CHRISTINE ROBINSON
11 Published Stories
CHRISTINE ROBINSON's Books and Stories
Revenge Is Sweet: Marrying His Worst Enemy
Mafia I was staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick, trembling with the terrifying joy of carrying the heir to the New York underworld’s most ruthless faction.
Then the intercom buzzed, and a voice splintered my world.
"The little art student actually thinks I'm going to marry her? It was just a game to pass the time while you were in Europe, Estella."
I froze.
My boyfriend, Holden, was in the next room, laughing with the daughter of his rival.
He explained that I was just a "clean civilian image" he needed to secure a business deal. Now that the deal was signed, he was dumping the "stray" to marry the "Queen."
I tried to run, but freedom only lasted forty-eight hours.
Holden didn't just break my heart; he turned my terror into content.
He kidnapped me, tied me to a chair at the edge of a cliff, and forced me to choose between my life and his new fiancée's.
Then, he pushed me off the edge.
As gravity snatched me, I heard him laughing.
I landed on a stunt airbag. It was just a "social experiment." A sick prank for his amusement.
"Don't be so dramatic, Kenia," he called down. "It's just a game."
He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a prop in his life.
But he forgot that I knew his secrets.
I dragged my injured body to a payphone and dialed the one number Holden told me to fear—the rival Don, Gael Simpson.
"It's Kenia," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt." Rejected By The Alpha: The Starlet's Return
Werewolf On my eighteenth birthday, as my bones broke and reshaped for my First Shift, I looked up at Autry from the cold marble floor.
The Alpha. My guardian. And as the moon decided, my Fated Mate.
I reached a trembling hand toward him, desperate for the bond to settle the agony tearing me apart.
Instead, he recoiled.
"I reject you," he spat, his voice devoid of emotion.
Beside him, his Beta mistress smirked, wearing a diamond bought with his pack's debt. He didn't reject me because I was unfaithful; he broke our soul bond because I was a "charity-case Omega" with no political value.
He threw a check onto the floor, letting it land in a pool of my own sweat, and gave me one hour to get out.
But exile wasn't enough for them.
To ensure I couldn't return, they framed me. While I was bleeding out at the border, they released doctored photos accusing me of sleeping with Rogues, destroying my reputation just to save his poll numbers with the council.
I watched a livestream of them bulldozing my mother's rose garden, laughing as they erased my existence.
He thought I would die in the wild. He thought the rejection had killed my wolf.
Five years later, I stepped out of a limousine in front of his corporate tower.
I wasn't the scrawny orphan anymore. I was J.B., the face of Vogue, carrying the awakened power of the rare White Wolf bloodline.
Autry rushed to meet me, eyes glowing gold, thinking he could simply snap his fingers and get his mate back.
He didn't notice the massive sapphire ring on my finger.
Or the Alpha of the European Silver Mist Pack standing behind me, ready to tear his throat out if he took one more step. Choosing The Assistant Over The Ruthless CEO
Modern I signed my own divorce papers thinking they were an investment in our future.
Craig handed me the stack of documents with a smile, telling me it was to secure assets for our unborn children. I trusted him more than gravity, so I didn't read the fine print.
Hours later, at his promotion party, I watched him announce his engagement to Chanel, the company heiress.
I rushed to check the folder I had signed. It wasn't a trust fund. It was a complete dissolution of our marriage.
I received no alimony. He kept the house and the stocks. And the box for "no child visitation" was already checked.
The cruelest twist came the next morning. I stared at a pregnancy test with two pink lines.
I was pregnant with the child of a man who had just tricked me into a divorce and called me "dead weight" in a text to his mistress.
When I tried to disappear and rebuild my life, Craig didn't let me go. His ego couldn't handle my silence.
He kidnapped me, locking me in a warehouse to "fix" our marriage, delusional enough to believe we could be a happy family after he caused me to lose the baby.
I thought I would die in that cold, dark room.
Then, a truck rammed through the wall, engulfed in flames.
Felix, the quiet assistant I had barely noticed for five years, walked through the fire to get me.
As he carried me out of the burning wreckage, leaving Craig behind, I realized he wasn't just an employee.
He had been waiting to save me all along. When Love Became Cold Abandonment
Romance The phone call came on a Tuesday, a regular day until the private investigator' s flat voice delivered news that shattered my world: "Sarah, I found him. He' s alive." Three years of grieving for my presumed dead husband, a Navy SEAL, ended with that devastating revelation.
But the real blow came next: he was living in Oregon with another woman, his estranged sister Lisa, who was now the beneficiary of his life insurance, a change made just a week before his disappearance. This wasn' t a rescue; it was a betrayal, a meticulously planned abandonment.
