Dadalifted
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Midas Protocol: Seducing My Rival's Wife
Breenda I sat in the freezing conference room, my knuckles white as I strangled a cheap plastic pen. Outside, Manhattan was weeping in the gray rain, but inside, the air was sterile and dead. I stared at the polished mahogany table, seeing the distorted reflection of a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours—a man about to sign his own divorce papers.
Across from me, my wife Linda wouldn't even look at me. She was too busy drumming her fingers near a diamond ring that cost more than I had made in the last five years combined. Then the door swung open, and Simon Thorne walked in. The billionaire heir didn't say a word; he just walked behind Linda and placed a heavy, possessive hand on her shoulder, marking her as his.
"Let's wrap this up," Simon said, checking his Patek Philippe with the bored tone of a man ordering a coffee he didn't want. Linda finally looked through me like I was a ghost and told me to stop dragging this out. She whispered that I couldn't even afford myself anymore, a physical punch to the gut given I’d lost my job three weeks ago. After I signed, Simon flicked a business card at me, mockingly offering me a job as a doorman for minimum wage.
I walked out into the downpour, shivering in a suit I couldn't afford to dry clean. My phone vibrated with a text from my landlord: "Pack your things. Keys by tonight or I’m calling the cops." I stood on the corner of 5th Avenue with exactly $42.18 to my name, watching Simon kiss my wife through the glass wall of the penthouse. I was thirty, homeless, and drowning in a city of lions.
I wanted to roar until my throat bled, but I just stood there, a drowned rat in a world of predators. How could I have lost everything so fast? Why was the woman who promised to stay through "for poorer" now leaning into the arms of the man who just humiliated me?
Suddenly, my phone screen exploded with a blinding golden light. An app called the Midas Protocol installed itself, declaring poverty a disease and itself the cure. With one tap, a million dollars bypassed a federal hold and hit my account, and a "Nemesis Card" appeared in my digital inventory. I didn't hesitate. I typed Simon Thorne’s name into the vengeance algorithm and hit execute. The game had officially changed. Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit
Luo Lijiang For two years, I was the perfect trophy husband for Hillary Mitchell, the ice queen of Manhattan. I held her crystal-encrusted clutches at galas, took public insults with a submissive smile, and played the role of a spineless parasite who married for a trust fund. It was all a calculation-a strictly professional contract designed to make her look like a goddess while I remained her velvet cushion.
The second the clock struck midnight on the day my contract expired, I dropped my platinum wedding ring into a glass of dregs and walked out of the Metropolitan Museum of Art without looking back. I thought I was finally free to reclaim my real identity.
But freedom was a trap. Hillary froze my five-million-dollar payout, leaving me with exactly $412 and a second secret job protecting a spoiled heiress named Brielle Harris. To survive, I had to endure Hillary dragging me back to her mansion while playing a bullied "simp" for Brielle on campus. I was a man living in two different cages, praying neither woman would discover the other.
The situation turned lethal when Hillary spotted me with Brielle and assumed I was cheating. She didn't just want me back; she wanted to own me. She dug into my sealed juvenile records, uncovering the foster home violence and the suicide attempt I had tried to forget. She used my trauma as a leash, thinking my broken past made me easy to control.
"You're safe now, Christopher," she whispered, her eyes wet with a hungry kind of possession. "No more running. You belong to this family forever."
I looked at the two women screaming over me like I was a piece of property, and something inside me finally snapped. I realized I was just a role to them, a toy to be bought and sold. I ripped both contracts to shreds, threw the pieces in their faces, and decided that if I was going to be a monster, I'd be the one they never saw coming. The Ex-Fiancé You Can't Afford To Lose
Madel Cerda I stood in the ballroom with a diamond ring in my pocket, waiting to be crowned King of the empire I had built from the ground up.
Instead, the woman I loved walked to the microphone and signed my death warrant with a smile.
Serena didn't announce our engagement.
She announced that Luca Moretti—an incompetent associate I'd almost fired three times—was the new Underboss and her partner in life.
Then, she kissed him. Deep and possessive, right in front of the entire Commission.
My heart didn't break; it simply stopped.
Luca smirked at me, wearing a suit that was too tight, while Serena looked at me with cold, dead eyes.
"Dante is the old guard," she told the crowd, dismissing me like a waiter. "We are moving in a new direction."
They stripped me of my title. They humiliated me on live television. They thought they had taken my crown.
But they forgot one crucial detail.
I was the Architect.
I had built the encrypted logistics system that kept the FBI in the dark. A system that required my specific biometric code every morning to function.
I didn't make a scene. I didn't scream. I simply placed the ring on a waiter's tray and walked out into the night.
Forty-eight hours later, the Vitiello empire was in a freefall. The accounts were frozen. The shipments were flagged.
My phone buzzed. It was Serena.
"Dante," she panicked, her voice trembling. "Fix it. Now."
I took a sip of my espresso and smiled at the chaos on the news.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Serena. You fired the only pilot who knows how to fly the plane." 
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