Herculie Dipietro
10 Published Stories
Herculie Dipietro's Books and Stories
My Wife, The Narcissist CEO
Modern I just closed a fifty-million-dollar deal for Innovatech Solutions, the company I co-founded with my wife, Jess.
My team, the Trailblazers, cheered as Jess, our CEO, hugged me, promising a "really special bonus."
That bonus was a crudely drawn Sharpie watch on my wrist and a flimsy "next year" promise.
Later, my blood froze seeing Liam Walker, her incompetent "Executive Assistant," beaming with keys to a company-leased Porsche, courtesy of Jess.
His Instagram: "Real love means exclusive pampering. #BestBoss."
Humiliation burned as Jess frantically spun excuses, then offered me the baby I' d always wanted if I' d "unlike" the post.
When I refused, she retaliated, punishing my loyal team while Liam' s cronies went untouched.
"You'll get over it," she snapped, hanging up.
The Porsche was just the latest, undeniable symbol of her two-faced hypocrisy and a years-long affair.
My love for the woman I married had completely evaporated, replaced by a profound, weary exhaustion.
I was done enabling her narcissism, done absorbing her endless betrayals.
"Let's just get a divorce," I told her, my voice flat and final.
Then, I called Innovatech' s biggest competitor, ready to secure not just my future, but my entire team's, forcing her to finally face the consequences. Fake Divorce, Real Betrayal
Romance "Let' s get a divorce, Ava."
My husband, Mark, said the words so calmly, pushing the papers across our dining room table, the morning light making the black letters sharp.
He quickly added, "It' s a fake divorce. It' s for Clara. Lily needs to get into the school district here, and she can' t unless she' s living with my residency."
He promised we' d remarry once it was done.
He thought I was a fool.
I signed the papers, my hands steady, the silence in the room heavy.
That fake concern on his face. That smug confidence that he had me completely under his control.
I had already seen the truth.
Two weeks ago, tucked at the bottom of the trash bin in the guest bathroom Clara used, I' d found it. A pregnancy test. Two pink lines.
It wasn' t Lily' s future Mark was securing. It was the future of his new family.
I said nothing. Just nodded.
The divorce was done, official. Outside the courthouse, I watched Mark walk quickly toward a car. Clara got out, then wrapped her arms around his neck, his hand resting protectively on her stomach. They looked like a real family.
My phone buzzed. A message from Professor Thorne, my old mentor. "The lab door is always open for you, Ava."
I took a deep breath, watched them drive away, and then turned to walk in the opposite direction. My pain was old, familiar. Now, it was time for change. The Divorce That Saved Us
Romance The first thing I felt was a dull ache and a blinding white light. I was in a hospital, my wrist bandaged, my mind a blank slate.
Then I heard the voices: "The guy in 302, Ethan, tried it again." "The one married to CEO Sterling? This is what, the third time this year?"
My stomach turned. They somehow thought I was Ethan, the pathetic, clingy husband of Sophia Sterling, the girl who was always out of my league in high school. And I had tried to kill myself over her.
When a nurse confirmed it, revealing my arm was slit, a wave of nausea hit me. I stared at my older, gaunt reflection in the mirror, five years of my life vanished, all tied to this humiliating existence.
How could I have become this person? This wasn't me. The desperate, attention-seeking man they described-the one who sent bleeding wrist selfies-was a stranger.
I wanted nothing to do with him. So when Sophia, colder and more beautiful than ever, arrived to discharge me, I knew what I had to do. I wanted a divorce, and I would start shedding this unwanted life, piece by painful piece. The Songbird's Revenge: How I Became His Aunt
Romance Three years ago, I was on top of the world.
Engaged to Caleb Scott, pregnant with his child, I, an orphan from foster care, felt like I was living a fairytale at our Belle Meade mansion engagement party.
Then, his childhood friend Jennifer Lawrence, a shadow lurking over our relationship, faked a deadly allergic reaction, screaming I had poisoned her drink.
Caleb turned on me in an instant, his face contorted with rage, tearing my wedding dress to shreds, yelling for security to drag me out like trash.
The next day, he forced me to abort our baby, spitting that a "venomous, scheming woman" like me was unfit to carry a Scott child.
He slapped me with aggravated assault charges, leaving me utterly broken, homeless, and facing prison, a pariah in Nashville society.
How could he believe such a monstrous lie? How could he destroy my life, our child, without a moment of doubt?
Just as I lay shattered in a dark alley, a stranger offered a hand. Now, three years later, I' m back in Nashville, not as his victim, but as Mrs. Andrew Scott… Caleb' s aunt. The Homecoming Queen and the Home-Wrecker
Romance Eleven years. I dedicated them all to Wesley Scott, sacrificing my architect dreams to support his political ambitions.
