Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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My Lucky Day, Her Fatal Flaw
My name is Gabrielle Johns, a rising architect with everything going for me – a dream career, a great apartment, and loving parents who sacrificed for my future. I was heading to my family's lake house for a long weekend, my best friend, Jen, complaining beside me as usual. That' s when the vintage hearse hit my car, a minor fender-bender that Jen immediately declared my "lucky day." Bizarrely, her words seemed to come true: my career soared, and my parents had the full down payment for my new condo. Jen, consumed by envy, became convinced the hearse was a source of "luck," deliberately getting herself hit by it. But her "luck" turned into ruin. The hearse was priceless, and its owners sued her for damages that would devastate her. Spiraling into a paranoid rage, she blamed me for "stealing" her luck. One night, as I left my new condo, her madness culminated in the ultimate betrayal. Jen, my childhood best friend, plunged a knife into my chest, hissing, "This was supposed to be mine." Darkness consumed me, my last thought of my parents and their future, stolen. How could someone I loved become such a monster? Why did she believe my hard work was just "luck" she was entitled to? Why did this happen? Then, I gasped awake. I was in my bed, in my old apartment, on the very morning the nightmare began. My phone buzzed: a text from Jen, "I've got a feeling this is going to be a very, very lucky weekend. ;)" She was back. And this time, I wouldn't be kind./1/114557/coverorgin.jpg?v=3b1fd54e3d44dc0b2ef366b2e3e098f7&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His True Love, My Stolen Baby
When I discovered my husband's safe combination was my stepsister's birthday, my world tilted. Inside, I found the blueprint for how he planned to erase me. He would claim my unborn child for his true love. The postnup was cold and calculated: billions in assets, all designated for Kaleigh. Not a penny for me, his wife of ten years. He tore up the divorce papers I offered, threatening to use his power to take my baby. Kaleigh showed up at my door, taunting me, calling me a "convenient placeholder." She wanted to raise my child as her own. I realized I wasn't just a wife. I was a surrogate. A fertile womb he married because his true love was barren. Our entire marriage was a grotesque lie designed to produce an heir for them. Then, an anonymous email landed in my inbox. It contained a recording of my husband calling me his "incubator." That's when I knew I couldn't just leave. I had to die./1/103450/coverorgin.jpg?v=a7a2b51aedb59c1ff804f82d5d1d2a09&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Discarded Wife, Powerful Heiress Rises
I walked in on my husband caressing his pregnant mistress' s belly. In my own home. But the real betrayal wasn't his affair. It was when he, his mother, and even my own parents declared my pregnancy a "complication" that needed to be erased for a multi-billion-dollar merger. They locked me in my penthouse and dragged me to a clinic. My own mother and father sold me out for a check, signing off on the procedure to get rid of my baby. "It's time to cleanse the bloodline," my mother-in-law said as they held me down. As the needle went into my arm, I felt my child, the one I'd prayed for, being stolen from me. They didn't just break my heart; they murdered my baby. But they didn't know who I really was. Rescued by my true family-the powerful Pittmans-I learned I wasn't a discarded wife. I was a kidnapped heiress. And now, I will use every bit of my power to make them pay for the child they took from me./0/88745/coverorgin.jpg?v=60f3eabc4e8a0b9a44ba40239d59816f&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Love as a Weapon
After my family's business collapsed, I married my first love's older brother. On the wedding day, even though Jase Mitchell begged me with tears, I never looked back. Four years later, my husband Kade Mitchell passed away from illness, and his stepmother Katie Fuller drove me and my son out of the Mitchell family. Desperate and with nowhere to turn, I knocked on Jase's door. His tone was playful and teasing. "What brings you here, sister-in-law?" I hid my emotions and stepped closer. This time, I would make Katie's son return the stolen inheritance with his own hands./1/119876/coverorgin.jpg?v=3fcada586ce92a046a546c0f350bd3c5&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Time Stopped, Love Was Lost
