Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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His Ninety-Nine Betrayals, My Freedom
My fiancé, a Navy SEAL Commander, postponed our wedding 99 times for my manipulative sister. For our 100th attempt, I put my foot down. This date, or no date. He called two weeks before the wedding to cancel again. But this time, he threatened my career to force my compliance. Then I overheard the truth. He was planning to marry my sister-a "temporary" arrangement to get her into an exclusive therapy program. After he divorced her, he'd come back to me. I was his "certainty." His backup plan. My own mother supported it, slapping me when I refused to play along. "You will be a proper wife," she hissed. I had spent five years as a placeholder, my life put on hold for their drama. I was done waiting. I hung up the phone, canceled the wedding permanently, and volunteered for a three-year, off-the-grid assignment. But first, I took my wedding dress and a pair of scissors./0/80760/coverorgin.jpg?v=b359bcab606736239e4ec76cf728b32c&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Back From The Grave For My Daughter
The clinking of glasses and polite chatter filled the dining room—a supposedly normal dinner with my wife, Izzy, and a potential business partner, Mr. Henderson. This was the night meant to seal the deal for my brewery, signaling a bright future for my family. But in my mind, the scene played out differently, vividly, a horrific déjà vu of the night my life had truly ended. Last time, this seemingly innocent evening spiraled into a nightmare where my daughter, Lily, died, and I was framed for her murder. My 'loving wife' Izzy pointed her finger, screaming accusations that chilled me to the bone, painting me as a monster. My stepmother, Carol, publicly disowned me, her eyes cold and calculating, while my father, Richard, succumbed to the shock, his weak heart giving out. I ended up in prison, a shivving victim, universally condemned as a child abuser and killer. The sheer injustice of it all, the betrayal by those closest to me, had festered over what felt like an eternity. How could they concoct such an elaborate, cruel lie, especially one involving an innocent child? Why would my own family orchestrate such a devastating downfall? But this time, I was back, reborn into this exact, horrifying moment, the jagged neck of a broken beer bottle clenched in my fist. No more polite conversation, no more playing the fool—this time, the script was mine. This time, Lily would live./0/81409/coverorgin.jpg?v=1bdc83ba91301bc285764193f26fc22e&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Relic Husband's Reckoning
Ten years ago, my wife Chloe and I built Innovatech, pouring our lives, and my health, into its foundation. Now, she was the CEO, thriving, and I was the "kept man," managing our home alone after our son Michael was gone. Chloe wanted to renew our vows at the lavish Innovatech gala, calling it "good PR" for our shared journey. At the event, a "tribute" slideshow erased my contributions, making me a public joke, while her young protégé, Liam, presented her with a diamond necklace. His sneering toast, "Some partnerships are built on strength... Others... well, they serve their purpose," felt like a public execution of my worth. Later, Liam's Instagram showcased Chloe laughing with him on a yacht next to a cherry-red sports car she bought him, captioned: "#PowerCouple #Blessed." Devastation hit me, cold and hard, a public declaration of betrayal. At home, Chloe dismissed my outrage, demanding I apologize to Liam and smashing my tablet when I confronted her with the truth. Then came the ultimate cruelty: "Maybe if you were stronger, Michael would still be here," she spat, subtly blaming me for our son's tragic death. Days later, Liam "accidentally" struck me with a golf ball, splitting my head open, and Chloe didn't even offer to take me to urgent care. I drove myself to the ER, numb with the realization that my wife, the woman I'd sacrificed everything for, saw me as a worthless relic. My body ached, my heart bled, but the fire of injustice burned brighter than ever. How could the woman I loved, the partner I trusted, not only betray me but cruelly mock my profound grief for our son, linking it to the very man whose negligence caused his death? Then, on Michael's death anniversary, a final, horrifying text from Liam solidified my resolve: "She's pregnant. And it's mine. Time for you to disappear, old man." The words scorched me, transforming overwhelming pain into a chilling clarity. This wasn't just about an affair; this was about the ultimate insult on the grave of my child. The "relic" she dismissed, the "broken man" she scorned, was about to unleash a storm they never saw coming. I had collected every lie, every stolen dollar, and every broken vow, and the game was finally on./0/82707/coverorgin.jpg?v=573ddf9b6cff65c845d0d0468ae527d5&imageMogr2/format/webp)
