jeffery finally became head of the Shepard Family. That very night, he booked a hotel suite to propose. But when I opened the door, I found him and Karina tangled naked beneath the wedding quilt. The room erupted in shock. Everyone knew Karina was our mutual archenemy. Karina scoffed, flaunting the red marks covering her body. "Jeffery, don't tell me you'll claim you mistook me for Ava again? You're sober tonight. You threw that East District project to me on purpose, didn't you? How long will you keep lying to yourself? You've always liked a worthy rival—someone like me. You never had any use for a weakling like Ava." Jeffery maintained his faint smile but offered no rebuttal. As the crowd gasped, he casually took the ring and slid it onto my finger. I held firm. "You promised," I said, "that once you took power, I could do whatever I wanted in Javilia. Does that promise still stand?" He hesitated, thinking I'd yield as I had for ten years, then nodded with a smile. "Of course." I smiled back.

For ten years, I'd been with Rowan Laurent—a ruthless underworld kingpin with an insatiable lust—and endured twelve heartbreaking miscarriages. All because he claimed his countless enemies would use our child against us. When I got pregnant for the thirteenth time, against all odds, he let me keep it. After the pregnancy stabilized, he went straight, leaving his criminal past behind.   Then, at the seventh month of my pregnancy, I discovered his secret: a mistress. She was also pregnant, two months ahead of me. Tears burned my eyes as I confronted him. Rowan barely reacted, just a slight twitch of his brow.   "Lilith's different from you. She's just a simple girl and needs a child's warmth." "You know she won't compete with you even though she has a baby. You'll always be the official Mrs. Laurent." His icy stare made my nails dig into my palms. I took a shuddering breath. "We're done."

Steven Lawson still couldn't feel any sexual desire.  Beads of anxious sweat covered Evelyn Shepard, and he seemed just as uncomfortable.  "Let's stop, Evelyn..."  Evelyn's hands hung at her sides, her knuckles whitened from how tightly she clenched them.  This wasn't the first time. After five years of marriage, she'd been failing more and more to satisfy Steven in bed.  Knowing he was returning today, she had secretly learned from videos—this position should have worked best.  Yet even as Steven's waist tensed, his eyes held only suppressed fatigue, not a flicker of desire.  "Let's try the other one..."  With a hoarse voice, she started to lean forward, only for Steven to catch her wrist.  His palm was scorching, but his grip was gentle. "Don't push yourself, Evelyn. You're drenched. It hurts me to see you like this. Next time, alright?"  Assuming he was simply tired, Evelyn went to shower.  But when she came out, she saw his messages with another woman. She found out that he wasn't tired. He was just bored with her.

The night Steve Reed returned from his business trip, he and Claire Lynch had sex for a full two hours. He asked breathlessly, "Did you miss me?" Claire moaned softly, but before she could gasp "yes," she heard him say, "Honey, why does your waist feel thicker?" That casual remark made Claire smell the scent of his infidelity. Later, without making a sound, she carefully peeled back the layers and finally found evidence that Steve was cheating. That night, he said there was a company event, and he'd return late. When she arrived at the Dusk Bar, she saw familiar faces—mid-level and senior employees from Steve's firm. But Steve was missing, along with Irene Scott, his new secretary, who had been hired less than a month ago. Claire had been Steve's secretary until a month prior, when he declared that being a secretary was too tough for Mrs. Reed and persuaded her to become a full-time wife. That was when Irene took over as his new secretary. At first, Claire didn't overthink it. But when she saw them hooked up on the sofa in the private room, her heart finally turned cold.

