JENNIFER JARVIS
10 Published Stories
JENNIFER JARVIS's Books and Stories
You Can't Buy My Heart, Mr. Vitiello
Mafia My father sold me to the Vitiello Crime Family to settle a three-million-dollar gambling debt.
For three years, I was Dante Vitiello’s property. I warmed his bed, tended his wounds, and let him own every part of me.
I thought I was earning my freedom. I thought I mattered.
Then his "true queen," the Mafia Princess Sofia, returned to the city.
Dante pushed me off his lap the moment she walked into the room. He ordered me to leave because, in the presence of his equal, I was nothing more than "the help."
The humiliation didn't stop there.
He evicted me from the penthouse to renovate it for her.
At a gala, he outbid me for my grandmother’s heirloom bracelet—my family's last scrap of dignity—just to gift it to Sofia in front of the entire city.
But the final blow came when he came to my bed drunk one last time.
He kissed me with a desperate hunger, whispering that he was only "practicing" his technique on me so he would be perfect for her.
I realized then that I wasn't a person to him. I was a training dummy. A debt with a pulse.
He told me to wait for him while he took her to Paris. He thought I would stay in the kennel like a good pet.
He was wrong.
While he was gone, I accepted a surgical fellowship in Switzerland.
I snapped my SIM card in half, left his millions on the floor, and boarded a one-way flight.
By the time the Wolf comes home to find his cage empty, I will be gone. Love Lost, A Life Reclaimed
Modern My world shattered with a piece of paper. A DNA test revealed I wasn't a Daugherty by blood, but an impostor. My husband, Kane, divorced me, and the real heiress, Britt, took my home, my life, and my son.
Five years later, I was a waitress drowning in my foster mother's medical debt when they walked into my diner. Kane, Britt, and my son, Cleveland, who now called Britt "Mommy."
He looked at me with disgust. "Mommy said you' re not my real mom anymore," he announced. "And you're just a waitress now. Daddy says waitresses are poor."
The words were a knife to the heart. Later that night, my foster mother, Jessi, died in the hospital after Britt whispered poison in her ear, leaving me with a cryptic warning about Britt's dark secrets.
Britt then offered me a job as a live-in nanny, a chance to watch her live my life up close. It was a cruel, humiliating offer.
But I accepted.
Because in my old home, I discovered Britt wasn't just cruel-she was poisoning my son and had infected my ex-husband with a disease. This wasn't just about humiliation anymore. It was about revenge. From Wife To Rival
Romance My husband, Connor, and I built an empire from nothing. Our ten-year marriage was supposed to be a testament to our shared dreams. But then a woman named Gemma Chan entered our lives, a ghost from Connor’s past claiming a “life debt” he felt honor-bound to pay.
It all came to a head in a terrifying kidnapping, where Connor was forced to choose between me, his wife, and Gemma, the daughter of the man who’d saved his life. He chose her.
I watched him walk away with her, leaving me tied up with our captors. His promise to "come back for me" was a cruel lie. Later, in the hospital, I overheard him confessing his love for Gemma, sealing my fate. The ultimate betrayal came when I discovered I was pregnant, only to lose our baby after witnessing their intimate embrace.
The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that ripped through me. I had loved him with every fiber of my being, and he had left me to die, then tortured me with his indifference.
But I wouldn't be a victim. I burned down our home, a symbol of our shattered life, and sold my shares in our company to his fiercest rival, Elliott George. I was done. I was free. The Surviving Twin
Romance The spotlight burned on Dr. Julian Thorne, my mentor, as he claimed credit for my life's work.
I clutched a crumpled program, every clap of applause a slap, as he casually dismissed my contributions, citing my supposed "unpreparedness" for the pressure.
But his true betrayal was revealed as searing pain tore through me, and I collapsed, the world spinning into darkness.
I woke up in a luxurious clinic, Julian by my side, only to hear his chilling words: "There is no baby anymore, Anya."
He looked at me, cold and indifferent, calling our lost child a mere "complication," a "liability" clouding my judgment.
The man I once trusted, the one who called me a "once-in-a-generation talent," had become a monster who saw human life as a burden.
In the depths of despair, the shocking truth emerged: a twin, a tiny flicker of life, had survived the brutal theft of my research and my first child.
Julian's shocked face, seeing the "complication" he thought he' d eliminated, ignited a fierce, desperate resolve within me.
I had to escape, not for vengeance, but to protect the life still fighting inside me, a life he had already tried to extinguish once.