I drove six hours to a quiet town, finding him on a porch swing, relaxed and healthy, with Lisa beside him, very pregnant. The sight broke something in me, dissolving any lingering hope. When I confronted him, his guilt and fear were clear, yet he offered hollow excuses about protecting Lisa and obligations.
My anger and pain erupted; I hit him, screaming about selling our house to fund the search, losing everything while he played house. Lisa screamed about her baby, and I froze, seeing her pregnant belly-the ultimate betrayal. He couldn' t deny it; he nodded, confirming their child.
The man I married, the hero, was now a coward who looked at me with cold abandonment. The fight drained, leaving a cold void. I demanded the insurance money, a bitter exchange for my wasted life, and walked away, a stranger to the man I once loved. The man I knew was dead to me.
I flew to a new country, seeking a new life away from the ruins of my past. But the phone rang. It was his voice, hesitant, then full of doting tenderness for Lisa and their baby, a love he once reserved for me. He asked if I got the money, then promised to "make things right" once Lisa was settled.
My voice dripped with contempt as I told him not to bother and hung up. His new happiness was a physical pain, a cruel reminder of all I' d lost, including our own baby, conceived before his disappearance and lost to the stress of searching for him-a fact he never knew, and would never know. I knelt by our child's unmarked grave, vowing he deserved to pay. Betrayal In A Care Package
Romance My phone buzzed on the workbench, a welcome distraction from the failing painting in front of me.
It was Sophia, my wife, her voice sweet and composed, the way it always was for her millions of online followers.
She needed a "care package" for a wilderness retreat, a three-hour drive away, in a brewing storm.
I, the dutiful husband, agreed.
But when my beat-up sedan skidded and the box burst open, my world shattered.
It wasn' t camping gear.
It was a collection of expensive adult toys and delicate lingerie-things she' d never worn for me.
My "care package" was for her sponsored student, Liam.
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
This wasn' t a mistake; it was a brazen betrayal, and the sweetest voice I knew had just ripped my heart out.
A cold dread settled in my chest, a hollow, aching void.
Then my phone buzzed again.
"Ethan, where are you? It' s taking forever! Liam and I are getting really bored out here. And we need that stuff."
Bored.
They were bored, waiting for their toys, while I drove three hours to deliver the proof of my shattered marriage.
The sweetness in her voice was gone now, replaced by sharp impatience.
The last thread of denial snapped.
This was a deliberate, cruel mockery.
A rage, cold and hard, started to simmer beneath the pain.
She wasn't going to get away with this.
"I' m close," I said, my voice flat and unfamiliar. "I' ll be there soon."
I would deliver her package.
And then I would look her in the eye. Betrayed Bride, Broken But Unbowed
Romance My wedding day. Five months pregnant, ready to marry the man I loved.
Then, two strangers burst in, dragging me out, darkness descending as a rough bag covered my head.
They held me a day and a night; I lost my baby, left in a field, my wedding dress torn and stained.
Waking in a hospital, I learned my fiancé, Mark Sullivan, had publicly called off our engagement, announcing his immediate marriage to my best friend, Tiffany Hayes.
Just when I thought I was utterly broken, Mark' s younger brother, Ethan, appeared like a savior, promising a future, showering me with love, building a fortress around my shattered life.
For three years, he was my everything, my protector, the man who wanted a family with me, even as fertility doctors said my body was too damaged.
But then, I overheard a conversation on the terrace, a quiet, chilling confession between Ethan and his friend.
"Remember how you arranged for her to be assaulted so Tiffany could marry the older brother?"
My blood ran cold.
"And you' ve been secretly giving her birth control pills all these years. It' s pretty messed up."
The man who saved me was the monster who ruined me.
He had orchestrated every single agonizing detail, all for Tiffany' s happiness, mocking my "tainted" body.
The man I loved, the man I married, had built my hell-and then trapped me in its gilded cage.
My world shattered, but in the silence of the grand library, a chilling clarity settled over me: if this was all a lie, I had nothing left to lose.
I would leave, and he would never see me again. My Husband, My Hero, My Baby
Romance The holographic face of Ms. Albright shimmered, echoing a prediction: at twenty, I' d face a heartbreak, a betrayal that would shatter my world.
It was my father' s solution – a high-tech "blind date" app with ninety-nine vetted bachelors – that changed everything.
The catch wasn't just my hand in marriage; it was Miller Tech, his entire empire.
A cold dread seeped in, a memory so sharp it felt real.
In my past life, this was where my destruction began.
I remembered choosing Brandon Hayes, the charismatic CEO, who promised the world then systematically destroyed me.
He stripped me of everything – my inheritance, my dignity, my name – framing me for corporate espionage.
I died alone, my reputation shattered, watching him praised as a visionary.
But now, I was back.
Twenty again, standing in my father' s office, the app open on the tablet.