I thought marrying Leo Hayes was the luckiest break of my life. He was sophisticated and polished, a respected editor by day and the perfect husband in my eyes. Then he dropped the bomb: we would have a Dutch-treat marriage. That was the moment I saw the truth—our relationship rotting from the inside out. He bought his mistress imported organic eggs while hounding me for my share down to the last dollar and twenty-five cents for the local ones. He got on his knees and swore he had only donated sperm, but I found their steamy margin notes scribbled in his proofread manuscripts. When my mother's life hung by a thread, he pulled the plug on her medical payments. I once burned with fever and faced his icy demand: figure out your exact share of the fever pills. Then I uncovered everything—how he had funneled company funds to buy his side fling an apartment and traded publishing licenses under the table. That smug mask of his finally shattered. But this time I would show no mercy. If he wanted to play accountant, fine. I would drag every receipt into the light, from love to career, right down to the cushy life he thought he could escape without a scratch.

In our seventh year of marriage, my husband dug up my parents' urn and set it right in front of me. Then he gave me two choices. "Either you hand over your design to Fiona for the competition, or I scatter your parents' ashes into the ocean." I clutched the design I had just finished, tears blurring my vision, and gave in. The next day, a photo of Fiona Johnson sitting on a yacht, scattering ashes into the sea, went viral. Under the photo, Zane Hayes commented. Zane: I'd give you everything I have. My eyes fell on the corner of the image, where the urn sat quietly. My blood ran cold. Me and my dead parents, we were nothing more than props he used to please Fiona. A man like that is not worth keeping.

"I want a divorce! My husband doesn't love me anymore!"  At the City Hall office, I overheard a young woman filing for divorce, crying about her husband, Simon Hall, the wealthiest man in Riverfield. Coincidentally, my husband shared the same name, but he was just an ordinary person. I handed my water-soaked marriage certificate to the staff, requesting a new one. The staff member gave me an odd look and said, "Ma'am, your marital status shows as single. This marriage certificate is fake."  Stunned, I glanced at the young woman next to me and saw her phone wallpaper. The man in her wedding photo was the same person I thought I had been married to for three years.

That year we were scraping by on chaff and weeds, two big shots from the capital swept into the orphanage.   After locating the General's long-lost daughter, they tossed out a fortune in gold and handed pastries to every kid.   As I reached for my pastry, a barrage of comments occurred in my vision:  A: [Girl, hurry up—take out your family heirloom pendant! They're here for YOU! ] B:[Expose that fake heiress snatching your birthright, and you'll finally have a home!] They declared the General was my elder brother, the Prime Minister was my future husband.  Yet I just took a shaky bite of the pastry, ducking my head like a scared rabbit.   Because the truth was crystal clear—those two had come for the impostor.  Whether I take the jade pendant or not. They wouldn't even look at me.

Eight years earlier, Nora Collins lost a child while trying to save Liam Bennett, and for her, Liam gave up his old life. He had once said, "Everyone sees me as the flawless, high-minded CEO. Only you have seen the dirtiest, ugliest side of me." Eight years later, in order to protect his pregnant lover, Olivia Brooks, Liam handed over the company's power to her. Nora's younger sister, Isla Collins, had her private photos taken by Olivia's brother. Yet Olivia refused to give her any company resources or support, driving Isla to jump to her death. When Nora handed Liam the divorce papers, he only brushed them off. "Unless one of us dies, we are never getting divorced." Looking at her own bloodstained hands, Nora finally gave up on him completely. But when news came that Nora had fallen into the sea, the ever-composed and impeccably controlled Mr. Bennett went mad.

On my return day, David Moore, my husband, who'd promised to meet me at the airport, suddenly had something come up and sent someone else in his place. But instead, that person blocked me at the airport and said arrogantly, "So you're David's close friend." "Maplewood Road Estates. Get me there now," I demanded urgently. Leo Miller, the butler, had called that morning, saying my grandfather had collapsed, so I'd taken the first flight back. But they didn't budge, standing there like a wall at the arrivals gate and glaring at me with menace. "You bitch! I'll kill you today!" A slap dazed me before more blows rained down. Fortunately, I had some combat skills and flipped attackers onto the ground. "Have you lost your mind? Is this my husband's idea of a welcome?"