We Ate Our Daughter
Thanksgiving. The smell of roast turkey usually fills me with warmth, but not this year. My seven-year-old daughter, Lily, wasn't at the table. She was supposedly at my sister-in-law Jess' s mother' s house for a spontaneous sleepover with Jess' s son, Kyle - a plan that immediately set my maternal alarms ringing. My husband, Mark, dismissed my concerns, utterly captivated by the pumpkin pie Jess brought. My unease festered, especially after Mark' s tender whisper in his sleep: "Jess… oh, Jess…" The affair was real. Days blurred into anxious searching and growing fear, until a casual phone call Mark took on our landline - a line we barely used anymore - jolted me. He scoffed, "Telemarketers. Trying to sell cemetery plots by saying our kid' s ashes are lost. Sickos." "Ashes." The word hit me like a physical blow. My mother' s intuition roared. I sped to the only crematorium in town. There, I learned the horrifying truth: Lily was brought in by Jess, already dead, cremated. All that remained was her friendship bracelet, a tiny testament to a life brutally cut short. The shock gave way to pure, unadulterated horror when Detective Reynolds came. Brenda, Jess's mother, had confessed. Lily' s ashes were mixed into the Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. We had eaten our daughter. The police, swayed by Mark who called my pleas a "domestic dispute," provided no immediate help, deepening my furious despair. But this unspeakable act ignited a fire within me. Justice, if not served by the law, would be found. I would unravel every thread of Jess' s monstrous plot, including the fate of her son, Kyle. This was no longer just about grief; it was about a mother' s relentless pursuit of truth and vengeance, no matter the cost, to expose the pure evil that had consumed my family./1/102823/coverorgin.jpg?v=90bfbbe23f95a5850d2f751db2b7d42b&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Photographer's Deceptive Lens
My husband, Austen, was the handsome, stable anchor in my life as a fashion influencer. His one flaw? He was hilariously bad with a camera. Or so I thought, until a viral photo exposed him as Chiaroscuro, a legendary photographer who vanished years ago for his muse, Isolde. On our anniversary, while I was secretly pregnant, he abandoned me to save her comeback show. He called not to check on me, but to demand I ship him my $15,000 camera-a gift from him-for her use. "It's wasted on your little influencer shoots anyway," he said, his voice flat. His words hit me as I sat alone in a clinic, having just lost our baby. He hung up. The dial tone buzzed in the silent room. I wasn't just a placeholder; I was a tool. I looked down at my phone, where the number for my lawyer was already saved, and pressed call./0/84005/coverorgin.jpg?v=25b5419cf761626cd890221aa3f33dae&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His Silent Vengeance: A Director's Redemption
The smell of antiseptic still clung to me, a phantom reminder of the fire that consumed my old life. Lying in a hospital bed, a mummy of bandages, I clutched onto the last hope: an experimental skin graft, my only chance to survive. I was a special effects artist, the guy behind the scenes, but I'd clawed my way to this lifeline. Then, Jocelyn Chavez, my protégée, the girl I' d trained and paid for, walked in. My "little sister." Her eyes were red, but not for me. "Andrew," she stammered, "you have to give it to Matthew. He needs his looks. He's a leading man, Andrew. You're… behind the scenes. He needs this more." I stared, aghast. I was dying, but Matthew's career was her priority. She didn' t see me; she saw a stepping stone for the charming star she was infatuated with. Despite my pleas, she left. Hours later, the nurse told me my spot had been "reallocated" at Jocelyn's request, for "greater public value." I died that night, alone, betrayed by the girl I' d given everything to. My last thought was of her face, twisted with devotion for him, not sorrow for me. The betrayal burned hotter than any fire. Then, I jolted awake. The acrid smell of a smoke machine, not real smoke, filled the air. I was back on set, a year before the fire. A stunt had just gone wrong. And there was Matthew, playing the hero, pointing to a girl with a real injury, Jocelyn, expecting me to handle the "trouble." This time, things would be different./0/81085/coverorgin.jpg?v=2680511561c0a14a39cf05cc327556e7&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Father's Stolen Heart
My father, a respected ethics professor, looked peaceful in the mortuary. But then, a chilling detail: a fresh, surgical scar beneath his collar. They said car accident, but his heart was gone. The truth shattered me: his heart, transplanted. To my best friend, Chloe, who was pregnant. And the consent signed by Ethan, my fiancé. When I confronted him, Ethan just shrugged, called it "practical." He even suggested my father's death was a "fortunate coincidence," and I should just get over it. He had the audacity to propose I become the baby's nanny. Then he locked me in a dark room, calling me "hysterical." My father' s heart, stolen and beating in my best friend' s chest. Carrying my fiancé' s child, conceived in betrayal. The cold I felt in the mortuary was nothing compared to the ice forming around my own heart. Did they really think I would accept this, quietly become their hired help? They had awakened something buried deep. My "normal" life was over. I escaped, found a burner phone, and dialed a number I swore I' d never call again. "Marc," I whispered, "I need your help." My past was about to become their nightmare./0/51236/coverorgin.jpg?v=6970612f09b5746499a10a893c961a56&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Bittersweet Arrangements : A Sugar Dady Affair
"Uncle, is it wrong if I like you?" Elena whispered, successfully freezing Devan's body. "I don't know why this feeling has to be present. And I'm stupid why it has to be with my parents' best friend," Elena admitted, realizing her mistake."Of course not, El. It's natural for a daughter to like or even idolize her own father," answered Devan calmly, trying to make Elena aware.Those gentle but full of thorns words immediately stuck, tearing Elena's heart. Is this what it feels like to have a broken heart?Devan's facial expression turned dark when his sharp eyes fixed on the hazel eyes in front of him which were starting to look teary. Slowly the girl's lips opened. He seemed to be shaking violently to say a word."But...but El doesn't think of Uncle like Dad. El really likes Uncle," Elena honestly said while holding back the pool of water that was pressing on the corner of her eyes.It's all about love, hope and age. Can they convince the world that love never knows time and age?/0/90170/coverorgin.jpg?v=f37d71d45cb2b8b66fc3d12b728aea6f&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Nanny's Secret, The Wife's Revenge
The call came from my son's elite private school. The nurse was cheerful, telling me seven-year-old Jace had a minor scrape and needed a routine blood transfusion. Then she said something that made my blood run cold. "It's a good thing we have his A-positive blood type on file." My husband, Christian, and I are both O-negative. It's biologically impossible. A secret DNA test confirmed the horrifying truth. Jace was not my son. He was Christian's child with our live-in nanny, Kassidy. They had swapped my baby at birth. For seven years, I had been raising my husband's affair child while my own son was missing. My entire life, my perfect marriage to the man I'd loved since high school, was a lie. The man I had spent years searching for after a car accident supposedly gave him amnesia had been playing me the entire time. But in a twisted attempt to gaslight me with a new, manipulated DNA test, Christian made a fatal mistake. He accidentally sent a hair sample from my biological son. The test confirmed he was alive. Suddenly, I had a reason to live. I would find my son, and then I would burn my husband's world to the ground./1/102824/coverorgin.jpg?v=087352b4c56beb8d9147b1429b97033d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Price of His Bitter Regret
