Janie
17 Published Stories
Janie's Books and Stories
My Cruel Ex-Husband Demands A Remarriage
Mafia I spun the dial on the hidden wall safe, expecting to find the Glock 19 Aiden insisted I keep.
Instead, I found a ledger proving my husband, the Mafia's most feared Enforcer, was funding a secret family with my dead father's money.
For seven years, I had been his obedient doll. I cleaned the blood off his knuckles and justified his violence.
But the ledger showed he had siphoned my entire inheritance into a trust for a child he had with his brother's wife.
When I tried to leave, his mistress framed me as a spy.
Aiden didn't ask for proof. He didn't hesitate.
He dragged me to a damp warehouse, hooded me, and beat me until my ribs cracked.
He left me to rot in the dark, ignoring the diamond bracelet on my wrist—the very one he had gifted me the day before as a symbol of his "ownership."
He thought he had broken me. He thought I would die in that basement, a silent collateral of his rage.
But he made a fatal mistake. He left me alive.
I escaped through a ventilation grate and ran straight to the one man Aiden feared most: his sworn enemy, Jensen Levy.
"Make me a weapon," I told him.
Two years later, I walked back into Aiden's office.
Not as his battered wife, but as the CEO of the corporation that had just bought his empire's debt.
He looked at me with horror, realizing the ghost he created had come back to burn him down.
"Hello, Aiden," I said, pressing a high-voltage tactical pen against his chest.
"You're trespassing." The Alpha's Barren Luna: Erasing The Mate Bond
Werewolf I was the Weaver, the only wolf capable of knitting the spiritual wards that protected our billion-dollar empire. But to my husband, the Alpha, I was just a piece of malfunctioning tech.
Ten years ago, I crushed my spine and destroyed my womb pulling him from a burning car. Now, because I couldn't give him an heir, he treated me like a ghost in his own home.
The breaking point wasn't the affair. It was seeing Brendan, the man who once told me "Alphas do not kneel," drop to one knee on a public sidewalk to tie his pregnant mistress's sneaker.
He touched her stomach with a reverence he had never shown me.
That night, his mistress sent me a video of them together, captioning it: He's painting the sky for our son. What did he paint for you? Nothing. Because you're barren.
I realized then that a divorce wouldn't free me. He would never release his most valuable asset. The Mate Bond was a chain, and as long as my wolf lived, I was his prisoner.
I didn't want his money. I didn't want an apology. I wanted total erasure.
So, I bought a forbidden potion called Tabula Rasa. It doesn't just wipe your memory; it dissolves the wolf spirit with acid and severs the soul-tie.
I rigged the estate's defense wards to self-destruct, melted my Luna ring into a lump of slag, and drank the poison.
When Brendan finally rushed home, terrified by the collapsing wards, he found me standing over the shattered vial.
He screamed my name, trying to use the Alpha Command to make me submit.
But I just looked at this weeping stranger with calm, human eyes and asked, "Who are you?" My Billionaire Husband's Deadly Betrayal
Modern My husband, tech billionaire Amir Carter, was a god in Chicago. For five years, he was the perfect husband, and I, a pediatric doctor, believed I had finally tamed the infamous playboy.
But when my brother Keon needed an urgent heart transplant, everything fell apart. The donor Amir found was a young singer-exactly his type.
On the day of the surgery, as my brother was dying, I found my husband comforting her.
"Don't pressure her, Blake," he said. "She's delicate."
Then the call came. My brother was dead. Amir didn't even notice, annoyed that I was stressing out his new project.
He pushed me down a flight of stairs, crashed his car into my taxi to protect her, and gave her the last gift my brother ever made for me.
He saw me bleeding on the floor and walked right past, his only concern for the woman who let my brother die. My fairy tale was a lie. I was just another one of his seasonal projects, now completed and discarded.
He took everything from me. So I signed the divorce papers, refused his millions, and vanished. Now, he's left alone with the truth: he killed my brother, and he didn't even know it. Don't Cry Now, My Heartless Ex-Husband
Modern The smell of leaking gasoline burned my nostrils, but the cold look in my husband's eyes hurt worse.
Trapped in the overturned car, I watched Jacob reach in. He didn't reach for me, his wife. He unbuckled his mistress, Cassandra, shielding her head with a tenderness he never showed me.
He walked away, leaving me to burn.
I survived, but at a brutal cost. My right hand—the hand that played Chopin—was crushed into a useless claw.
Jacob didn't apologize. Instead, he moved Cassandra into our home. He let her wear my diamonds, mock my injuries, and burn my sheet music.
When I tried to expose her embezzlement, he called me unstable. To punish me for "betraying the family," he dug up my mother's grave and threw her ashes into the sea.
That was the moment the wife died, and something else was born. He thought he had buried me under the weight of his cruelty. He didn't realize he had planted a seed.
I staged my death and vanished into the snowy streets of Vienna.