I spent three lonely years in a nursing home, nearing death. My estranged daughter-in-law was my only visitor.  "When I became a parent, you generously gifted me $3,000. Today, I'm putting that money towards your funeral. Here's hoping you embrace kindness in your next life." At my funeral, neighbors scorned me as a toxic influence on the Scott family, saying I drove my mother-in-law to misery and nearly caused my son's divorce. Abandoned and neglected, I died with a tarnished reputation. I realized too late that the true culprits were the Scott father and son, who manipulated and exploited familial relationships for gain. Filled with resentment, I died misunderstood. Miraculously, I awoke on the day my daughter-in-law gave birth, given a second chance.

After my mother was in a car accident, I asked my fiancé, a talented surgeon, to perform her operation. Despite his promise, he prioritized another surgery, a heart transplant for his female student's son, using my mother as the donor. I spent the night praying for her, only to find her body with an unexplainable incision, revealing the heartbreaking truth...

During a dinner with my boyfriend's buddies, I accidentally noticed that Robin Wright, his female friend, wasn't wearing a bra—her nipples clearly visible. As I was hesitating whether to remind her of that, Jason Walker, my boyfriend, snatched my bag with a dark look and hauled her outside. When they returned after some arguing, she'd already put on pasties. "So what if I forgot? I'm just liberating my natural state and giving my little boobs some freedom. You're so old-fashioned, Jason!" Robin grabbed Jason's hand and shoved it against her chest. "They're practically inverted and not even as big as yours. Why would I need pasties?" Jason scowled. "Shut up and keep them on." I checked my bag. Sure enough, my spare pasties were gone. Jason realized something. "Let Robin use yours. I'll buy you new ones." I smiled, then ripped off my own pasties. "No. I want them now."

At Ethan Carter's birthday party, a death notice suddenly blew up the class group chat. "No way, Faye Robbins is dead?" "That's gotta be fake. People like her don't die easy. Didn't she screw Ethan over back then…" At the head of the table, Ethan was on his phone, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Fake. I just got a call from her this morning. She said she was coming to my party." Someone hesitated, then raised their phone. "If I'm not mistaken, this is Faye, right? The memorial's at the funeral home in the next city. Should we go check it out?" It was a photo of a memorial hall. And there I was, lying peacefully in the center. Ethan's expression flickered. He stood up and strode toward the door, but the moment he pulled it open, he froze. The "dead" me was standing right there. I looked into those familiar eyes and smiled. "Ethan, long time no see. I came to wish you a happy birthday."

Three months into my pregnancy, I realized the one contact Owen Simmons had pinned to the top of his phone was his female student. So that explained the cute little emojis he'd been sending lately. I didn't spiral. I gave him two choices. "Either I get an abortion and we divorce, or you cut her off." Owen didn't say a word. He locked himself in the study all night. When he finally came out, his eyes were red. He dropped to his knees at my feet. "She doesn't know anything. It was me. I crossed the line. It won't happen again." Six years together. It felt ridiculous to blow it all up over something like this. I just couldn't bring myself to go that far. Until the day I went into labor. Right in the middle of it, Owen picked up a call. "Owen, my parents are forcing me to marry someone. Please, you have to come save me." His hand slipped out of mine. He turned and ran for the door. A sharp pain tore through me. I gritted my teeth and screamed, "Owen, if you walk out of this operating room today, we're done." Owen paused for a second. Then he still left. The baby started crying. Owen never looked back. In that moment, I knew it was over. Our three-year marriage should've ended a long time ago.