Five years ago, my brother Declan stripped me of our family name and cast me out. Now, I was a cocktail waitress with terminal cancer, desperately trying to save enough money for my own urn. To make the final payment, I got on my knees on the cold club floor to bark like a dog for a drunk man's cash. My brother saw it all. But instead of helping, his face twisted in disgust. He fired me on the spot, withheld my final paycheck, and swore I'd never work in this city again, stealing my last chance to die with a shred of dignity. He grabbed my arm, his eyes burning with a cold fire I once thought was reserved for his business rivals. "I don't care if you die," he spat. And in that moment, I knew he meant it. The last flicker of hope died. He had taken my name, my health, and my future. Now, he had even taken my death. So I wrote a letter, revealing the truth he refused to see for five years-about the stolen watch, the woman who framed me, and the cancer eating me alive. Then, I walked to the river. If I couldn't live with dignity, I would let my death be the final, undeniable truth./0/84006/coverorgin.jpg?v=771c37bc0a1719f2f131d6d51e9c8779&imageMogr2/format/webp)
She Took My Money, Not My Soul
After three years working my ass off on an oil rig in the North Sea, all I wanted was a cold beer and my wife, Gabrielle. Instead, I came home early to an empty, neglected house and found her playing house with her high school sweetheart, Wesley Clark, by the duck pond. She slapped me, right there in the park, and screamed that I had abandoned her, accusing me of cheating while I was thousands of miles away paying for her family's every need. How could she twist the truth so profoundly, to cast me as the villain when she was the one having an affair and squandering my money? But as I walked away from the wreckage of my marriage, a cold realization solidified into a dangerous plan: if she and her new lover thought they could get rich by destroying me, they were about to learn a very painful lesson about loyalty and consequences./0/42477/coverorgin.jpg?v=a1cf9a8649432de44478e515b9641c69&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Cupid's Twain
"What? Who said anything about liking him? No! I don't like him". I replied quickly. "Stop lying to yourself... You can't beat Cupid". She said. "I said I don't like him, now you're talking about love?" I scoffed. "Yeah...You two make such a perfect Cupid's pair". She squealed, then blushed...."just like Carlos and I, don't ya think?" "Carlos is way out of your league, no offense but you're totally different from him, you're the opposite of him!". "That's my point...law of magnetic force states that...unlike forces attracts, while like forces repel...see? I and Carlos are unlike...we're perfect for each other....you and Aiden are also unlike...he's a bad boy....you're a..i wouldn't say good girl tho buh you're his opposite, thus you're perfect for each other". She said with much confidence as she smiled. She's totally lost It.. I stared at her, my left eyebrow, twitching.... "Did you hit your head?" I asked... "No..c'mon!" She groaned. "You're saying nonsense....I can never be attracted to an obnoxious, pompous brat like him". I scoffed. "Keep lying to yourself". She sighed. "Just wait till you guys fall in love and i remind you of this day...meanwhile, i'll post something on my blog, tagging you guys 'Cupid's couple, pair, match...no Twain...yeah Twain, not much people use the word Twain like the word couple...so it'll be hashtag 'Cupid's Twain". She winked at me "I'll kill you" I told her... "You won't....you know you love me". She pouted./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."/0/93416/coverorgin.jpg?v=1ff34550bf329ad589a27fea6c0a6d22&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Silent Mate The Alpha Left to Die