"Chloe, honey? Are you alright? You look pale."
I looked at my father, his face etched with genuine concern, and a fierce, protective love surged through me.
This time, I would not let that monster destroy him, or me.
My finger hovered over Brandon's profile, a perfect trap.
With a deliberate, steady hand, I swiped his profile to the digital trash bin.
"I don' t like him," I said, my voice flat.
I closed my eyes and let my finger fall randomly on one of the ninety-eight remaining profiles.
A new screen loaded.
The picture was grainy, a low-quality headshot: Jake "Bulldog" Riley.
Former Navy SEAL.
Honorably discharged after a career-ending injury.
"Him?" my father' s voice was laced with disbelief.
"He' s… a nobody."
"I' m sure, Dad," I said, My voice unwavering.
This was my choice.
Anyone but Brandon Hayes.
I had a feeling about him.
A lie and the truest thing I' d ever said.
The news of my choice rippled through the city' s elite, painting me as a naive fool or rebellious brat.
Brandon must have heard.
He couldn't understand it.
He couldn't possibly know that I was choosing a stranger not out of foolishness, but out of the bitter, hard-won wisdom of a ghost.
A fragmented memory surfaced – a charity gala years ago, a fire.
Brandon had claimed credit for getting me out, but now, another image fought its way forward.
Someone strong, silent, moving with purpose through the chaos.
He had pulled me through a service exit, away from the stampeding crowd, before melting back into the shadows.
I never saw his face clearly – until now.
What if my random choice wasn' t so random after all? His Downfall, Her Design
Fantasy Fresh from a C-section, my baby girl Lily safe in the nursery, I awaited my husband, Mark. He was the celebrated CEO of Innovatech, our startup, built on my algorithms, his stage presence.
But his arrival brought no warmth, no questions about Lily. Instead, he presented divorce papers, flatly stating his intern, Chloe, was pregnant, and he needed to protect them.
The words stung deeper than surgical pain, awakening a past life memory: refusing, then dying with Lily in a "car accident" Mark orchestrated. This time, I signed. Yet, the nightmare escalated: Chloe grabbed fragile Lily, taunting me by an open window. Mark, believing her lies, had me, bleeding, dragged from the hospital. Days later, seeking my belongings, he smashed a mirror over my head, abandoning me on our doorstep.
The raw betrayal, his calculated erasure of my contributions-my intellect, my love, years poured into our company-returned only with cruelty. How could he be so utterly monstrous, so blind?
But this was my second chance. My precious Lily was alive, needing me. Fueled by that agonizing past and his brutal abandonment, a cold, new resolve set in. I wouldn't just survive; his spectacular downfall would be my meticulous design. His Other Baby
Modern I was heavily pregnant, nesting hard, and snagged some amazing Black Friday deals for our first baby.
My husband, Mark, always seemed so supportive, or so I thought.
I' m meticulous with money, kept my spreadsheet ready to pay my share.
But then he saw the total on our joint credit card.
His smile vanished, replaced by an accusing glare.
"What' s this $200 charge? You're trying to hide something, aren't you? Trying to defraud me."
The words echoed as he cornered me in Target, shoving my cart until baby diapers spilled everywhere.
Then Tiffany appeared, Mark's "grieving widow" friend, who conveniently stumbled when I recoiled from her perfume.
Mark erupted, slapping me across the face, roaring, "Did you just push a pregnant woman, Sarah?!"
My water broke, but he ignored my pleas, insisting we go to customer service to dispute the $200.
That $200 I' d Venmo'd to Tiffany months ago, to help her out.
I collapsed.
Later, in the hospital, recovering from an emergency C-section, I overheard him.
He wasn't asking about our daughter, fighting for her life in the NICU.
He was arranging a private room for Tiffany, who was also in labor.
He casually dismissed our daughter's critical condition: "She'll be fine, they' re tough."
The man I married had vanished, replaced by a cold stranger.
How could he abandon me, prioritizing a seeming stranger over his own family?
Why was Tiffany here, also in labor?
The betrayal was sickening, leaving a gaping hole in my heart.
Then, a hidden folder in his office revealed the horrifying truth.
Prenatal records. Sonograms.
Tiffany' s due date, identical to mine, linked directly to Mark' s vague "business trip."
He wasn't just supporting a friend; he was the father of her child.
Our marriage, our baby, everything was a lie.
My grief hardened into an icy resolve: I called the best divorce attorney in the city. You might like
My Husband's Brother Owns My Secret
Rabbit My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine.
Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family.
To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset.
They both thought I was a broken doll they could control.
I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice.
She sang it, and now her career is over.
Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground. Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles
Dorine Koestler I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.
In return, he treated me like furniture.
He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste.
I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.
So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.
I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.
But I underestimated Dante.
When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.