When I lost my sight at six, I picked up a boy who was on the verge of freezing to death. His name was Zane Shaw. I lied and said I wanted someone to guide me, begging my mother to save him. Later, I leaned close to his ear and whispered a promise. "I don't need you to be my guide dog. Just live well. Go wherever you want." But Zane stayed. After my mother remarried, he became the only person I could rely on. He watched over me as I grew up, becoming my white cane year after year. For the sake of my eyes, he even gave up his extraordinary talent for painting and chose to study medicine instead. And yet, even after he became a top ophthalmologist, I still could not see. Everything changed on my twenty-fifth birthday. Zane's former confidante won a major art award. He locked himself in the study. The faint rustle of paper carried through the door. When I asked, he suppressed his emotions and said he was writing me a birthday message. Smiling, I stepped forward, wanting to kiss him. Then, across the darkness in front of me, lines of text suddenly began to scroll. [Wake up. He tore up all his paintings. On the back of every piece, he wrote "Yvonne should die".] [Don't go forward. He placed a live wire ahead. Step on it and you're dead.] I froze for a moment. Then I smiled and kept walking. "Zane," I said softly, "your wishes will all come true." I moved carefully, afraid I might miss the wire.

I sacrificed everything to save my infant daughter from human traffickers, only to be left mentally shattered. Afterward, the doctors diagnosed me with the cognitive ability of a three-year-old. I once wet myself in fear during the company's IPO celebration and caused a scene at my daughter Lila Cole's first birthday party. My husband Adrian Cole had spent five years patiently cleaning up every mess I made. Until the day I secretly followed him, wanting to attend Lila's kindergarten graduation ceremony together. I had heard there would be many children to play with. But instead, someone pointed at me and said I was Lila's mother. Those strange looks, those harsh whispers, everything came crashing in. No matter how desperately I waved my hands to deny it, no one believed me. Adrian, barely containing his anger, shoved me back into the car. He raised his hand at me, his face full of disgust and hatred. "Do you really want everyone to laugh at me and Lila like this?" In that instant, his face overlapped with the traffickers from my past. The pain buried deep in my memory surged back through time and into my body. Terrified, I curled up and covered my head, repeating over and over, "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… please don't hit me…" Seeing my panic, he finally lowered his hand. But with red eyes, he blurted out, "I honestly wish you had died at their hands back then." And just then, my lost memories came flooding back.

I followed, silent as a shadow. The door was slightly ajar, and the faint creak of the door was drowned out by Bianca's voice seeping through the gap. "Jack, your police bride can wait. Tonight you're mine—every last second of it." Jack's laugh dripped with contempt. "Relax. She's just a smokescreen for us. That frigid ice queen? I'd sooner hug a cactus." Then he swore an oath sharp enough to draw blood. "If I ever touch her, may I be hit by a truck. If I ever kiss her, may my bloodline die out." The second the words left his mouth, they collided like starving animals, and their limbs tangled in a frenzy of betrayal. Our bedroom stayed empty that night. While they writhed in the dark, I did not shed a single tear, and I did not scream. I simply pulled up the security footage and hit save with a smirk, capturing every damning second. Then with a single tap, I launched the livestream.

After announcing my engagement, I was attacked by my fiancé’s childhood sweetheart, Lily Scott, with shit, ruining my wedding dress. I confronted Jacob Lawson, asking if he would call the police or if I should, as this was the 9th incident linked to our relationship. Despite his previous pleas for patience, I called 911. Jacob, uncharacteristically grim, smashed my phone, dismissing the incident. But I calmly told him, "If that's the case, Jacob, I'm not going through with this wedding."  

I had been married to Louis Wood for three years. To everyone else, he was the perfect husband. Attentive, thoughtful, the kind of man people envied. That illusion lasted right up until his sister-in-law, Kylie Sanders, came back to the country and lost a game at his birthday party. Kylie smiled like she owned the room and dropped a bomb without hesitation. "The boldest thing I've ever done? Probably sneaking into Louis's bed the night before my wedding." Louis didn't get mad. Not even a little. He just looked at her, soft and almost… fond. And his own brother, Mark Wood, who also happened to be Kylie's husband, was the first to start clapping.

