Modern Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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Too Late, My Love, You Lost Me
After seven years of dating, Holden said he was bored and found a younger girl. This time, I didn't cry or throw a fit. I simply threw away the ring, shredded my wedding dress, and bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. He even bet his friends that I would definitely be back within three days, begging him to take me back. He was wrong. Three days passed, and then another three. I completely vanished from his world. Holden finally couldn't take it anymore and called me: "Ella, stop throwing a tantrum. Come back." But the voice that answered from the other end of the line belonged to a strange man, who let out a low chuckle: "My wife is asleep and can't come to the phone. I need to wake her up with a kiss first."/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./0/84208/coverorgin.jpg?v=2094be347be027d088e9d5626802c8be&imageMogr2/format/webp)
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./1/116747/coverorgin.jpg?v=07b4f627d58c5439fd807f274eb189fb&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Bound By Contract To The Secret Tycoon
To escape my greedy stepmother, I signed a marriage contract with a cold, rigid construction manager, expecting a miserable life of poverty. But the moment the ink dried, I realized I had severely misjudged the man I just married. He wasn't a broke blue-collar worker. He lived in a multi-million-dollar penthouse, spoke flawless business French, and cooked gourmet meals while forbidding me from doing chores. Most bizarrely, he dodged my physical touch like it was a live wire. He gave me a massive separate bedroom. When a speeding bike nearly hit me on the street, he yanked me to safety, only to violently shove himself away a second later, seemingly terrified of holding a woman. I decided to test him, stating I wanted to delay having children for our fake marriage. "I will respect your wishes entirely and shield you from my family," he answered perfectly. The puzzle pieces snapped together in my mind. The immaculate apartment, the commanding presence, the absolute refusal to be intimate. I was absolutely certain: my wealthy fake husband was gay, and I was just his beard. Relieved that I wouldn't have to sleep with a stranger, I happily relaxed into my new role as his supportive best friend. But as elite job offers mysteriously began landing in my inbox, I started to realize my "gay" husband was hiding a much deeper, far more dangerous obsession./0/38685/coverorgin.jpg?v=5992a22d7794614e2d40934d96130675&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Shotgun Wedding: Married To An Undercover Billionaire
Rhonda was a lover girl to a fault. After her boyfriend of many years lost his job, she didn't mind paying his bills. She put his needs before hers. She also babied him so he wouldn't feel depressed. And how did he pay her back? He cheated on Rhonda with her friend! Rhonda was so heartbroken. To spite her cheating ex, she seized the opportunity to get married to a man she had never met. Eliam—her husband was a traditional man. He told her that he would be responsible for all the bills at home and she didn't have to lift a finger. Rhonda sneered at him, concluding that he was one of those men who loved to boast about their ability. She thought her marriage life would be a living hell. On the contrary, Eliam turned out to be a doting, clingy, and understanding husband. He cheered her on to climb the corporate ladder. More so, he helped her with the housework and gave her the free hand to decorate their home. It didn't take long before they began to lean on each other like a team. Eliam was a problem solver. He never failed to come through for Rhonda whenever she was in a dilemma. At a glance, he seemed like an ordinary man, so Rhonda couldn't help but ask him how he was able to do so many difficult things. Eliam humbly brushed it off. In the blink of an eye, Rhonda rose to the top of her career with his help. Life was beautiful for them until one day. Rhonda stumbled on a global business magazine. A man on the front page was staring back at her. He had the face of her husband! What the hell! Was he a twin? Or was he hiding a big secret from her all this while?/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./1/119563/coverorgin.jpg?v=e09ea0b754ae49bc91f2f616b1274c1d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Hiding His Genius Twins From The Billionaire
I was six months pregnant with twins, excitedly waiting for my husband to come home. But instead of sharing my joy, he threw a divorce agreement on the coffee table. He coldly called our marriage a mere transaction, mocking my trailer-park origins and claiming my children didn't deserve his wealthy family's name. Before I could even process the heartbreak, his mistress walked into our home. She deliberately threw herself backward down the stairs, screaming that I had pushed her. My husband didn't hesitate. He rushed to her side, looking at me with pure, murderous loathing. "You are the most vicious creature I have ever met." The sheer cruelty of his betrayal struck me like a physical blow, and a massive hemorrhage buckled my knees. As a pool of crimson blood spread across the pristine marble, I reached out, begging him to save our babies. But he just scooped up his mistress—who only had a sprained ankle—and walked right past my bleeding body without looking back. I was pronounced dead in that cold hospital, taking my unborn children with me. Why was my devotion repaid with such callous abandonment? How could he let his own flesh and blood die for a liar's fake tears? Five years later, I returned, no longer the helpless, discarded wife. I was now a legendary hacker, a miracle surgeon, and a rising Hollywood star, with my two genius sons alive and thriving by my side. When my ex-husband finally tracked me down, pinning me against a wall with desperate, bloodshot eyes, I simply offered a polite smile. "Sir, I believe you have mistaken me for someone else."/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=20250805135026&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./0/54329/coverorgin.jpg?v=1a174fdd78a63b09a916afaac92fe0ad&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Let's Divorced
3 years old, Naya was married to her cousin, Calista. The husband — Yudha promised to be fair. But it turns out that Yuda spends more time with Calista. His second wife. Naya survived in the hope that her two daughters would not lose their father. Treatment for her second daughter's leukemia also requires a lot of money, so Naya absolutely survives for the sake of her children even though she is hurt. But unexpectedly, her first daughter, Yesi, asked for a divorce. If divorced... What about the treatment of her second daughter, who needed 2-3 dialysis treatments in one week. Naya is afraid that after the divorce the man will lose his responsibility because most men, once divorced from their ex-wives, forget about the children from their previous marriage. Will Naya agree to her daughter's proposal?/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./0/81080/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./1/119251/coverorgin.jpg?v=4bde2428a91e67e84a60e8acb5ca17a3&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Disposable Wife's Unexpected Comeback
Enola stood outside her billionaire husband's office with a warm homemade meal, hoping to finally soften his heart just days before her due date. Instead, through the slightly ajar door, she heard his chillingly calm voice instructing his lawyer. "The child stays. The woman is disposable." He was taking her baby and giving her position as his wife to his mistress, Julianna. The devastating shock triggered sudden, agonizing premature labor. Enola collapsed on the cold marble floor, gasping and begging for help. When Sterling finally opened the door, his eyes held nothing but sheer annoyance. He stepped around her writhing body as if she were something unclean. "Get the paramedics. My wife is having some sort of episode." He barked the order to his assistant, then turned his back on her to comfort his mistress on the phone. Lying in the dim hallway, overwhelmed by soul-crushing despair, Enola couldn't understand. How could the man she loved be such a heartless monster? How could he casually order her disposal and steal her child without a single ounce of pity? She refused to let him win. With the help of a trusted doctor, she faked her death on the operating table and fled into the night with her newborn son. Four years later, she had rebuilt her life from the ashes as an award-winning designer. But when she walked into a VIP room at the Plaza Hotel to pitch her brand to a mysterious Wall Street investor, the man who turned around in the chair was Sterling./0/82019/coverorgin.jpg?v=dde43c6aef83a2a3a9e458aa85574443&imageMogr2/format/webp)