My mother was in the hospital after a nasty dog bite, so I called my fiancé, Cohen. He was supposed to be my rock. Instead, I got annoyance. He was in Aspen, on a ski trip with my best friend, Hillary. “What do you want me to do? Fly back right now?” he snapped, before hanging up to get back to the “perfect snow.” The dog, it turned out, was Hillary’s. The bite on my diabetic mother’s leg quickly developed into a raging infection. I texted Cohen an update, telling him she was getting worse, that they were talking about surgery. He didn't call back. Instead, Hillary’s Instagram story updated: a photo of her and Cohen, cheeks flushed from the cold, smiling in front of a fireplace. The caption was a single heart emoji. While they were sipping hot chocolate, my mother went into septic shock. As I sat alone in the grim hospital waiting room, staring at my silent phone, I knew he had already made his choice. He had chosen a vacation. He had chosen my best friend. He had left my mother to die all alone. She passed away at 3:17 AM. I held her hand until it grew cold, then walked out into the gray dawn. I wasn't just grieving. I was done. I was going to erase myself from his world and burn everything to the ground./0/84656/coverorgin.jpg?v=fa111490d5d8485d4c58f7ce5b877c15&imageMogr2/format/webp)
From Ruin to Redemption
The hospital board' s letter felt like a death sentence for my career, accusing me of medical negligence and intellectual property theft. I knew immediately who was behind this malicious attack: Julian Vance, my father' s former protégé, a man whose brilliance was shadowed only by his ruthless ambition. My world, painstakingly built through years of dedication as a neurosurgeon, was crumbling, and my ailing father, Dr. Arthur Reed, sat distant and lost to the neurological disorder slowly stealing him from me. Julian, once a trusted family friend, now stood on my doorstep with fake concern, twisting my deepest vulnerabilities-my mother's death, my sacrifice of a prestigious fellowship to care for my father-into accusations of emotional instability. He wasn't just trying to steal my father's groundbreaking research; he was actively poisoning every relationship, every support system I had, culminating in the cruelest blow yet: manipulating authorities to have my father forcibly removed from his home and hospitalized, cutting off all my access. I was left trembling, collapsed on the floor, watching him walk away with a triumphant smirk, convinced he had won. But as a lifeline appeared in the form of a loyal friend and unexpected allies, a cold fury began to replace my despair. He thought I was broken, that I would give up. He was wrong. This wasn't just about my father's legacy anymore; it was about reclaiming my own story./1/101852/coverorgin.jpg?v=cdc81a3566cf796f6640b7ad0aaabdd2&imageMogr2/format/webp)
From Broken Trophy To Unstoppable Queen
"You could have hurt the baby," my husband snarled, shoving me onto the cold marble floor of the Met Museum. He didn't check if I was bleeding. He was too busy cradling Alya, the twenty-two-year-old intern I had hired two weeks ago. Bennett Calloway, the ruthless King of New York, was parading his mistress in front of the city's elite while treating me, his loyal wife of fifteen years, like a clumsy nuisance. He thought he was teaching me a lesson in obedience. I later overheard him telling his men, "Kelsey needs to be broken. When she hits rock bottom, she'll come crawling back. That's how you train a wife." He gave her my vintage Hermès scarf. He let her wear my family diamonds. He stood by as she mocked my infertility, claiming she carried the heir I never could. He waited for the tears. He waited for the screaming, the begging, the jealousy. But I didn't cry. I simply went to our bedroom, took the sketch of the nursery we had planned fifteen years ago, and lit a match. I watched the dream turn to ash in the wastebasket. Then, I signed the asset separation agreement, deleted my social media accounts, and threw my SIM card into a sewer grate. Bennett thought he was breaking a horse. He didn't realize he was freeing a prisoner. By the time he realized his mistake and tore the world apart looking for me, I was already in Paris, learning that love isn't supposed to hurt./0/83034/coverorgin.jpg?v=9e2480a53ec325bf2fcfc44c04a854f5&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Lies Crash