Three years ago, everyone in Eldermere City knew the same truth. The noble heir Adrian Vale, a man of elegance and untouchable grace, had married an orchard laborer and made her his duchess consort. Three years later, everyone in Eldermere City knew it still. The same Adrian, who once cherished his duchess consort above all else, now intended to take a lotus picker as his secondary consort. Elaine Hart's gaze fell on the hand Adrian had draped around Lydia Marlowe's waist. "Adrian, I do not consent to this marriage." Adrian sighed, his expression laced with restrained impatience. "Elaine, Lydia is a fragile girl. She has lost her memory, and now that spring has come, there are no lotus blooms to harvest. She has no means to survive. You once made your living picking leaves yourself; how can you show so little compassion?" Elaine lowered her eyes, her voice quiet, steeped in sorrow. "If you only wish to help her, there are other ways. You could grant her a residence, provide her with coins, or find her a suitable husband…" At the words "a suitable husband," Adrian's expression darkened abruptly. "Elaine!" His voice turned sharp. "I am informing you, not asking for your approval. In three days, Lydia will enter this household." "Then… please grant me a decree of dissolution." Elaine spoke so softly it was almost a whisper, yet to Adrian, it struck like thunder.

During a field expedition in the mountains, Adrian brought back a woman he claimed had saved their lives. He said they would never have made it out without her, and Serena believed him. Later, Adrian gave her a name, Elara. He praised her for her resilience and diligence, then gradually entrusted her with more and more of his resources and authority. Until the day Serena's mother lay critically ill, and Elara withheld the very medical resources that could have saved her…

A week before her wedding, Anya received an anonymous email. The moment she opened the link, the blinding images made her forget how to breathe. It led to a website called Eden Room, filled with explicit videos of men and women in intimate encounters. Every person on screen wore an animal mask. Against a pitch-black backdrop, their entwined bodies were exposed in shocking detail, so explicit it was almost hard to believe. She shut it down in panic, but the afterimage burned itself into her vision, leaving her whole body frozen. At the top of the trending page, a video showed a man in a fox mask. His jawline, his build, even the rhythm of his breathing were identical to Adrian's.

A leaked video of Henry Grant's "one who got away" and his boss caught in a steamy affair in the operating room flooded the internet. The web went nuclear. Outraged netizens demanded the hospital crack down on the scandal. To shield his beloved, Henry went live, bold-faced lying and pinning it on me as the woman in that video. The world branded me a cheating wife. Men catcalled and spat at me in broad daylight. When my mother confronted him at the hospital, he snarled vile curses at her. Then, to prove my innocence, she jumped from the 18th-floor rooftop. Her lifeless form hit the pavement with a sickening crunch right before my eyes. Gasping through tears, I roared at him, "Why?!" "Vivian's fragile. The cyberbullying would destroy her," he dismissed me with an arctic smirk, "but you're strong; this won't break you." Seven years of love. Three years of marriage. Gone in a breath, like smoke. My heart turned to stone.

Five years after my death, my body remained unclaimed at the funeral home. My best friend, Wendy Brown, could only afford a week's storage. Without a burial plot purchased, my body would be cremated. Wendy had to call my brother, Caleb Sullivan.   "Caleb, are you really going to forsake your own sister's remains for your god-sister?"   Caleb coldly replied, "Are you sure this isn't just a story? If she's dead, she should stay dead. Don't come back after a few days."   With no other choice, Wendy authorized the cremation and headed to Caleb's house with my death certificate.

