Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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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./1/125210/coverorgin.jpg?v=cf8c550f1b18774120b9307878697c45&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Seven Years A Shadow, One Day A Prize
For seven years, Jessie buried her elite quantum physics career to be Garrett's quiet, overlooked housewife and mother. She tolerated his emotional distance, sacrificed her dreams, and even survived major surgery entirely alone to keep his perfect family facade intact. Then an accidental call from a wedding planner exposed his lie. Her husband of seven years was marrying his young protegee, Brittnie Rivera, in a lavish vineyard wedding. Jessie watched her famously cold, reserved husband shower another woman with tender devotion-affection he had never once given his wife. His mother and his own six-year-old son openly adored the mistress, erasing Jessie's entire existence from the family. The worst betrayal came when Leo, her flesh and blood, stood to defend the other woman. "You're mean! I want Aunt Brittnie to be my new mom!" When Jessie confronted him, Garrett insisted the wedding was just a fake arrangement to protect his student. He blamed Jessie for ruining his plan, demanded she apologize, and threw out the cruel lie that she had trapped him into marriage. Seven years of silent devotion meant absolutely nothing to them. Jessie did not beg, cry, or break down. She slapped his arrogant, ungrateful face without hesitation. She walked away for good, filed for divorce, and reclaimed her throne-accepting the long-awaited Director position at her quantum research institute./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./1/116451/coverorgin.jpg?v=ca80ab150c8518486ee3db5662e5f013&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Fallen Heiress's Dark Contract Marriage
Ila, a fallen Beverly Hills heiress, was working as a lowly waitress to keep her dying father's life support machines running. But at a luxury mansion party, her former friends intentionally tripped her, poured red wine over her head, and shoved her into the pool. Her ex-fiancé, Jaret, just watched her humiliation in deafening silence. Desperate for cash, she took a degrading gig at an exclusive yacht party, only to be cornered by Flint Keaton, a ruthless Hollywood mogul. Flint violently assaulted her, ripped off her mask, and revealed a sickening truth to the laughing crowd. "Did he tell you?" Flint mocked loudly. "It was Jaret's signature that authorized the short-selling of the Meyers trust." Jaret's family had profited millions on the exact day her father had his heart attack, and now Jaret stood by while Flint threatened to drag her to his private cabin. Cornered against the yacht's railing with the churning ocean below, Ila's heart shattered completely. She didn't understand how the man she once loved could orchestrate her family's total destruction, leaving her to be torn apart by these elite wolves. Through the flashing strobe lights, her panicked eyes locked onto a solitary figure watching from the VIP balcony. Conner McCormick, the terrifying billionaire who had previously demanded her absolute submission in exchange for his protection. Shedding her last shred of pride, Ila broke through the crowd, scrambled up the metal stairs, and threw herself at his feet. "I accept your proposal!" she screamed over the ambient noise, begging him in front of the entire party. "Marry me! Own me! Do whatever you want with me! Just save me from him!"/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./1/116452/coverorgin.jpg?v=4dd2519bdf860b90b68bfc3662139193&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Divorced Heiress's Spectacular Comeback
Less than two hours after Brooklyn pushed a baby out of her body, her husband walked into the VIP delivery room. But he didn't come to hold their newborn. Instead, his assistant tossed a thick stack of papers and a ten-million-dollar check onto her trembling legs. It was a divorce settlement. Baron looked down at her pale, exhausted face with pure, clinical detachment. "Agnes is back. I needed a wife to secure my company shares, and you needed a roof over your head. The transaction is over." He didn't even glance at the crying infant in the incubator. He just checked his luxury watch, complained about being late for a board meeting, and walked out. Minutes later, the head nurse barged in, her eyes dripping with contempt. She announced that Baron had revoked Brooklyn's VIP privileges and ordered her to move to the general ward immediately. Brooklyn stared at the ceiling, her core muscles screaming in agony from the delivery. Her three years of total devotion, their marriage, and their child were nothing but a cheap, insulting joke to him. In his eyes, she was just a pathetic, poor girl who could be easily bought off and thrown away like trash. The last ember of love in her heart turned to ash, replaced by a terrifying coldness. She calmly ripped the ten-million-dollar check into tiny pieces. Then, she ripped out her IV needle, picked up a heavily encrypted phone she hadn't used in three years, and dialed a number. "I need the chief legal counsel and the tactical security team at Mount Sinai Hospital in exactly thirty minutes." It was time for the real billionaire heiress of Beverly Hills to go home./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./0/18144/coverorgin.jpg?v=277bfd548f10f193d7c8c2da8978189a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My BabyGirl
Sequel to 'His BabyGirl' this can't be read alone or nothing with make sense so I recommend reading the first book for it to make sense!! ------ She belonged to him, whether she, or anyone else, liked it or not. That was the way it was. Ted. Shelby. Both gorgeous but both troublemakers. Sound like a perfect couple, right? Ted wanted Charlotte and Shelby wanted Tyrell. But Charlotte wanted Tyrell and Tyrell wanted Charlotte. Watch the two deal with jealous, arguments and fighting as they are also being pressured into doing things they weren't ready to face just yet./1/104772/coverorgin.jpg?v=e5a75f7f633a5f4b51a21840a6d86381&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Rejected Heiress: My Heartless Family's Regret
For seventeen years, I was the pride of the Carlisle family, the perfect daughter destined to inherit an empire. But that life ended the moment a DNA report slid across my father’s mahogany desk. The paper proved I was a stranger. Vanessa, the girl sobbing in the corner, was the real biological daughter they had been searching for. "You need to leave. Tonight. Before the press gets wind of this. Before the stock prices dip." My father’s voice was as cold as flint. My mother wouldn't even look at me, staring out the window at the gardens as if I were already a ghost. Just like that, I was erased. I left behind the Birkin bags and the diamonds, throwing my Centurion Card into a crystal bowl with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot. I walked out into the cold night and climbed into a rusted Ford Taurus driven by a man I had never met—my biological father. I went from a mansion to a fourth-floor walk-up in Queens that smelled of laundry detergent and struggle. My new siblings looked at me with a mix of fear and disgust, waiting for the "fallen princess" to break. They expected me to beg for my old life back, to crumble without the luxury I’d known since birth. But they didn't know the truth. I had spent years training in a shark tank, honing survival skills they couldn't imagine. While Richard Carlisle froze my trust funds to starve me out, my net worth was climbing by millions on an encrypted trading app. They thought they were throwing me to the wolves. They didn't realize they were just letting me off my leash. As the Carlisles prepared to debut Vanessa at the Manhattan Arts Gala, I was already making my move. "Get dressed. We're going to a party."/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)