My husband, Daniel Carter, was obsessive about time. He had to wake up at exactly 7:05, and breakfast had to begin at 7:15 sharp. Even sex was limited to exactly thirty minutes. The second time was up, he pulled away and left. That day, our daughter had a dangerously high fever, yet he still refused to leave. Every second dragged by. I kept urging Daniel to hurry. But he only ate his breakfast at his usual unhurried pace. "My breakfast has to last a full ten minutes. Besides, children build stronger immune systems when they tough it out a little." I touched my daughter's forehead, which was growing hotter by the minute, and urged him to give me the car keys so I could take her myself. Daniel did not even look up. He slowly adjusted his tie and said, "Then I won't make it to the office by 7:50. Wait five more minutes. That's when I'm supposed to leave." Just then, his phone rang. It was his assistant, Emily Morgan. "Mr. Carter, I twisted my ankle. Could you come pick me up?" His expression changed at once. He grabbed the car keys and rushed toward the door. "I have something urgent to deal with. Call a cab yourselves." The next day, he called and asked why we had not gone home yet. I held my daughter's ashes in my arms, numb with grief. "Our daughter can't go home anymore." And neither could we./1/104076/coverorgin.jpg?v=4069479bfbc1c657df3bce1238a05b38&imageMogr2/format/webp)
From Broken Sister To Beloved Wife
After our parents died in a plane crash, my brothers were my whole world. That ended the day they brought Francis home-a manipulative liar they treated like a saint while he systematically turned them against me. He framed me for everything, from fake injuries to sabotaging the neuro-linker compound that was my life's work. My brothers always chose his crocodile tears over my truth. "He's in the hospital, Jenna. Thanks to you," Bryan snarled over the phone. They even offered him my childhood bedroom right in front of me, as if I was already a ghost. They had no idea I was about to become one. I had a one-way ticket to Zurich and a contract with their biggest rival, a man who saw my value when my own blood saw a problem. I wasn't just running away-I was taking all of their secrets with me./0/81862/coverorgin.jpg?v=c08902594bbd0fe1dfb67a73ee985ad9&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Thanksgiving's Bitter Truth
Thanksgiving. I sat alone, picking at a dry turkey. My wife, Olivia, CEO of the brewery we built from my savings and recipes, was supposedly on a "vital business trip." Then, our young marketing intern, Leo Vance, posted an Instagram story: Olivia, radiant, carving a turkey at his "family home." His arm was around my wife, and the caption read: "Mom and Dad already love their future daughter-in-law!" I commented: "Respect your choices. Blessings." The next morning, Olivia' s furious call erupted. "What the hell were you doing? Everyone at work is talking! Leo' s devastated!" She defended him, as always, while he posted passive-aggressive videos, tagging me. My seven years, my sacrifices, my very identity – all dismissed as I was labeled "cold" and "old-fashioned," while Leo's clear incompetence became my fault. The hollow quiet in my chest swelled into a sickening realization. How could she be so willfully blind? How easily she cast aside our shared history and the empire we built, all for a manipulative intern she claimed to be "mentoring." My contributions were mundane, but his fabricated struggles were tragic. Enough. I had divorce papers she' d unknowingly signed a month prior, eager to rush off to a "conference" with Leo. I grabbed them, drove straight to my lawyer' s office, and told him the one thing I truly meant: "File it. Let the 90 days begin."/0/84365/coverorgin.jpg?v=95cb193c85fd0df3b90b9b9135471aa3&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Medal of Honor: A Father's Fight