The ceremony had reached its climax—the exchange of rings—when chaos erupted. A wild-eyed woman burst through the crowd, her blade flashing straight for Foster Granger's heart. Without thinking, Linh Snowdon spun around and threw herself in front of him. The knife sank deep. A gasp escaped her lips as she collapsed against Foster, her body going limp. Security wrestled the attacker away, but not before she let out a shriek that sounded straight from hell. "Foster! You still owe me blood! How dare you stand here and marry?" Linh's breath hitched. This was Sienna Hale—the woman who had sworn vengeance against Foster six years ago. Before anyone could react, Sienna twisted free and pressed the knife to her own throat, her voice raw. "I'm done, Foster. This ends now—with my life or yours." Foster's eyes went wild. He dropped Linh like a broken doll, lunging to catch the blade barehanded as it arced downward. Linh slammed onto the marble floor, the impact rattling her teeth. Through blurring vision, she watched her blood seep across the white satin, a macabre stain spreading relentlessly. She watched him crush Sienna against his chest, his hands shaking as he shielded her. She watched him scoop up the unconscious woman—then stride past his bleeding bride without so much as a glance, leaving her to die alone on the altar. From the first scream to the final sob, his eyes never once met hers.

The year I turned eighteen, a gang of thugs jumped my brother. After stabbing one of them, he took off, abandoning me to them. When they couldn't catch him, those bastards made me their punching bag. They severed my ankle tendons and took turns torturing me for hours. By the time my parents arrived with the police, I was half-dead, my lower body broken and bleeding. Each gang member got twenty years behind bars. Two months later, I discovered I was carrying one of their children. My mother took me to the hospital for a forced abortion. The doctor's verdict was clear: I'd never conceive again. My parents wept day and night. Everything changed when my brother showed up with a girl my age and a DNA report—proof I was just a country girl's child, swapped at birth. It was like a weight had been lifted off their shoulders. On the day their precious real daughter, Sierra, got into a famous university, my old wounds flared up again. Alone at home with no painkillers left, white-hot agony shot through me. As I dragged myself toward the door, begging my brother to get me medicine, I overheard his conversation with his friend Zachary. "Harrison, are you really going to keep that fake paternity test from your parents forever?" Harrison's voice oozed irritation, "I forged Sierra's DNA results so Mother and Father wouldn't spend their lives drowning in guilt over Maisie." "If they believe she's not theirs, they'll let go of the past," he continued, "they'll stop blaming themselves... and me for what happened." Ice flooded my veins as the truth hit me.

After the ninth time I tried to settle the wedding finances with my boyfriend, his childhood sweetheart showed up again and asked him for money. The amount was always the same, exactly 88,000. He had lent it to her nine times, and our wedding had been postponed nine times. This time, I did not back down. I looked him in the eye and asked, "Are we getting married or not?" Victor fell silent for a long while, then went to get the money back. I chose to forgive him again. That lasted until the eve of our wedding, when his childhood sweetheart posted on social media. Chloe: I love this 88,000-diamond ring. My childhood love spoils me the most. I froze. I took out the money Victor had brought back and checked it carefully. The bills slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. They were counterfeit. In that moment, I knew our relationship had come to an end.

Everyone said Warren Kaiser loved his wife, Sabrina Lambert, more than his own life. He had taken a knife for her and even wept for her. But Sabrina learned the truth when her mother, Patricia Lambert, was deliberately run over and sent to intensive care, and when her brother, Sheldon Lambert, was framed for assault. The real culprit, Rachel Jewett, was being hidden and pampered by Warren in his suburban villa. He couldn't bear to hurt Rachel, so he held back for her. To keep Rachel out of prison, he forced Sabrina to drop her appeal. Patricia then died a miserable death in the hospital; Sheldon was locked up and sentenced. Warren let Rachel invade their home, causing the loss of their unborn baby, and stood by as she had Sabrina beaten until her bones were shattered. He planted a sea of roses for Rachel, erasing every trace of the love he once shared with Sabrina. When others told him he'd gone too far, he just smirked, certain she could never leave him. Later, Sabrina gave up on him completely. She walked away, leaving nothing but a divorce certificate. Warren panicked. He searched all of Juniper City, desperate to find her. When they met again, she held another man's hand. There was no love left in her eyes when she looked at him. For every hurt he'd caused her, she would pay back double; everything he owned, she would take and destroy piece by piece. With red-rimmed, desperate eyes, he offered her everything he had, begging for just one glance from her. But all she wanted was to end things between them—once and for all.