Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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Soul Survivor: Building Hope From Hell
The air around me reeked of gasoline, a sharp tang that somehow mixed with the familiar scent of ancient leather from my family' s priceless library. My phone buzzed, Maria's name flashing on the screen, but I ignored it, focused on the tiny, dancing flame of the lighter in my hand. Then came her text: "Jocelyn, what the HELL are you doing?! The staff is freaking out! They said you have gasoline! Are you insane? I'm calling the police to have you committed!" Insane. That' s what they' d label me. A cold smile touched my lips. Let them. They had no idea what was coming. Seven days from now, "The Veiling" would tear our world apart, merging it with a nightmarish spirit realm. I knew this because I had already lived through it. And died in it. The last time, I was naive, trusting my best friend, Maria, and my boyfriend, Ethan. I shared my meticulously prepared sanctuary, gave them everything. They rewarded me by pushing me outside to a monster. They feasted on my supplies, while I, disfigured and broken, became their pet. Then, they tortured me, sacrificing my very life force to empower their stolen haven, watching with triumphant glee as my world went dark. I died believing I was utterly alone, used, and discarded. I died wondering how those I trusted most could become such monsters. But I came back. Reborn. And this time, I remembered everything. This time, their twisted game was just the first step in my ultimate revenge./1/103257/coverorgin.jpg?v=9199f92790825f2c2e865f1a5d38ef83&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Billionaire Who Called Me Boring
He was the billionaire who called me "boring" and paid me to disappear. Three years later, Gage Schwartz came back begging, promising me the world he'd denied me for seven years. I took him back, and soon, I was pregnant with his twins. Then I heard the voicemail of him and his ex-wife, Brylee, laughing about how I was just a "comfortable placeholder." The shock caused me to miscarry. When I tried to leave, he launched a smear campaign, painting me as insane to the world. Then he locked me in our penthouse. He thought he could break me. So I faked a complete mental breakdown, escaped into a blizzard, and vanished. I built a new life, found real love, and became the artist I was always meant to be. But now, he's standing in my studio. And he wants me back./1/103570/coverorgin.jpg?v=8f4d7c9e59ee3e618c8a4144a5e02f78&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Broken Wife, Billionaire Husband's Vengeance
My step-brother and his girlfriend ambushed me in my own penthouse, their eyes burning with a hatred I' d never seen. They called me a thief, a whore, and accused me of trying to steal their inheritance with the "bastard child" I was carrying. Their fists and stilettos rained down on me. A final, vicious kick to my stomach ended everything. I felt the life inside me slip away, a crimson tide staining the marble floor. They celebrated, believing they had protected their "family honor." My desperate pleas that the baby's father was the powerful Jerimiah Mcpherson were met with scornful laughter. "That old man can' t have kids!" they sneered. As they bound my hands and threw me into the pool to finish the job, the door exploded inward. It was him. Jerimiah. My husband. The look on his face as he saw me, bleeding and broken, and understood what they had done to our child, was not just rage. It was the promise of a slow, agonizing hell they had just unleashed upon themselves./1/107481/coverorgin.jpg?v=aecdb85ebee8b4ca438942cb4402429f&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Too Late, Mr. Winters: I'm No Victim
I lived in Ellery Winters’ penthouse for two years, playing the role of the quiet, unremarkable girl who fixed his financial messes in the dark. I thought we had a partnership, until I walked in to find my belongings packed in a black garbage bag near the door. Ellery stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette of ice, refusing to even look at me. On the marble table sat a "Termination of Relations" agreement and a one-million-dollar check. "Sign it," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He was discarding me to marry my sister, Claudine, as part of a strategic merger with the Fitzgeralds—the very family that had abandoned me to the foster system years ago. My mother, Victoria, didn't want a daughter; she wanted a tool to secure the Winters’ fortune. Silas, his assistant, looked at me with pity, expecting the "trailer park girl" to break down and beg for the hush money. They all thought I was a nobody, a line item to be deleted from the balance sheet of their lives so they could move on to their high-society wedding. I felt a cold, sharp rage bubbling up, the kind that only someone who has lived in the shadows can truly feel. I didn't beg, and I didn't scream. I just looked at the man I had protected for two years and realized he had no idea who I actually was. Why did they think I was helpless? Why did Ellery believe he could buy my silence when I knew every dirty secret buried in his Cayman accounts? I ripped the million-dollar check into confetti and dropped it in the trash. As I stepped back into the decaying Fitzgerald mansion as an "Honorary Ward," I wasn't coming home for a reunion—I was coming to dismantle both of their empires from the inside./1/101380/coverorgin.jpg?v=9c319ee0bfb09a7d09cb57b5124b5e25&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Seven Years His Hidden Heartbreak