The whistle blew, but the hit came a second later-a sickening crunch that echoed across the field. I watched my son, Caleb, collapse, his dreams of a football scholarship shattering with his knee. Ryan Blakely, the star linebacker from the town' s wealthiest, most powerful family, stood over him, flexing, a sneer on his face. Then his father, Mr. Blakely, offered me a paltry sum to sign an NDA, dismissing the career-ending injury as an "in-game accident," outright threatening my livelihood if I didn't comply, all while the corrupt sheriff and coach turned a blind eye. I saw my son's spirit break as he was mocked on crutches, and I realized nobody would help; the system was rigged. But then, I remembered a promise, a fading beacon in the dark: a general, Maria' s commanding officer, who once told me, "We don't leave our own behind," after handing me my Medal of Honor wife' s medal. With nothing left to lose, I clutched that medal and drove toward a military base, hoping a general's word still meant something./0/99383/coverorgin.jpg?v=05762784debc6d42575a94b69db64e36&imageMogr2/format/webp)
A Pawn, A Son, A Forced Marriage
Two years ago, my fiancé, Connor, tossed the only life jacket to his mistress, Ilene, and watched me drown. I was pregnant with his child. He found me living a quiet life as a fisherman's wife on a remote island, dragged me back to his world, and revealed a shocking truth: our son, the one I thought I'd lost, was alive. He had been raised by them all along. Connor divorced Ilene and tried to force me into marriage, using our son as a pawn. But the boy he'd raised was a stranger, twisted by his father's cruelty, calling me a "bad woman." That's when I knew I had to destroy them. I returned to the island, not as a victim, but as Ayla Garcia, the island chief's long-lost daughter. "Connor Foster," my father roared, his voice echoing through the hall, "you dared to touch my daughter? Get out of my sight, now!" He thought he could ruin my life, but he never realized he was trespassing in my kingdom./0/85773/coverorgin.jpg?v=ba409ad4db2aa4c3699691fa6fa3e4d2&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Blaze of Betrayal, Rebirth of Love
The lingering smell of lilies and expensive cologne wasn't what I expected on my wedding day, not after the reek of gasoline and burning flesh that had been my last memory. My thirty-year marriage to Olivia ended in a blaze, not of passion, but of pure, unadulterated hatred, as she and our son watched me burn alive in my hospital bed. "Alex and I could have lived happily ever after!" Olivia shrieked, her face a mask of venom. "James isn' t your son. You were just the pathetic fool who paid for everything!" Then she dropped the lighter. The world erupted in agony, a searing pain consuming every nerve. Why? That was my last thought as I watched them walk away, their silhouettes framed by the flames devouring me. Then a violent jolt. The pain was gone. I was standing, healthy, in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, staring at my thirty-years-younger self in a gilded mirror. It was my wedding night. I was alive, I was young, and I was back at the very beginning of the nightmare. Olivia' s frantic voice pierced the air, "Alex, no! Don' t do this!" Alex Peterson – her childhood sweetheart, the name now echoing with the fresh horror of her final confession. When she saw me, her face contorted. "This is your fault! If you hadn' t forced this wedding, he wouldn' t be threatening to jump from a cliff!" Mr. Sterling, the man I had revered my entire life, urged me to proceed. "You are the future of this company." His words once meant everything, now they felt hollow, part of a gilded cage. SLAP! Her hand across my face, "You' re nothing. Just the charity case my father pitied." I remembered it all: the thirty years of misery, her crushing remarks, her coldness, the son who looked at me with a stranger' s eyes. I had poured my life into his company, paid my debt with my work, my love, and finally, my death. Never again. The organ music began. I stood at the altar, looked at Olivia, then at Mr. Sterling. I thought of the fire, the betrayal. My voice clear and steady, ringing through the silent church, I said, "No."/0/81080/coverorgin.jpg?v=85f277997b7e220b432dd22d5af1cc20&imageMogr2/format/webp)
A Mother's Scorched Earth