After a decade of being his unassuming small-town Texas girl, he finally proposed, not out of love, I suspected, but for his political image.
Then, an anonymous email arrived with a photo: Wesley and his childhood friend, Gabrielle, smiling, holding a deed to a luxury Austin condo, purchased jointly under their names.
Beneath it, Gabrielle' s chilling message: "Coming home for good."
Wesley dismissed it as "just a favor," his casual use of "Gabby" a slap in the face.
But the next day, the building manager casually confirmed Gabrielle was the primary owner, and I, his fiancée, was merely "the friend," a temporary guest.
That night, at Gabrielle's welcome dinner, Wesley sat beside her, radiating ownership, as everyone toasted them as "the perfect couple."
Then, a friend goaded them into a kiss, and Wesley, playing to the crowd, gave Gabrielle a soft, lingering kiss, a gesture of intimacy he never showed me.
All eyes turned to me, expecting tears, a scene, but I just smiled.
"If Gabrielle wants him," I said, my voice clear and calm, "she can have him."
He dragged me out, furious, but a later anonymous message, a screenshot of their secret Instagram post-"To our future!" and his reply, "Whatever you want, you get. Always"-extinguished any lingering hope.
It was the same day he'd asked me to move in, calling it "our first real step."
His betrayal culminated when a mob of HOA women, spurred by Gabrielle, publicly assaulted me at the condo, and Wesley stood by, calculating the optics of defending me.
I collapsed, humiliated, only to later see his reply on the HOA Facebook chat, throwing me under the bus: "The owner on the deed is the one who matters."
He had confirmed I was nothing, a squatter to his entire world.
When he abandoned me in the hospital for Gabrielle's fake allergic reaction, I knew. It was over.
Three days later, at our lavish engagement party, instead of our romantic slideshow, I played the video of their kiss, the condo deed, and his damning words on the jumbo screens.
His political career ignited in a glorious fireball.
"Why, Wesley?" I told him calmly when he screamed down the phone. "I was just making way for the real couple. After all, the owner on the deed is the one who matters."
I hung up and blocked him, and everyone from that life. I was free to build my own. The Shed: A Family's Dark Secret
Modern For three years, I' d been free from my toxic Appalachian family, living a new life built on respect, not obligation.
Then, a call from my mother, soft and warm, inviting me to my brother Caleb's wedding, made me foolishly hope things had changed.
I drove back to the mountains, a $25,000 peace offering for the wedding in my bag – $5,000 from me, and $20,000 from Ethan' s parents never touched since our own marriage – only to be greeted with cold demands for the "money I owed."
They scoffed at my gift, then my father calmly declared they now wanted $80,000, and when I refused, my brother Caleb snatched my phone and keys, my parents locked me in the cold, spider-filled shed I' d known as a childhood prison, and commanded me to call my husband to wire the money.
Beaten and terrified, I refused their extortion, but found a sliver of hope in a dusty window, determined to fight back against the family that wanted to break me. When The Quiet Wife Roared
Romance I was Sarah Miller, publicly humiliated and discarded by NFL star Ethan Vance on his draft day.
Branded a gold digger, I vanished, rebuilding my life and secretly marrying billionaire philanthropist Alexander Sterling.
Five years of quiet happiness passed.
But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.
While on a simple errand, I unexpectedly collided with Ethan and his arrogant fiancée, my former intern.
Their taunts instantly dragged me back into the nightmare.
My attempt to assert my new reality – that I was married – was met with cruel laughter.
Ethan snatched my Sterling Foundation card, mocking it as a fake, calling me a delusional liar and a thief.
His rage escalating, he brutally crushed my hand in a car door, then locked me in a stadium utility room.
Later, he dragged my battered self onto a championship ballroom stage, publicly branding me a stalker and criminal, while displaying my bandaged hand.
Why was this nightmare happening again?
Was I destined to be forever haunted by my past, my worth shattered anew?
But just as he prepared to deliver his final, devastating blow, the grand ballroom doors dramatically swung open.
My husband, Alexander Sterling, stood there, a quiet force of nature.
My past had tried to consume me, but it was about to meet its match. The Sweet Friend's Deadly Secret
Young Adult I was a driven high school student, about to embark on the biggest national scholarship competition of my life in Washington D.C.
It was a life-changing opportunity for everyone on our team, especially my boyfriend, Mark Olsen, and my seemingly sweet best friend, Jessie Evans.
But that life ended in betrayal.
A drink spiked with my fatal allergen, followed by swift anaphylactic shock.
Mark and the others testified I drank it knowingly, painting me as a distraught villain.
Jessie, playing the grieving friend, became a national sensation, a "survivor" online, while my Pulitzer-winning investigative journalist mother fought for justice.