For seven years, I was the secret wife and ghostwriter for the famous author Holden Gillespie. I built his literary empire with my words, all while our marriage and our son, Leo, were kept hidden to protect his "single genius" image. Then he began a public affair with his new publicist, Kassidy. When I finally quit, he tried to kick me and our son out of our home to make room for her. The breaking point came on Leo's birthday. Holden showed up with a cake to "make things right." It was mango chiffon. He had forgotten-or never cared to know-that our son has a life-threatening allergy to mangoes. He almost killed his own child out of sheer, selfish negligence. In that moment, I knew it was over. I took our son, disappeared, and filed for divorce, cutting off all contact. But now, months later, he' s standing outside my new home in Santa Fe, looking desperate. "I'm not agreeing to this divorce," he says, his voice raw. "I never will."/0/80887/coverorgin.jpg?v=2fd6180d15ee6e63e70a3c26253a86e0&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Second Chance: The Heiress Who Chose Freedom
The judge’s dull voice droned through the quiet courtroom, a familiar echo from a life I’d already painfully lived. My parents, Brenda and Rob, sat on opposite sides, their strained silence a prelude to the crucial decision before us. This was it, the pivotal moment my life would splinter once more. My younger brother, Kevin, piped up without hesitation, "I choose Mom!" A sickeningly smug grin spread across his face as he briefly met my eyes, a look that sent a chill down my spine. It was the exact same pronouncement, the same twist of fate, that had occurred in my previous, tragic existence. That first time, my own choice to cling to Mom had spiral-downed into years of agonizing hunger, her volatile, bitter moods, and eventually, my gruesome death at Kevin’s hand. His petty jealousy hadn't just festered; it had exploded after Mom’s ill-fated marriage to a rich man. He still carried this delusion of grandeur, convinced he held the blueprint to quick riches. He truly believed his warped memory of a future that never materialized for him, dreaming of hitting the jackpot with Mom. The irony was almost unbearable; he had no clue of the true misery his path would lead him to, nor the cold, cruel betrayal that ended my first life. The unfairness burned, that he was here, just as oblivious, just as dangerous. But unlike that former existence, I stood here now, armed with shattering foresight. When the judge’s gaze finally landed on me, "Sarah, and you?", I made a sharp, deliberate break from the past. I looked at my weak, easily-manipulated father, and with a quiet, unwavering voice, I sealed my new destiny: "I'll go with my father."/0/83703/coverorgin.jpg?v=0ce166c803c714bb222fef0688ceed60&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Built From The Ashes
My last memory of my first life was Ethan, standing over my grave. He wasn't crying; he was smiling, that cruel twist of his lips I knew all too well. "I forgive you, Chloe," he' d whispered, putting his arm around Jessica as they walked away with the son I' d raised, leaving me to rot. They stripped me of everything: my apprenticeship, my dignity, decades of my life wasted raising their abandoned baby, "Lucky." When I got sick, they threw me away like trash, only to reveal their truth: Lucky was their child, conceived in a twisted plan to steal my future. I gasped, my eyes flying open, not in a coffin, but back in my 1995 body, young and alive, standing on a desolate back road. Just feet away, a baby carrier, and the wailing infant inside. In my past life, pity had washed over me, and I' d rushed to save him, unknowingly signing my own death warrant. This time, as I looked at the carrier, I felt nothing but a cold, hard fury. I turned my back and walked away, choosing a path of ice instead of kindness./0/86519/coverorgin.jpg?v=6c1c778aab3d86b23bfb1c9a834181ea&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Second Life, True Love
The official notification arrived on a Monday morning: Chloe Davis, my son David's fiancée, was confirmed dead in a car accident. I dropped the document in the trash without a change in expression, because I already knew. I had lived this life once before. And in that life, I had died. In my first life, Chloe's death destroyed David. My adopted son, Mark, along with Chloe's sisters, Olivia and Sophia, exploited his grief with ruthless precision. They drugged him, siphoned off his inheritance, and bled my company dry. When I finally saw the truth, it was too late. I confronted them, but they came for me that night. Mark, the boy I raised, ended my life with a tire iron. Then, darkness. And then, light. I woke up three months before my own murder, given a second chance. The doting father was dead, replaced by a man forged in betrayal. This time, I wouldn't just protect my son; I would dismantle their schemes piece by piece. When Chloe's fake death notice arrived, I felt only cold resolve. The game had just begun. And this time, I knew all the rules./1/103258/coverorgin.jpg?v=7c7c68f75774e4bbe892e393254b2584&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Ex-Fiancé Stole My Dreams