My seven-year-old, Ethan, was my whole world, a sensitive boy whose eyes held the wonder of distant galaxies and whose laughter filled our lives. But beneath that joy lay a constant fear: his severe, life-threatening peanut allergy. Weekend handovers at his father Mark' s perfectly manicured, magazine-worthy backyard were always a tightrope walk. One scorching afternoon, a pristine ornamental tree lost a branch, triggering a terrifying chain of events. Mark, egged on by his new girlfriend Chloe, forced Ethan to dig a stubborn tree stump in the cruel sun, all while Chloe lounged nearby, casually eating peanuts. Soon, Ethan was gasping for air, clutching his throat, his face turning splotchy red. As I scrambled for the EpiPen, screaming for Mark to call 911, he grabbed my arm, dismissing it as "overdramatic," convinced I was panicking. Precious, agonizing seconds ticked by as he held me back, until my precious boy collapsed, blue-lipped and lifeless. Later that day, while Ethan lay in the morgue, Mark was gleefully celebrating a gender reveal for his new baby with Chloe, dismissing our son's death as mere "unpleasantness." He then heartlessly threw Ethan' s most treasured toy, his grandfather's vintage X-Wing, into the trash, trying to erase his existence entirely. My grief was an open wound, yet his callous detachment, his immediate celebration, and Chloe's cold triumph were an unimaginable torment. How could the man who once checked every food label now call my son's tragic death "unpleasantness"? How could I be forced to film a humiliating apology video, publicly blaming myself, just to be free? But then, a hidden surveillance video from the backyard cameras, secretly kept by his parents' housekeeper, surfaced. It laid bare Mark's fatal inaction, Chloe' s deliberate malice with peanuts, and exposed the shocking lie that Chloe's unborn child wasn't even his. Now, armed with undeniable proof, I was ready to pursue justice for Ethan, guided by the dreams he left in his cherished Space Journal./0/81393/coverorgin.jpg?v=533f671cac3ad843f30846a2327321be&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His Fatal Plan, Her Flourishing Future
I was just scrolling through a silly online forum, the kind where people ask if they're the bad guy. My life as a stay-at-home mom felt quiet, a stark contrast to my old marketing career. Then, an anonymous post caught my eye: "AITA for wanting to trick my nagging wife into a temporary legal separation?" The man detailed a plan to claim a big overseas job required him to be single, all to leave with his mistress. A chill went down my spine; it was a nasty, elaborate lie. The very next morning, my husband Mark, usually so predictable, sat me down, beaming. He described an amazing overseas job, needing a "temporary separation on paper" for legal reasons. His exact words mirrored the forum post. My stomach twisted; this couldn't be happening. The father of my child, my husband of seven years, was orchestrating this cruel deception. Later that night, the anonymous poster updated: "She agreed! Now planning to fake my death abroad." My blood ran cold; he wasn't just leaving, he was vanishing. Mark had emptied our joint savings, taking every last penny. He hugged Lily goodbye, promising presents, while I knew he was planning to disappear entirely. I looked at the man I married, and a cold certainty settled in. But he had no idea I had my own secret escape fund, carefully built for years. This wasn't the end of me; it was just the beginning of his undoing./1/102825/coverorgin.jpg?v=5418d3df3de8980af906a616ccbe76da&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His Regret, Our Irrevocable Goodbye
, I am Colleen Hoover, and I am ready to write. This story will be an emotional surgery, raw and direct, for the American woman who craves that gut-wrenching, heart-healing journey. Let's begin. I married a man haunted by the ghost of his dead son. I gave him a new son, Leo, and foolishly believed our love could heal his shattered past. But then the ghost came back to life. His ex-wife, Georgia, returned with wide, innocent eyes and a diagnosis of trauma-induced amnesia. Suddenly, my husband was walking on eggshells around the woman who broke him, while our son and I became background noise in her twisted play. The day he chose her was the day he destroyed us. After Georgia framed our five-year-old for desecrating his dead brother's memorial, my husband, Calvin, snapped. He grabbed Leo's arm and twisted it until I heard a sickening pop. As I lay on the floor bleeding, I watched him cradle Georgia, whispering comforts while our son screamed in agony. Over his shoulder, her eyes met mine, filled not with confusion, but with pure, triumphant malice. He had made his choice. Now, I would make mine. My fingers, sticky with my own blood, dialed 911. "I need an ambulance," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "And I need the police."/0/89215/coverorgin.jpg?v=a0140222b2c85b2c9656f51bbb245a31&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Deserted Wife, Billionaire's Regret