Jessie's powerful family allies launched a merciless smear campaign, shattering my mom's reputation, costing her job, and ultimately, her life to a stress-induced heart attack.
After I died, the chilling truth unfurled: Jessie orchestrated my demise and my mother's ruin.
Her motive? Pure, unadulterated revenge.
My mother had exposed her CEO father's massive corporate fraud, sending him to prison, and Jessie wanted us both to pay.
The injustice burned through me, leaving an icy trail of hate.
Then, I woke up.
The familiar lurch of the bus, Mark's voice arguing with the driver, demanding we wait for Jessie's "lucky locket"-the exact same words, the exact same moment.
I was back, armed with the horrifying knowledge of what was to come, and a powerful secret: a full-ride Stanford scholarship I already secured.
This competition was meaningless to me.
This time, things would be different. The Billionaire's Secret Twin Wife
LGBT+ My husband, Marcus, was already late for our second anniversary dinner when he walked in, reeking of another woman's perfume. He introduced her as his "indispensable" new assistant, Chloe Sanders. My heart, already terminally ill, tightened further – a painful reminder of the lie I was living.
He never truly saw me; he saw my dead twin sister, Eleanor, the woman he still claimed to love, the one he believed I, Tori, had killed. I, Eleanor, was forced to impersonate her after a tragic accident, trapped in a marriage where Marcus constantly abused me, seeking vengeance for a death I didn't cause.
Then, he overheard a conversation that revealed the shocking truth: I wasn't Tori at all. I was Eleanor, his actual wife. I hoped this truth might change everything, but barely ten days later, a text from Chloe solidified his betrayal – a photo of her pregnant stomach, her message simple: "I'm pregnant with Marcus's child. He's known your real identity for weeks and told me everything."
His brief, feigned kindness dissolved, confirming his calculated deceit. He continued his blatant affair, shamelessly using my terminal heart condition for a monumental P.R. stunt, playing the heartbreakingly devoted husband while his mistress smirked triumphantly. All the years of abuse, the forced identity, my dying heart – it had been for nothing.
A cold, simmering rage ignited within me. He believed he was still in control, but I wouldn't die as his victim. I decided to play his game, but by my rules, turning his public display of affection into the perfect stage for ultimate retribution. I would use his own deceit to expose his entire empire, allied with a man connected to him in ways he never imagined. You might like
The Placeholder Bride's Secret Billionaire Revenge
Luo Ye For two years, I was the invisible force behind tech billionaire Kieran Douglas, convinced that our "private" romance was his way of protecting us from the tabloid spotlight. I managed his mergers, warmed his bed, and waited for a future that didn't exist.
The illusion shattered at 6:00 AM when a Page Six alert debuted Kieran’s "real" romance with socialite Aspen Schneider. Before I could even process the betrayal, Kieran sent me a cold, professional text: "Order flowers for Aspen. Pink peonies. Her favorite."
When I tried to walk away, my own mother called me a disgrace and threatened to lock my inheritance forever unless I married a sixty-year-old businessman to save her failing estate. At a high-society gala that same night, Aspen intentionally crushed my burned hand in front of the cameras, while Kieran stood by and dismissed me as a "mediocre assistant" who had overstayed her welcome.
I stood in the cold New York rain, drenched in champagne and humiliation, realizing that every sacrifice I made for Kieran was a joke. I was a ghost in a penthouse that was never mine, discarded the moment his "soulmate" returned. To the world, I was just a placeholder whose time had run out.
But Kieran forgot one thing: my father’s multi-million dollar trust fund unlocks the moment I legally marry. I didn't need love; I needed a signature and a shield. I walked into a discreet law firm and signed a marriage contract with a man I believed was the city’s most notorious, scandal-ridden playboy.
I thought I was marrying a degenerate "beard" to buy my freedom and secure my revenge. I didn't realize the man who signed that paper wasn't a playboy at all, but Gaston Collins—the most powerful and dangerous man on Wall Street—and he had no intention of letting our fake marriage stay fake. No Longer Mrs. Cooley: The Architect's Return
Xiao Xiaosu I went to the City Clerk’s office for a routine copy of my marriage license to finalize a trust fund audit. I expected a simple piece of paper, but the clerk’s pitying look told me my entire life was a lie.
"The license was never finalized, Ms. Oliver. In the eyes of the state, you are single."
The three-hundred-guest wedding at the Plaza and the Vogue features meant nothing. My husband, Gray Cooley, had intentionally filed the documents with a "procedural defect" so he could discard me without a legal divorce. Moments later, an iCloud invite titled "Our Little Secret" popped up on my screen. It was a photo of my best friend, Brylee, holding a positive pregnancy test at our Hamptons estate.
Gray’s text to her was the final blow:
"Happy anniversary, babe. This baby is the best gift. Once the trust unlocks today, we’re done with the charade."