With the help of a kind doctor, I vanished, disappearing into the vast unknown, armed with a new name and a burning promise to my child: I will protect you, no matter what it takes. Beyond The Scratches: An Heiress's Revenge
Billionaires The exclusive charity gala was a suffocating display of elite hypocrisy, a world I, Gabrielle Johns, knew all too well.
My stepfather and his golden child took center stage, gushing over a scholarship student named Maria Chavez.
But Maria was no fragile victim; she was a snake, waiting for her moment to strike.
And she did, seizing the microphone to publicly accuse me of relentless bullying and making her life a hell.
Suddenly, her gaze locked on mine, and she wailed about being driven to self-harm, pulling up her sleeve to reveal faint scratches that were obviously fake.
My stepbrother, Andrew, blinded by rage and infatuation, lunged at me, his eyes spitting venom.
"You monster," he snarled, "you made her want to die!"
The crowd' s sympathy for Maria solidified into open disgust for me, painting me as the entitled villain.
Even my stepfather, Matthew, the man my mother married, stood by, playing the disappointed patriarch, complicit in the charade.
Yet, as the room swam with their judgment and their lies, I refused to move, refusing to kneel.
How could these people, who claimed to care about charity, be so easily duped by such a transparent act?
Why was the man my mother made powerful so quick to turn on me, his own stepdaughter?
This wasn' t just a malicious accusation; it was a cold, calculated strike against everything I believed my family stood for.
But they had made a fatal mistake: they hurt me.
And they had no idea who they were truly dealing with, or what I was capable of doing to protect what was mine. His Silent Vengeance: A Director's Redemption
Modern The smell of antiseptic still clung to me, a phantom reminder of the fire that consumed my old life.
Lying in a hospital bed, a mummy of bandages, I clutched onto the last hope: an experimental skin graft, my only chance to survive.
I was a special effects artist, the guy behind the scenes, but I'd clawed my way to this lifeline.
Then, Jocelyn Chavez, my protégée, the girl I' d trained and paid for, walked in. My "little sister." Her eyes were red, but not for me.
"Andrew," she stammered, "you have to give it to Matthew. He needs his looks. He's a leading man, Andrew. You're… behind the scenes. He needs this more."
I stared, aghast. I was dying, but Matthew's career was her priority. She didn' t see me; she saw a stepping stone for the charming star she was infatuated with. Despite my pleas, she left. Hours later, the nurse told me my spot had been "reallocated" at Jocelyn's request, for "greater public value."
I died that night, alone, betrayed by the girl I' d given everything to. My last thought was of her face, twisted with devotion for him, not sorrow for me. The betrayal burned hotter than any fire.
Then, I jolted awake.
The acrid smell of a smoke machine, not real smoke, filled the air. I was back on set, a year before the fire. A stunt had just gone wrong. And there was Matthew, playing the hero, pointing to a girl with a real injury, Jocelyn, expecting me to handle the "trouble."
This time, things would be different. I am Not Your Villainess
Romance Years ago, I, Ava, the adopted daughter, stumbled upon an old screenplay that labeled me the villainess. It foretold my role: a sacrifice for my 'perfect' sister, Chloe. Desperate to rewrite my fate, I poured kindness into the lives around me, subtly guiding studio executive Ethan Crawford to success and saving Marcus Vance from a life on the streets. My hope was to earn loyalty, to shield myself from the script' s cruel prophecy.
But on the set of Ethan' s latest film, that hope shattered. A controlled explosion went wrong. While Chloe emerged with a mere scratch, a piece of debris slammed into my side. Agony stole my breath. No one noticed. My adoptive mother accused me of distracting Chloe, and Ethan, seeing only Chloe' s 'trauma,' dismissed my cries for help as 'drama.' He ordered Marcus to take me to an isolated, decaying guesthouse, to keep me out of the press. Marcus, the man I saved, left me there alone, choosing to 'check on Chloe at the hospital' instead.
I bled out, helpless and forgotten, the script' s narrative unfolding flawlessly. Every act of kindness, every sacrifice I made, was twisted against me, cementing Chloe' s manipulative victimhood. How could those I helped so devotedly believe such cruel lies? Was my destiny truly sealed by a cursed story?
My death, however, was just the beginning. My spirit lingered, an unseen witness. I watched Marcus, desperate to conceal what he'd done, chillingly preserve my body in ice. But the truth, cold and silent, would soon shatter the carefully constructed illusions of everyone involved, dragging the Ashworth family, and the Hollywood elite, into a scandal far more devastating than any screenplay could predict. From Park Ranger To Phoenix
Modern I lived a quiet, simple life as a park ranger, nestled comfortably in my cabin, and for months, my greatest joy was Alex, the charming amnesiac man I'd rescued.
