Clementine
15 Published Stories
Clementine's Books and Stories
A Substitute No More, A Queen Returns
Romance For five years, I was Jameson Blair's fiancée. For five years, my brothers finally treated me like a sister they loved.
Then my twin, Haleigh-the one who left him at the altar-returned with a fake cancer story. In five minutes, he married her.
They believed her every lie. When she tried to poison me with a venomous spider, they called me dramatic.
When she framed me for ruining her party, my brothers whipped me until I bled.
They called me a worthless substitute, a placeholder with her face.
The final straw came when they tied me to a rope and left me dangling over a cliff to die.
But I didn't die. I climbed back up, faked my death, and disappeared. They wanted a ghost. I decided to give them one. Ashes to Phoenix: A Love Reborn
Romance I pulled my fiancé from a car wreck just seconds before it exploded. The fire left my back covered in hideous scars, but I saved his life. For the four years he was in a coma, I gave up everything to be his caretaker.
Six months after he woke up, he stood on stage at his comeback press conference. He was supposed to thank me. Instead, he made a grand, romantic declaration to Estelle, his childhood sweetheart, who was smiling from the audience.
His family and Estelle then made my life a living hell. They humiliated me at a gala, ripping my dress to expose my scars. When I was beaten in an alley by thugs Estelle hired, Julian accused me of making it up to get attention.
I lay in a hospital bed, bruised and broken, while he rushed to Estelle’s side because she was "scared." I overheard him tell her he loved her and that I, his fiancée, didn't matter.
All my sacrifice, my pain, my unwavering love—it meant nothing. To him, I was just a debt he had to repay out of pity.
On our wedding day, he kicked me out of the limo and left me on the side of the highway, still in my gown, because Estelle faked a stomach ache.
I watched his car disappear. Then I hailed a taxi.
"The airport," I said. "And step on it." The Incubator Wife's Revenge
Modern My phone buzzed, revealing a text about a reservation at the city' s most exclusive restaurant. I thought my husband, David, was surprising me with a romantic dinner to celebrate my career success.
Instead, I walked into a party celebrating his ex-girlfriend, Jessica Lee, who was glowing and visibly pregnant. My daughter, Lily, stood by their side, looking at me with pure annoyance as David announced, "Anything for you, Jess. And for our baby."
Then, Lily chimed in, "Dad even got rid of that stupid dog you hated. He said the special stew for your pregnancy cravings needed a very special ingredient." My beloved champion show dog, Buster, was the "special ingredient."
The room went silent as I screamed, "You killed my dog, didn' t you? You killed Buster." David callously admitted it, saying, "It was just a dog, Sarah. A damn dog. It was for Jessica' s health." To my horror, Lily confirmed she had helped him, describing it as a mundane chore.
Overwhelmed, my world shattered. David then offered me money: "Go buy yourself a new one. A puppy. You' ll forget all about Buster in a week." The insult, so profound, jolted me into clarity.
I pushed his hand away, the money fluttering to the floor, and declared, "I want a divorce, David." The Comeback Queen
Romance For three years, I' d been Noah' s on-again, off-again girlfriend, believing his rare kindness was love and his frequent dismissals just tests of my devotion.
This constant cycle of heartbreak always ended with me patching things up, swallowing my pride, and showing up with apologies I didn' t understand.
The ultimate humiliation came at a party he threw, right after he' d broken up with me via text, only to reveal it was a bet: he' d wagered I' d come crawling back.
He' d publicly ridiculed me, then casually discarded the custom-made game controller I' d poured my soul into for our anniversary-the same anniversary that was tomorrow.
My world shattered, but the final blow wasn' t his callousness, but his demand for me to abort our child, all to protect his reputation and settle a childish rivalry.
But the truth behind our first meeting, a cruel set-up designed to make him my "hero," ignited a fire within me, transforming the pain into a fierce resolve to reclaim my life, secure my future, and fight for the family Noah never truly valued. Beyond the Betrayal: Her New Beginning
Romance I woke up, not from sleep, but like snapping back into a nightmare I'd already lived. The cramped cabin's stale air, pine scent – hauntingly familiar. Jake stood there, hand out, his voice wheedling: "Sarah, Brenda needs that locket."
Brenda. The name sent a cold shiver down my spine. My mother' s locket was still at my neck. Last time, I' d blindly given it to them, believing Brenda' s lies about feeling close to my mom. It was my first, fatal mistake.