For ten years, I was the indispensable right hand and fiancée to star architect Declan Sharp. I poured my life into his career, sacrificing my own ambitions for us. Our wedding was just weeks away. But my world shattered when I saw him with the new intern, Kisha. He was showing her my design, the one he called "competent," and proudly saying, "This is Kisha's idea." It got worse. He stole my groundbreaking research paper for her, then publicly dismissed me as a mere "drafting assistant." My own family attacked me, furious I had lost their meal ticket. I was just a tool. A convenient machine he used to build his empire. He never loved me; he loved what I did for him. So when he tried to kiss me to shut me up, I slapped him. I deleted every file, every blueprint, every trace of my work from his life. Then I blocked his number and bought a one-way ticket to Detroit. This time, I was building a life for myself./0/25196/coverorgin.jpg?v=138b018325308ed81068b9373f078349&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Don’t Tease Me, Boss
At a birthday party, Mary Miller was drugged by her cousin and forced to have a sex with a jerk. At this critical moment, a noble and handsome man appeared and saved her. Under the effect of drug, Mary lost her mind and threw herself at the man crazily. After the night, she thought they would never meet each other, but it turned out this man was.../1/103571/coverorgin.jpg?v=80a8c87c42dc4543cc2822de0a3db7c5&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Broken Bond, Their Unending Pain
After our parents died, my brothers were my protectors. That ended the day they brought home Faye, a fourteen-year-old orphan they treated like a fragile doll, while I became part of the furniture. They gave her my vintage saxophone, my promised trip to Paris, and dismissed my symphony-my life' s work-as "noise." The final betrayal happened in the library. Faye deliberately tore my master score to shreds. When I tried to stop her, she faked an injury, and my brothers took her side without hesitation. "You are a jealous, manipulative child," Clinton spat, before burning the rest of my symphony in front of my eyes. They told me to get out of their lives. So I did. I accepted a ten-year isolated fellowship and vanished. Now, I've returned as a world-renowned composer whose work saved millions. When my brothers, broken by regret, finally found me and begged me to come home, I gave them a calm, professional smile. "I'm sorry," I said. "Do I know you?"/0/87458/coverorgin.jpg?v=606cdaa79fc046519d42ecfa93ef97fa&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Love Dies, Revenge Blooms
My husband accused me of putting his assistant in the hospital. He claimed the AC I turned on, despite her protests, caused her to collapse from severe cramps. I was eight months pregnant and the office was dangerously hot, but he still blamed me. To "make it up to me," he invited me to a party at an exclusive club. I woke up on the floor of a glass-walled freezer. Outside, my husband, Austen, stood with his arm wrapped around a perfectly healthy Deb. He raised a glass to the city’s elite, toasting to “cooling down” his hot-headed wife. They watched as his men stripped me to my underwear and forced my bare knees onto a floor of ice. They poured buckets of freezing water over my head and my pregnant belly until I felt a warm trickle between my legs. I was bleeding. I was losing our baby. While I lay there, Austen pounded on the glass, screaming at me to apologize, to tell him I forgave him so he wouldn't have to be the monster. He sneered that I was all alone, that my father was dead and no one was coming to save me./1/102476/coverorgin.jpg?v=90f2745fb3ef40b70840f7bb971cf1ac&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Done Being A Shadow: The Wife's Escape
On the day I finally pried open the locked drawer in Marcus’s study, I didn't find a surprise anniversary gift. I found a shrine to my father's business partner, Izzy. Photos of a woman who looked exactly like me stared back. That was when I realized my marriage was nothing more than an expensive lie. I wasn't his wife; I was a customized substitute for the woman he couldn't have. The nightmare worsened when scalding soup was spilled at a restaurant. Marcus didn't hesitate. He threw his body over Izzy to shield her, leaving me to take the full force of the burns. Later, while I lay in the hospital bandaged and in agony, he didn't come to comfort me. He came to demand I donate a kidney to save Izzy. "If we both needed a kidney, who would you choose?" I asked him, desperate for a lie. "Izzy," he said instantly. "She has so much more to do." He didn't know I was pregnant. He didn't know that while he was begging me to save his mistress, the stress was killing his unborn child. I wiped my tears and laughed. "Okay," I said. I signed the divorce papers and left them on his desk. On top of them, I placed a medical report dated that morning: *Spontaneous Abortion.* Then, I boarded a one-way flight to Montana and vanished, leaving him to wake up to a world where he had saved his mistress but killed his family./1/107482/coverorgin.jpg?v=1f32b8965eaee174b14e07885f5f683e&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Ghost Heiress: Rising From Shadows