My anniversary flight was about to board when my husband' s assistant, Chloe, appeared, tears streaming down her face, begging for my ticket because her mother was supposedly dying. It was absurd, but I told her to find another way, unaware of the trap I was walking into. When I arrived home, my husband, Liam, confronted me, accusing me of abandoning Chloe. He then offered me a glass of water, which, unbeknownst to me, was drugged. I woke up alone, stranded in a scorching desert, the sun a blazing inferno above me. A helicopter appeared overhead, and I saw Liam with Chloe, who was holding a phone, livestreaming my torment with the hashtag #AvaWalksTheDesert. They boasted about my family' s supposed bankruptcy and ordered me to apologize to Chloe. When I refused, Liam' s bodyguards took my shoes, leaving me barefoot on the burning sand, where rusty nails were then dumped in front of me. I forced myself to walk, nails piercing my feet, leaving a trail of blood. The doctor on board screamed that I was losing too much blood, but Liam was unconcerned. Then, a sack of highly venomous desert vipers was dumped in my path, preying on my deepest fear. I stood frozen, paralyzed by terror, as one viper slithered toward me and bit my calf. The doctor cried out for antivenom, but Chloe "accidentally" knocked the vial, shattering it. Liam, more concerned with his pride and the livestream than my life, demanded I apologize to Chloe and the camera for his "show." "Never," I rasped, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Just as Liam' s bodyguards forced me to my knees, a military-grade helicopter descended from the sky./0/82019/coverorgin.jpg?v=dde43c6aef83a2a3a9e458aa85574443&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Beyond the Flame
I was Sarah Miller, a decorated SWAT captain who took a bullet for my partner, Mark, leaving me paralyzed. He swore to protect me, to cherish me. I believed him, even as I fought to recover in a rehab center. Then, flames erupted. Trapped in my room, I called Mark, expecting salvation. But his voice was different, cold. "Stop the drama, Sarah. Get yourself out," he said, before I heard her, Chloe, my physical therapist, pleading in the background. My husband chose his mistress over me, leaving me to burn. As black smoke consumed me, I watched, now a ghost, as Chloe immediately spun a web of lies, accusing me of starting the fire out of recklessness, even faking my escape. Mark, the man I saved, the man I married, stood by, silently endorsing her vile accusations, painting me as a fugitive arsonist. My reputation, my legacy, shattered. How could the man I loved, the partner whose life I saved, betray me so completely? The injustice seared deeper than the fire. To die a horrific death, then be slandered by the very people who abandoned you – it was a hell beyond imagination. But unseen, unheard, I watched as my former partner, Detective Maria Rodriguez, refused to believe their lies. She knew the true Sarah Miller. And now, she's digging, poised to unearth the truth from the ashes, and demand a reckoning./0/80924/coverorgin.jpg?v=1e26ac43ba0b7a32497825c3bfc67f69&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Reborn to Heal: A Doctor's Revenge
I was Dr. Evelyn Hayes, a surgeon at the top of my game, fresh off a miracle save – Jake Riley, his body shattered from an industrial accident. My innovative techniques, honed under Colonel Miller, had snatched him from the brink of death. But then, the whispers started. Whispers from my ambitious junior, Dr. Chad Becker, and my beloved fiancé, Leo Maxwell. They fed doubts to Jake's parents, leading them to disregard my strict post-op plan. Predictably, tragically, Jake developed a fatal complication. Mrs. Riley, consumed by grief, screamed I had killed her son, accused me of experimenting. Leo, the man who promised me forever, stood by Chad, leaking falsified records to the press. Headlines screamed, "Surgeon's ambition kills patient!" Jake's father, a broken man, found me near the parking garage. His grief-fueled rage left me bleeding, the world turning to darkness. Chad stood over me, his voice chillingly smooth: "This department needs a leader who doesn't take wild risks. Leo helped show everyone the 'truth.'" The vicious smear campaign, the monstrous online hate – it all killed my elderly parents, one after the other. My life, my reputation, my family – all destroyed by betrayal and lies. How could the man I loved conspire with my rival to ruin everything? The searing pain, the immense injustice, the burning question of why consumed my last breath. Then, blinding light. I gasped, feeling for bruises that were eerily absent. The ER monitor displayed the date: the very day Jake Riley was first admitted. I was back. This time, armed with foresight, things would be terrifyingly, powerfully different./0/83427/coverorgin.jpg?v=c1087bf42ff2e947d834ce378bea1938&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Mistress's Kiss: A Decade of Deceit