The captain' s voice sliced through the cabin' s quiet hum, a familiar prelude to disaster. My husband, Alex, was at the controls, announcing an abrupt diversion from Los Angeles to New York. His reason? A 'medical emergency' for his dearest friend, Brittany, compelling us to land in Denver. My blood ran cold; this wasn't just déjà vu, it was my nightmare from a past life replaying, detail for excruciating detail. Last time, Alex' s toxic obsession with Brittany hijacked this very flight, making a cross-country journey hostage to his personal drama. He callously ignored a genuine onboard emergency-a stroke suffered by actor Julian Knight-despite my desperate pleas as a paramedic to land immediately. Alex' s reckless refusal led to Brittany' s 'emergency' being exposed as a self-inflicted sham, yet he still twisted everything. He systematically demolished my career and reputation, blaming me for every consequence and shamelessly claiming credit for the life-saving work I' d done. And when he was finally done breaking me, he staged a car accident, murdering me. I still felt the metallic crunch, the searing pain, followed by consuming darkness. Yet here I was, resurrected, seated on this precise flight, hearing his voice again. The chilling echo of 'Denver. Brittany.' consumed my thoughts, a stark reminder that I was reliving my end. But not this time. There would be no begging, no pleading, no quiet acceptance of victimhood. Alex Carter was about to meet an Evie Hayes he didn't kill, an Evie Hayes ready to fight./0/80763/coverorgin.jpg?v=d5ef74bca0e4145d2a3cb7a21f114c4d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Teacher's Secret Life
Sarah Miller, a beloved high school history teacher, pregnant with her first child, was just nominated for State Teacher of the Year. Her husband, Mark, owned the local car dealership, and their life in this small Vermont town seemed utterly perfect. Then, a chilling post appeared on the town's Facebook group: "LOCAL TEACHER FAILS DRUG TEST???" Underneath, a blurry lab report screamed: "Sarah Miller - Positive - Opioids." The digital firestorm erupted immediately, turning me into a "junkie teacher," a "danger to children" overnight. Whispers followed me at school, former friends looked away, and parents demanded their kids be moved from my classes. Even Mark, my own husband, dismissed my pleas, laughing with his buddies about how 'radioactive' I'd become, before orchestrating a vile setup at a rundown motel. The final, devastating blow came at a community forum where Tiffany, my conniving colleague, served me a poisoned cupcake, causing the agonizing loss of our baby. My perfect life, my reputation, my unborn child—all ripped away by unimaginable betrayal, orchestrated by those closest to me. How could my own husband conspire with my manipulative rival to destroy me and our child? As I felt the life draining from me, a cold, pure rage took hold, replacing all pain and despair. I would not die a victim. I would turn their live-streamed spectacle of my undoing into a shocking confession of their crimes. I steered my car towards Blackwood Gorge bridge, knowing this would be my final, devastating act of defiance—not against myself, but against every single person who brought me to ruin./0/81412/coverorgin.jpg?v=52c366ff6d4953b37686195f13ea017a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Unwanted Wife's Exit
The sun beat down on the flea market, where I sold my quilts. Each stitch was hours I should've spent on my art fellowship, but my handyman husband, Ethan, always said we needed money. Work was feast or famine in our Appalachian town. Then, at the upscale Bistro, I saw him: Ethan. Not in his work clothes, but a crisp linen shirt, laughing intimately with Veronica Hayes, "Aunt Ronnie" to our son. Hiding nearby, I overheard his chilling confession: "Marrying her was a mistake... I' d leave her tomorrow. Cody… he' ll adjust. He already likes you more anyway." My world shattered. My marriage, a lie. My husband, ready to abandon me and our son. My sacrifices, all for naught. He wasn't struggling; he was funding Veronica' s lavish influencer life. Later, he abandoned me in a a storm, leading to my broken ankle, only to then demand my masterpiece quilt – my 'Appalachian Sunset' – to save Veronica' s phony art show. The audacity! My own son, Cody, parroting their contempt, called my art "old rags," pushing me and screaming he wished "Aunt Ronnie was my mom!" How could they so cruelly betray everything I' d built? But in that hospital room, facing his casual cruelty and the theft of my soul' s work, something snapped. Battered but resolute, I looked at Ethan: "I want a divorce." Dr. Reed' s fellowship, my art, my path to freedom – it was all suddenly clear. I wouldn't be his convenient cover story anymore. I was taking back my life./1/102826/coverorgin.jpg?v=c363ee9da155fb62b048a60c13af0abd&imageMogr2/format/webp)