I soon discovered they were even stealing my career, reassigning my architectural masterpiece to Brylee while preparing my eviction notice. Gray's mother called me a "barren mule" in a leaked recording, mocking the infertility I suffered after saving Gray’s life in a construction accident. I wasn't a wife; I was a three-year placeholder used to secure his inheritance.
How could the man I bled for treat me like a disposable prop? How could my best friend carry his child while pretending to comfort me through my darkest moments? The betrayal burned until it turned into a cold, hard stone of fury.
I didn't cry. Instead, I walked into the penthouse of the Barretts, the Cooleys' most powerful rivals. I signed a marriage contract with Kane Barrett, the man the tabloids called the "Beast of Wall Street."
"I want a wedding," I told his father, my voice steady and lethal. "Bigger than the one I had with Gray."
If they wanted me gone, they would have to watch me become the woman who owns their world. Seven Years A Fool, One Day A Queen
Stella Montgomery Everyone knew Kristine loved Colton. Still, his heart clung to a woman overseas-someone he spent most days with, now pregnant with his baby-and Kristine still asked him to marry her.
On their registration day, however, he never came; his "true love" had flown back.
Seven years of loyalty later, Kristine walked away, blocked him, and left his city.
Colton didn't blink-until he saw her at the courthouse, arm-in-arm with another man, and the proud CEO went pale. He went after her, desperation overtaking him.
"I'm sorry. Please give me another chance."
She snapped, "Could you stop? I'm already married." Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance
Roderic Penn I stood at my mother’s open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule.
While the priest’s voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?"
When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone—he brought Charla with him. He claimed she’d had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child."
He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me.
"He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect.
Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards. The Humble Ex-wife Is Now A Brilliant Tycoon
Flory Corkery For three quiet, patient years, Christina kept house, only to be coldly discarded by the man she once trusted.
Instead, he paraded a new lover, making her the punchline of every town joke.
Liberated, she honed her long-ignored gifts, astonishing the town with triumph after gleaming triumph.
Upon discovering she'd been a treasure all along, her ex-husband's regret drove him to pursue her. "Honey, let's get back together!"
With a cold smirk, Christina spat, "Fuck off."
A silken-suited mogul slipped an arm around her waist. "She's married to me now. Guards, get him the hell out of here!" The Ghost Wife's Billion Dollar Tech Comeback
Huo Wuer Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband's Maybach usually idled was empty.
When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn't find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn.
Caden didn't even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father's legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn's party without a second glance.
Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara's health and managing every detail of Caden's empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room.
How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice.
I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I'd drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause-if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for.
I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I'd forgotten. Marrying Her Was Easy, Losing Her Was Hell
Michael Tretter "Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. She torched their wedding portrait at his feet while he sent flirty messages to his mistress.
With her chest tight and eyes blazing, Stella delivered a sharp slap.
Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, and left him a hidden bombshell.
On launch day she vanished; that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered.
When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged. With a smirk, she said, ""Out of your league, darling." Abandoned Ex-Wife: Now Untouchable
Tao Yaoyao My five-year-old daughter was dying in the ICU, her heartbeat replaced by the continuous, electronic scream of a flatline. I gripped her cold hand, my throat sealed shut by a terror so absolute I couldn't even cry out.
I dialed my husband Grayson's private number, the one reserved only for me and his assistants. He declined the call instantly. A second later, a text buzzed against my palm:
"In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling."
Five miles away, Grayson was at a luxury gala, adjusting his silk tie and laughing with Belle Escobar. He told her I was just being "dramatic" and using our daughter's "fever" as an excuse to avoid the event. He had no idea Effie's heart had already stopped.
When I finally reached our penthouse, soaked from the rain and carrying Effie's small socks in a plastic bag, Grayson didn't even look at me. He snapped at me for ruining the hardwood floors and asked if I'd left Effie with the nanny just to "feel sorry for myself."
Three days later, while I buried our daughter in a small, lonely ceremony, Grayson was at the Hamptons. Belle posted a photo of him golfing with the caption: "A mental health day with the boys." He didn't even attend the funeral, but he returned home demanding I clear out Effie's room to make a study for Belle's son.
The injustice burned through me until there was nothing left. I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, desperate to join my daughter. But instead of the darkness, I woke up to blinding lights and the scent of Grayson's expensive cologne.
I was standing in a ballroom, wearing a blue silk dress I had already burned. Above me, a banner read: "Happy 5th Birthday Kaiden & Effie."
I was back, exactly one year before the tragedy. This time, I wasn't going to be the grieving wife. I was going to be their worst nightmare. The Scars She Hid From The World
REGINA MCBRIDE The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab."
My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle.
When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine.
They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber.
I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone.
At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on. 
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