Brenda claimed it brought her luck, and it did. For her. While I… I died. On a remote hiking trail, an "accident" watched by both Brenda and Jake. His shifty eyes, fixed on me, pushed the same line: "Brenda just feels so close to your mom with it." A predator, I thought.
A searing memory flashed: Brenda flaunting my locket, smiling, as I lay broken in that ravine, utterly abandoned. The betrayal, agony, my sickening idiocy pursuing love that led to my death. The sheer injustice burned.
But not again. "The locket?" I feigned confusion. "Oh, I think I lost it." His face fell. Good. This time, I would live. I would fight. I just needed to hold on ten more days. My brother, Major Mike Collins, was coming. No More Broken Songs
Romance My life as Gabrielle Fuller, Nashville' s sweetheart known for songs of love and forgiveness, seemed picture-perfect. My husband, Caleb Scott, the city' s "Kingmaker" producer, publicly repented for his first affair, solidifying our image as the golden couple who weathered any storm. I'd even secured our future with a brutal post-nup years ago, a secret safety net if his "mistakes" ever escalated.
Then, one rainy Tuesday, searching for tax documents, I stumbled upon a hidden folder on Caleb' s computer. "Archives," password-protected. I typed the date of his first affair, and it opened to reveal hundreds of video files.
My breath hitched. Caleb. And Molly. Not just pictures, but damning videos from last week. I watched as Molly, pregnant, sat on his lap, mocking me. "Gabrielle is easy," Caleb sneered, "She wants to believe in fairy tales. As long as I play the prince, she'll never look behind the curtain." My world imploded.
The carefully curated image of our perfect marriage, the love story that fueled my career, was a meticulously crafted lie. My husband, the man who' d promised forever, was a master manipulator, not just cheating but planning to steal my future, my dream of a family, by faking my infertility and adopting the child his mistress was carrying.
The pain was a physical blow, yet through the shock, a cold, hard clarity emerged. I wasn't going to collapse. I was going to fight back. And I knew exactly how to make him pay. The Price of a False Hero
Fantasy Ethan Miller possessed a secret gift: blood that could heal any wound, reverse any sickness.
In a past life, he used it to save Bree Vanderbilt, a beautiful socialite paralyzed from the waist down.
The Vanderbilts had promised him immense wealth and marriage, but Bree, fixated on her "hero" boyfriend, Chad Kensington, turned her back on Ethan once healed.
When Chad supposedly died searching for a cure, Bree, consumed by twisted grief, forced Ethan to try and revive him, draining him relentlessly.
Ethan died right there, exhausted from the futile attempt, unmourned by Bree, who only had eyes for her lost Chad.
It was only after his death that the bitter truth emerged: Chad wasn't a hero or a martyr; he was a cheat, murdered by a jealous husband.
Ethan had died for nothing, for a woman who mourned a liar and a scoundrel.
The betrayal, the pain, the utterly pointless sacrifice-every agonizing detail burned into his soul.
Then, with a gasping breath, he woke up, the sterile scent of his family' s hidden clinic sharp in his nostrils.
It was the exact day Eleanor Vanderbilt was scheduled to bring her paralyzed daughter, Bree, for his assessment.
This time, things would be different. My Wife's Boss Was Me All Along
Billionaires "Mike, something urgent came up at Innovate. I can't make the Thanksgiving Gala tonight."
My wife Jessica's voice was crisp, businesslike, citing an emergency only her CEO role could handle.
I sighed, but promised my daughter Lily we'd still go, despite her mom's absence.
But at the glittering school gymnasium, my stomach dropped.
There was Jessica on stage, radiant and laughing, beside her old college sweetheart, David Carter, and his son Kevin – a picture-perfect family.
She spoke of "family values" while sharing a warm, knowing smile with David.
Then Lily whispered, "Daddy, why is Mommy with Mr. Carter?"
My heart twisted.
I walked up to the microphone, intending to expose the truth.
But when I asked, "Since when did you have another son? And, more importantly, does your actual husband know about this cozy arrangement?", Jessica grabbed David's hand, flaunting their affair.
The crowd, instead of being outraged, applauded them, sneering at me and calling me a "loser" and "gold-digger."
My own wife disowned me, threatening defamation lawsuits.