I had served as the private medical counsel for the Huff family for five years, keeping their scandals buried and their blood pumping. But at the Cipriani gala, standing under a storm of camera flashes, I realized I was just a smudge of ink on their golden canvas. My twenty-year-old niece, Ainsley, looked me up and down with a sneer and pointed at my throat. She demanded I hand over the emerald pendant—the only thing my grandmother left me—because it would "pop" better against the gold gown of her father’s new media darling, Harlow. I turned to Grafton, the man whose neurodegenerative condition I had personally managed in secret, waiting for him to act like a human being. He didn't even blink. He just leaned in and hissed, "Give it to her, Katharina. Don't make a scene. Fix this." After I handed over the necklace and walked out, the retaliation was instant. Within ten minutes, my credit cards were declined, my biometric access was revoked, and the concierge I had tipped for a decade blocked me from entering my own home. Grafton told me I’d be destitute and starving within a week. They all thought I was a family charity case, a leech clinging to the Huff name for prestige. They had no idea that I had spent years quietly securing the intellectual property rights to their most profitable drugs under my maiden name. They didn't know that I was "The Broker," an underground medical legend with a bank account that dwarfed their trust funds. I watched from the shadows as Grafton’s health began to crumble without my specialized injections and their stock price went into a tailspin. They thought they could erase me, but you can't delete the person who holds the structural integrity of your life together. When the panicked calls finally started coming, I didn't answer. I wasn't interested in a settlement or an apology anymore. I was busy using my offshore funds to buy up their crashing shares, ready to take back the empire they thought they had kicked me out of./0/85894/coverorgin.jpg?v=581b627d6b8092752d79c15f9349de24&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Reborn Wife: A Mother's Fury
The last thing I remembered was the cold, sterile operating room. A sharp pain tore through my abdomen, and my husband Ethan's chilling indifference burned into me. "Sign it, Ethan! The doctor says she's bleeding out. They need to perform the surgery to save her!" I screamed, my voice distant and desperate. But he wouldn't. He stood there, arms crossed, saying, "The doctor said there's a risk to the baby. I can't risk my daughter's life." "There won't be a daughter if I die!" I countered, agony blurring my vision. "The baby can't survive if I don't!" Then, my six-year-old stepson, Liam, holding Ethan's hand, pointed at me. "Dad, Sophia said this woman is just faking it. She said if she dies, Sophia can be my new mom and take care of you and the baby." His words hit harder than any physical pain. My own stepson, a child I'd raised since he was two, was wishing for my death. Ethan didn't scold him. He squeezed Liam' s shoulder in silent agreement as Sophia Davis, Liam's beautiful young tutor, stepped into view with a triumphant smirk. They never signed the papers. I bled out on that operating table, my last sight the three of them-Ethan, Liam, and Sophia-already looking like a happy family. A sharp gasp snapped me awake. My eyes flew open. I was in my own bed, morning sun streaming through the silk curtains. My hand went to my stomach. It was still there, a gentle, rounded swell. My baby girl was safe. I grabbed my phone. The date confirmed it: today was the day my life unraveled. The day Liam brought Sophia home. I hadn't died. I was back. The memory of my death wasn't a dream. It was a searing brand, a horrifying premonition. The betrayal, the pain, the cold finality-all of it clear as day. A wave of nausea washed over me, not from pregnancy, but from cold, hard fury. They would not kill me this time. They would not harm my daughter. This time, I would make them pay for a crime they hadn't committed yet. Just then, the doorbell rang. I heard the housekeeper, then Liam's excited chatter. My heart turned to ice. It was starting./0/84017/coverorgin.jpg?v=b4b7fa084d20354fc8f4d4baf6bc286b&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Vipers We Loved