It was our tenth wedding anniversary, but the celebration was interrupted by a jarring Instagram post. My husband Julian' s mistress, Brooke, shared a photo of them kissing in his high-rise office, captioned, "Closing the biggest deal of our lives. Some partnerships are just meant to be. 😉" He brought her home later, forcing me to host her and then locking me in a dark pantry when I refused to cook their "special meal." For four years, Julian had relentlessly tormented me and our daughter, Sophie, based on a cruel lie Brooke fed him. He made me book their romantic getaways, ridiculed Sophie' s finger paintings as "low-class," and destroyed my art, calling me worthless. The cruelty peaked when Brooke deliberately injured Sophie, leaving her unconscious, and Julian refused medical help until I completed an unimaginable task. He forced me into the garage, a place steeped in the trauma of my father' s death by fire, and ordered me to strip a vintage car using the very tools that had killed him. Every roar of the sander, every chemical fume, plunged me back into the horrifying night my father died, but Sophie' s bleeding face was my only anchor. I became a machine, powered by a mother' s desperate will, enduring torture to save my child from a man who now embodied pure hatred. Julian finally broke when our seven-year-old Sophie, waking in the hospital, dropped his expensive doll into the trash and calmly told him, "My mommy said my real daddy is gone." That same night, a drunken Julian confessed the elaborate lie Brooke had spun, thinking I' d cheated, unraveling his entire world. But he couldn't see that David, his assistant, had helped me secure his signature on airtight divorce papers days ago. Sophie and I finally walked away, leaving him kneeling defeated in his hollow mansion, driving West towards a new, truly free life under the vast Texas sky./1/114558/coverorgin.jpg?v=277be6356cbab92bfb2696fa85163ee8&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Erase My Love, Forget His Face
The first clue my life was a lie was a moan from the guest room. My husband of seven years wasn't in our bed. He was with my intern. I discovered my husband, Brendan, was having a four-year affair with Kiya-the talented girl I was mentoring and personally paying tuition for. The next morning, she sat at our breakfast table in his shirt while he made us pancakes. He lied to my face, promising he'd never love another, just before I learned she was pregnant with his child-a child he'd always refused to have with me. The two people I trusted most in the world had conspired to destroy me. The pain wasn't something I could live with; it was an annihilation of my entire world. So I made a call to a neuroscientist about his experimental, irreversible procedure. I didn't want revenge. I wanted to erase every memory of my husband and become his first test subject./0/99853/coverorgin.jpg?v=d8bc45d180718e7d79947436124348db&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Reborn Heiress: Vengeance And True Love Found
For three years, I poured my soul into Cade, forgiving him 99 times. I was a struggling art student, paying for our shared dreams and caring for his fragile heart. But the 100th time, he let his cruel mistress, Alessandra, try to kill me in an old boathouse. He called it an "accident," his eyes already choosing his ambition over my life. I woke up in the hospital to hear him call me a "disposable stepping stone" and announce his engagement to the woman who had just tried to murder me. The doctor then confirmed the worst: his betrayal had cost me our unborn child. I had been a fool, a victim in their sick game. But as I lay there, broken and bleeding, I realized something. They thought I was a poor, orphaned artist. They had no idea I was Blaire Madden, the sole heiress to a global corporation. And I was finally ready to come home and make them pay./0/86243/coverorgin.jpg?v=6f927daae24d3b84ebf714ef442bcddb&imageMogr2/format/webp)