Then, David's son shoved Lily, sending her sprawling, knees bleeding.
Jessica just ignored it, dismissing her own daughter's pain, while David threw money at my feet, telling me to "scram."
As onlookers smirked, Lily looked at me, tears streaming.
"Dad," she choked, "you were right. I don't have a mom anymore."
My daughter's broken whisper solidified a cold resolve.
This public humiliation, this betrayal, this sickening display had to end.
They mocked my "empty threats" when I calmly announced the severance of contracts with their businesses, having no clue that I, Michael Thompson, was the discreet majority owner of Starlight Capital.
The private equity firm that owned Innovate Solutions.
My silent fury built, awaiting the perfect moment.
And tonight, that moment arrived.
The game was about to change. Not My Kids, Not My Life
Modern Michael Thompson, a shell of a man at 58, lay dying in a sterile nursing home bed.
His wife, Brenda, had passed a year prior, but her final words were still a fresh wound.
"Michael," she' d whispered with a chilling, triumphant smile, "The children… David and Sarah… they' re not yours."
"They' re Rick' s. It was always Rick."
His rival, the man he despised, the one she supposedly hated with him.
His entire life, every sacrifice for their family, every dream deferred, was a cruel, elaborate lie.
He' d given everything, only to be drained emotionally and financially by the woman he loved.
After her funeral, the children he' d raised had swiftly and efficiently stripped him of his assets, leaving him abandoned in this desolate place.
Deep regret, a bitter acid, burned in his chest.
If only he could go back, know then what he knew now.
His last, ragged breath escaped into the silence of the room, followed by darkness.
Then, a jarring burst of music blared.
"Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley.
His eyes snapped open.
This wasn't the nursing home.
He sat on a worn vinyl couch, the familiar smell of coffee and exhaust fumes filling the air.
His hands were strong, unblemished by age.
A calendar on the wall screamed June 1988.
He was young.
He was back.
And then Brenda walked in, her deceptive sweetness a sharp contrast to the calculating gleam in her eyes.
She spoke of the GM position, his promotion, and how he should withdraw for Rick.
But this time, he knew everything.
He had a chance to rewrite his fate. The Savior They Scorned
Sci-fi After three grueling years fighting the Crimson Flu, using my own blood to create the vaccine that saved millions, I was finally home.
Dr. Peterson from HHS was with me, ready to present my Presidential Medal of Freedom.
All I wanted was to hold my wife, Sarah, and tell her the nightmare was over.
But as I stepped out of the car, Sarah stood on the porch, her eyes wide with terror, not joy.
Then my brother Mark emerged, cradling a hunting rifle, my parents cowering behind him.
"You're infected!" my father yelled. "Stay back!"
Before I could protest my immunity, my gaze fixed on Sarah' s visibly round stomach.
Three years gone. It wasn' t my child.
Mark smirked, "It' s mine."
The world imploded. My own family, the people I fought and bled for, now saw me as a plague.
They gave me two options: banishment to a brutal wilderness or slow death in a rat-infested jail.
Mark, fueled by malice, sedated me, framed me as an aggressive superspreader, and convinced the entire town to burn me alive.
The acrid smell of kerosene mingled with my profound shock and disbelief.
How could they be so blind, so callous? So easily manipulated?
My sacrifice, my heroism, meant nothing.
Just as Mark raised a lit torch, sirens screamed.
Dr. Peterson, bewildered, stepped out of a government SUV, holding a gleaming medal.
"This," he boomed, "is for Alex Miller. His unique antibodies saved millions!"
The mob froze. Mark, in a fit of rage, accidentally shattered a vial of aggressive live virus, splattering himself, my parents, and Sarah.
As they began to sicken, I pulled out my phone, playing Mark' s own self-righteous words back to him.
"You have a choice, Mark. The ranger station, or the jail. For the good of the community."
I walked away. I didn't look back.
My family reaped what they sowed.
My true purpose, my freedom, lay beyond this hateful town. The Report That Broke Us
Modern Four months pregnant, I was floating on cloud nine. My husband, David, held my hand as we walked into Dr. Peterson' s office. Today was the day for our baby' s genetic screening results – a joyful formality, we thought, confirming our perfect future.
But the moment David scanned the detailed report, his happy face shattered. It drained of color, twisting into a mask of pure terror and bitter revulsion. "You need to have an abortion," he choked out, his voice utterly unrecognizable, fixed on the sterile pages.