My name is Jennifer Johns, and for twenty years, I poured my life, my love, and every dollar into raising my best friend' s children as my own. I did it because their mother, Sabrina, supposedly died of cancer, and her last wish was for me to protect them. Then, my adoptive daughter, Molly, stood before a judge and accused my husband, Andrew, of sexually abusing her for years. Andrew was convicted and died in prison. My adoptive son, Caleb, had me committed to a psychiatric facility, where I died, utterly broken and alone. Shortly after, the ghost of my best friend, Sabrina, walked onto a national talk show, alive and well, pointing at the camera and screaming, "I trusted you! And you let your sick husband use them!" My heart shattered, my reputation ruined, and my life extinguished by the very people I sacrificed everything for. How could I have been so blind, so foolish? The betrayal tore me apart, the injustice a gaping wound that never healed. Until I wasn't dead. I jolted awake with a gasp in my own bed, the phantom touch of restraints still clinging to my wrists. Andrew was next to me, his eyes mirroring the horror in mine. And then, the doorbell rang. Sabrina was here, alive, poised to reel me in with her same cruel lie – but this time, Andrew and I remembered everything. This time, we were ready to fight back. This time, we would write our own ending./0/80732/coverorgin.jpg?v=df5b513fafbeffc1b73ed681fc74006a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Love Becomes Torture
My decorated PMC team leader wife, Sarah, asked the impossible: be a live target for her protégé Dylan's shooting qualification. I agreed, suppressing my own combat medic skills and hidden past as my CIA father’s son, all for her, trusting she’d ensure safety with “non-lethal” rounds. The instant the first bullet tore into my thigh, searing pain exploding through me, I knew Dylan had swapped live ammunition. As he systematically shot me, shattering my hand and destroying my fertility, Sarah stood by, dismissing my screams as “dramatic” and her “savior” Dylan’s cruel acts as mere training. She tightened my restraints, praised his accuracy, and accused my loyal teammate Maria of jealousy and faking when she tried to intervene, even after Dylan shot Maria too. How could the woman I’d secretly saved, the hero firefighter who once rescued my sister and me, be so utterly blind and complicit in my torture, believing every poisonous lie from her manipulative golden boy? Only when my sister Emily burst in, interrupting Dylan’s final kill shot, and security footage exposed his monstrous deception, did Sarah's delusion shatter. But by then, I was already rebuilt, untethered from her, ready to finally choose myself. I donated every cent Sarah left, facing her ultimate end with a profound, unburdened peace./0/83235/coverorgin.jpg?v=371e975cce5d603bfd62ccb9461dc7c2&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Disinherited, Not Defeated
Thanksgiving. My favorite, and most dreaded, day of the year. For decades, I, Sarah, a CNA in my early forties, had been the invisible backbone of my family, paying for meals, offering endless support, always putting them first. My small home, filled with the aroma of the turkey I' d basted since dawn, should have been a sanctuary. But then Brenda, my manipulative mother, gathered us for dinner, her smile unnaturally sweet. Instead of giving thanks, she announced her estate plans. My brothers – John and Michael, perpetual freeloaders – each received significant inheritances, while my hands lay empty. Then, with a chillingly fake smile, she turned to me: "Sarah, dear, since you' re so good at caring for people, I' ve decided I' ll be moving in with you after the New Year." Not a thank you for decades of sacrifice, just a shameless demand. All the quiet resentment, the financial strain, the forgotten birthdays, the endless emotional and monetary drain – it all crashed down. "Happy Thanksgiving!" I screamed, pulling the tablecloth, sending the entire feast flying. My mother shrieked, then slapped me. My brothers, John and Michael, attacked, twisting my arm, shoving my head against the wall. How could a family be so cruel, so entitled? Bruised and furious, I knew one thing: this was the end of being their martyr, and the beginning of fighting for myself, my husband David, and my son Ben./1/103572/coverorgin.jpg?v=6daba3e4c4d7ad37ccb73533844166f8&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Wife You Thought Was Gone
My perfect marriage shattered with an e-vite for my husband's son's first birthday-a son I never knew existed. The true nightmare unfolded at my own birthday party when his mistress, Hayden, had their son run to my husband, Chase, and call him "Daddy" in front of all our friends. In the ensuing chaos, Chase shoved me. I fell, hit my head, and miscarried the baby I had just discovered I was carrying. He left me bleeding on the floor to comfort his mistress and their child. But Hayden wasn't done. To eliminate me for good, she had me kidnapped and thrown off a cliff into a canal, whispering that Chase wanted me gone permanently. I survived. I faked my death and disappeared, channeling my pain into my work. Now, six months later, I'm accepting a prestigious award on international television. I see Chase in the crowd, a broken man rushing toward me, begging for forgiveness. This time, I'm the one who gets to walk away./0/81358/coverorgin.jpg?v=a4b62bb2a3b74eaf2e7689b49d21051a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