He' d carved me a tiny wooden bluebird, the symbol of our shared happiness, and we' d built a future together, filled with whispered promises of forever.
My world shattered the moment a black sedan pulled up: Alex' s mother, Eleanor Ashford, stepped out like a creature from a glossy magazine, coldly revealing that "Alex" was merely Ethan Ashford, a wealthy scion already engaged to a socialite.
She dismissed me, then offered a check, demanding I simply disappear.
Ethan completely discarded me with a cold, formal dismissal, acting as if our love never existed.
I was dragged into his world, subjected to public humiliation at lavish parties, mocked for my humble attire.
When his fiancée and I both plunged into the stormy ocean, he chose to save her, leaving me to battle the waves alone, then incredibly, forced me to donate bone marrow to her after she collapsed.
His mother later ordered me beaten, ensuring my silent compliance for his upcoming wedding.
How could the man who had cradled me, vowing protection and a shared future, transform into this ruthless stranger who betrayed every loving word?
Was the "Alex" I knew just a phantom, or was this monster the true Ethan Ashford?
The sheer injustice, the pain, the betrayal burned hotter than any physical wound.
But they misjudged me; I wouldn't break.
Clutching their payoff, I boarded a bus heading deep into the Colorado Rockies, determined to carve out a new life far from their opulent cruelty.
A terrifying blizzard and a crashed military helicopter unexpectedly threw me into the path of a powerful stranger, setting me on a new, unimaginable course. Too Late, Mark Olsen
Romance I sacrificed a dream career in Silicon Valley and moved halfway across the country, all to build a life with Mark, the man I loved.
But then, an Instagram post shattered my world: Mark, arm around a blonde I didn’t know, captioned “Celebrating my new role with the amazing Chloe Vanderbilt!”
When I confronted him, he unveiled a callous betrayal, coldly stating Chloe was his girlfriend and I was merely a past chapter, no longer “in his league.”
My attempt to warn Chloe about his true nature backfired spectacularly, as she dismissed me as a "crazy, jealous ex" and, together with Mark, orchestrated a public humiliation at a downtown bar.
The ultimate horror struck moments later when two thugs ambushed me, physically assaulted me, and stole everything, growling a chilling warning to "stay away from Austin."
Bruised, traumatized, and stripped bare of my dignity and possessions, I was forced to flee the city that had crumbled my life to dust.
How could the man I loved, and his new partner, conspire to destroy me so completely, leaving me feeling utterly abandoned and broken with no one to turn to?
The injustice burned hotter than any physical wound, screaming for an answer no one seemed willing to provide.
But as my plane lifted off, leaving Austin behind, the despair solidified into steel: I vowed to remake myself, stronger and smarter, and one day, they would realize the true cost of their cruel game. 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. Too Late To Beg: My Cold Ex-Husband
Bei Ke On our ninth anniversary, my husband Dominick didn't toast to us. Instead, he rested his hand on his mistress's pregnant belly in front of the entire crime family.
I was just a debt payment to him, a ghost in a forty-thousand-dollar gown.
But the humiliation didn't end in the ballroom. When his mistress, Chastity, started hemorrhaging later that night, he didn't call an ambulance. He dragged me to the family clinic.
He knew I had a serious heart condition. He knew a transfusion of that magnitude could trigger a fatal cardiac event.
"She is carrying my son," he said, his eyes devoid of any humanity.
"You will give her whatever she needs."
I begged him. I bargained for my freedom. He lied and agreed, just to get the needle in my arm.
As my dark red blood flowed through the tube to save the woman destroying my life, my chest tightened. The monitors began to scream. My heart was failing.
"Mr. Reyes! She's crashing!" the doctor shouted.
Dominick didn't even turn around.
He walked out of the room to hold Chastity's hand, leaving me to die on the table.
I survived, but Annis Myers died in that clinic.
He thought I would return to the penthouse and continue being his obedient, silent wife. He thought he owned the blood in my veins.
He was wrong.
I went back to the penthouse one last time. I struck a match.
I let the room burn.
By the time Dominick realized I wasn't in the ashes, I was already on a plane to London.
I had left my wedding ring in an envelope, along with the medical records that proved his cruelty.
He wanted a war? I would give him one. 
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