My own parents arrived, their expressions mirroring David' s grotesque horror. Without explanation, they drugged me, dragged me to a remote cabin, and forced a "medically induced miscarriage." I awoke weeks later in a high-end mental institution, labeled hysterical, my baby gone, my spirit utterly crushed. I had died there, surrounded by silence and indifference.
What unspeakable secret was on that paper? What could turn my loving husband and doting parents into monsters who condemned me and my unborn child with such shocking cruelty? The betrayal was a wound deeper than any physical pain, leaving me with a burning, desperate question.
Then, I gasped awake, clutching my pregnant belly. It hadn't happened yet. It was a premonition, a horrific, vivid nightmare. This time, I wouldn't be a passive victim. This time, I would get that report first. And this time, I would fight like hell. Her Love, My Transaction
Modern At twenty-two, an MIT scholarship paved my road to becoming an architect, building a future I could almost touch.
But life had other plans, suddenly derailed by a devastating call: Maya, my kid sister, was diagnosed with aggressive leukemia.
The medical bills were astronomical, an impossible weight on my already broken family.
My father, crushed by his own demons, offered a desperate lifeline: a "favor" from the powerful Jonathan Hayes.
It wasn't charity; it was a dark bargain.
My freedom, my dreams, my very self, traded for Maya's life.
I became Scarlett Hayes’ personal assistant – her shadow, her keeper, her disposable "toy."
For five soul-crushing years, I endured her every capricious whim, her tantrums, and her casual, dehumanizing ownership of my time, my body, my dignity.
She never asked; she simply took.
And I, trapped, let her.
Each forced compliance fueled a festering resentment, a cold, hard knot of self-loathing in my gut.
My life, my aspirations, melted like ash, yet I persisted, for Maya.
How had I, Liam Walker, destined for blueprints and ambition, become this hollow phantom, a silent fixture in a gilded cage?
How had my world twisted into this soulless transaction, my very being reduced to a commodity?
The humiliation was suffocating, the injustice a constant scream within me.
Was I truly beyond redemption, or could I ever escape this nightmare?
Then, the news that shifted my universe: Maya was in remission.
The immediate burden lifted, and in that exhale of relief, the years of festering rage, the profound self-disgust, and the silent compliance hardened into an unyielding resolve.
I was done being her plaything.
Liam Walker was taking his life back, no matter the cost. You might like
After Divorce: My Arrogant Ex Regrets Calling Me Trash
Sea Jet Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world.
In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief."
But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius.
Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be. He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him
SHANA GRAY The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her.
Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead.
A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living.
Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body.
Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back. His Twisted Game, My Dangerous Love
Elroy Notman Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun.
Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos.
As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage.
The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice.
Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her. HIS DOE, HIS DAMNATION(An Erotic Billionaire Romance)
Viviene Trigger/Content Warning:
This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised.
It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language.
This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire.
*****
"Take off your dress, Meadow."
"Why?"
"Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost."
••••*••••*••••*
Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance.
One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring.
Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel.
He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch.
Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed.
She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge.
But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming.
Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything.
Alaric doesn't share what's his.
Not his company.
Not his wife.
And definitely not his vengeance.
My Husband's Blindness, My Sweet Revenge
Winnie Suchoff The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand.
Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn.
She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back. Burned By Him, Reborn A Star
Rabbit The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack."
Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard.
The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn.
"Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress. I Signed the Divorce, He Lost Everything
Rabbit My wealthy husband, Nathaniel, stormed in, demanding a divorce to be with his "dying" first love, Julia. He expected tears, pleas, even hysteria. Instead, I calmly reached for a pen, ready to sign away our life for a fortune.
For two years, I played the devoted wife in our sterile penthouse. That night, Nathaniel shattered the facade, tossing divorce papers. "Julia's back," he stated, "she needs me."
He expected me to crumble. But my calm "Okay" shocked him. I coolly demanded his penthouse, shares, and a doubled stipend, letting him believe I was a greedy gold digger. He watched, disgusted, convinced I was a monster.
He couldn't fathom my indifference or ruthless demands. He saw avarice, not a carefully constructed facade. His betrayal had awakened something far more dangerous.
The second the door closed, the dutiful wife vanished. I retrieved a burner phone and a Glock, ready to expose the elaborate lie he and Julia had built. 
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