He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away. His Discarded Gem: Shining In The Ruthless Don's Arms
Temple Madison For four years, I traced the bullet scar on Chace’s chest, believing it was proof he would bleed to keep me safe.
On our anniversary, he told me to wear white because "tonight changes everything." I walked into the gala thinking I was getting a ring.
Instead, I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, drowning in silk, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto another woman's finger.
Karyn Warren. The daughter of a rival family.
When I begged him with my eyes to claim me, to save me from the public humiliation, he didn't flinch. He just leaned toward his Underboss, his voice amplified by the silence.
"Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets."
My heart didn't just break; it incinerated. He expected me to stay as his mistress, threatening to dig up my dead mother’s grave if I refused to play the obedient pet.
He thought I was trapped. He thought I had nowhere to go because of my father’s massive gambling debts.
He was wrong.
With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and texted the one name I was never supposed to use.
Keith Mosley. The Don. The monster under Chace's bed.
*I am invoking the Blood Oath. My father’s debt. I am ready to pay it.*
His reply came three seconds later, buzzing against my palm like a warning.
*The price is marriage. You belong to me. Yes or No?*
I looked up at Chace, who was laughing with his new fiancée, thinking he owned me.
I looked down and typed three letters.
*Yes.* Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried
Cinderella's Sister I went to the family lawyer for a routine travel clearance. Instead, I was handed a divorce decree. The ink was three years old.
While I had been playing the role of the dutiful Capo's wife, Dante had secretly divorced me the day after our fifth anniversary.
Twenty-four hours later, he legally married the nanny, Gia, and named her cruel-eyed son as his heir.
I returned home to confront him, only for the boy to throw boiling tomato soup on me.
Dante didn't check my burns. He cradled the boy and looked at me with pure, drug-fueled hatred, calling me a monster for upsetting his "son."
The final blow came in a parking garage. A car sped toward us.
Dante didn't pull me to safety. He shoved me into the vehicle's path, using my body as a human shield to protect his mistress.
Lying broken on the asphalt, I realized Aria Vitiello was already dead to him. So, I decided to make it official.
I arranged a private flight over the Atlantic and ensured there were no survivors.
By the time Dante was weeping over the wreckage, realizing too late that he had been poisoned against me, I was already in France.
The Canary was dead. The Reaper had risen. Marrying The Rival: My Ex-Husband's Despair
Fonz Nadherny I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria.
But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity.
A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love.
My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me.
Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego.
He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press.
He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan.
He had no idea she was a fraud.
He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her.
He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate.
At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her.
I didn't beg. I didn't cry.
I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play. The Capo's Scarred Wife: A Vicious Comeback
Sofia Wade I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me.
But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest.
The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me.
They didn't.
Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her.
They let me burn to keep her warm.
When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages.
That was the moment Elena Vitiello died.
I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York.
By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring.
"You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them.
"Burn for it." Runaway Nurse: The Mafia King's Remorse
Hu Minxue For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York.
I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him.
But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash.
In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress.
He forced me to watch him court her.
At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her.
He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain.
He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life.
I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god.
I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole.
He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps.
So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother.
I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars.
I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia.
By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost. His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Artist Returns
Zaccaria Linn On our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table.
Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen.
"Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over."
I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward.
Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant.
She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest.
As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me.
He hugged her.
"It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you."
The betrayal didn't stop there.
When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police.
When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations.
He declined the call.
He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife.
That was the moment the chain broke.
As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come.
I opened the door and jumped into the dark.
Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement.
Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one. My Cold Heart: Rejecting The Mafia Boss
Jia Zhong My husband, the Outfit’s most feared Consigliere, stood up and buttoned his suit jacket.
He had just convinced a jury that Sofia Moretti was innocent.
But we both knew the truth: Sofia had poisoned my mother over a spilled martini on her Valentino dress.
Instead of comforting me, Dante looked at me with cold, dead eyes.
"If you make a scene," he whispered, gripping my arm until it bruised, "I will bury you in a psychiatric ward so deep even God won't find you."
To protect the Family alliance, he sacrificed his wife.
When I tried to fight back, he drugged me at a gala.
He let a private investigator take photos of me, naked and unconscious, just to have leverage to keep me silent.
He paraded Sofia around our penthouse, letting her wear my dead mother’s shawl while I was banished to the staff quarters.
He thought he had broken me.
He thought I was just a nurse’s daughter he could manage.
But he made a fatal error.
He didn't read the "committal forms" I handed him to sign.
They were divorce papers, transferring his assets to me.
And the night of the yacht party, while he toasted to his victory with my mother's killer, I left my wedding ring on the deck.
I didn't jump to die.
I jumped to be reborn.
And when I resurfaced, I made sure Dante Russo burned for every sin. 
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