Five years later, I am a world-renowned composer, and Jacob is a ruined man in a wheelchair, begging for a forgiveness I no longer have the energy to give. Burning His Empire For My Sister
Romance My sister died because my husband' s mistress needed the helicopter for her dog. I called him, begging him to send his medevac chopper. He promised it would be there in thirty minutes.
It never came. As my sister' s heart monitor flatlined, I saw the reason on Instagram. His mistress, Brooklyn, was posing with the helicopter, thanking my husband, Jax, for saving her Pomeranian who ate some chocolate.
When I confronted him, he chose her. He pushed me, and after the car crash that followed, he rescued her from the wreckage while leaving me bleeding in the back.
At the hospital, he played the hero for the news, but the final blow came from my lawyer. Our five-year marriage was a fraud; the license was fake.
So I disappeared. Now, two years later, I' m back. He built an empire on my back, and I' m here to burn it all to the ground. Signed Away: A Life Unbound
Romance The printer hummed, spitting out the last page of the asset transfer agreement for a company I' d spent five years building with my husband, Liam. Five years of a marriage that was now just ash.
My phone buzzed. It was Dr. Alex Chen. "Chloe, are you sure about this? There are other ways." His voice was gentle, the same way it had been for years, trying to hold me together. "No, Alex," I replied, my voice hollow and distant, "There' s no other way. Not for me."
He was sick, he didn't know what he was doing. But I was sick too. Sick of waiting for a man who no longer existed, a man who, two months ago, drugged me with potent sleeping pills so he could go out with his ex-girlfriend, Sophia. Because of that, his mother, Liam' s kind mother, died alone. He admitted it without a hint of guilt.
My heart finally turned to stone. The love I had clung to, the hope I had nurtured in the dark, it all died with her. For five years, I had cared for him, run our tech company, the one we built together, while he slowly disappeared. His memory didn't just fade; it rewound. He was twenty-one again, and dating Sophia Reed.
Now, I was just a means to an end. The woman who paid the bills so he could shower Sophia with gifts, the woman who ran the company so he had a fortune to offer his college sweetheart. I had spent the last two months meticulously preparing for this. Every share, every asset, every dollar in the company was being transferred to him. I was leaving him with everything. And I was leaving him.
I gave him the papers. He barely glanced at them, his thumbs moving across his phone. "What is it? More boring company stuff?" he asked. "Can't you handle it?" I pointed to the signature lines. "It's an asset transfer. It's all yours now. Just sign, and it's done." In his current state, he didn't even notice the divorce papers tucked at the bottom of the stack. He just wanted to get back to Sophia.
"Hey, Soph," he answered, his voice dripping with affection. "Yeah, I' m on my way now. Just had to sign some stuff here for… her." He didn' t even use my name. "No, it' s great news. I basically own the whole company now. We can buy that beach house you wanted. Yeah, the one in Malibu." He walked out the door, still laughing about all the things they were going to do with the money I' d signed over to him, without letting me tell him his mother was dead.
The door clicked shut behind him. When Love Makes Her Sick
Romance Sophia was the love of my life, but my affection literally made her sick.
For three agonizing years, every "I love you," every tender touch, brought on nausea, paleness, and a mad dash to the bathroom.
I tried everything-different cologne, a changed diet-but the only trigger was my unwavering love for her.
I was living in a special kind of hell, believing my love was her poison.
The final straw: our third anniversary. I planned a romantic evening, hoping things had changed.
But when I whispered, "I love you," she ran, violently retching in the bathroom.
Later that night, I overheard her tearfully tell her childhood friend: "His love is suffocating me. It' s a physical thing. It makes me sick."
My heart shattered; my affection was her torture.
I packed my bags, ready to leave, ready to finally free us both from this agony.
But then, the unimaginable happened.
Sophia got into a car accident.
She was rushed to the ICU, clinging to life.
And then her aunt called, revealing a devastating truth that turned my world upside down.
It wasn' t disgust.
It was love, too powerful for her traumatized soul to bear.
My love wasn' t poison; it was the cure she was too afraid to take.
I raced back, fueled by a terrifying hope.
But would it be too late? Betrayed Bride's Rebirth: A Vengeful Heart
Romance The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to me, a cruel reminder of my last moments.
Just hours after giving birth, my stepsister, Emily, forced poison down my throat, her beautiful face twisted in a triumphant smirk.
My husband, Mark, stood by, his hands pinning me to the hospital bed, his eyes cold and indifferent as life drained from mine.
They told the world I died of childbirth complications; a tragic accident.
Emily and Mark built their perfect family on the foundation of my unmarked grave.
But then, a violent gasp jolted me awake.
I shot up in bed, my chest heaving, the scent of antiseptic replaced by cool air and familiar sunlight.
I wasn't dead. My body was unblemished, my stomach flat.
I was back in my old bedroom, a month before they framed me, a month before I was forced to marry Mark.
Rage and betrayal solidified within me-not a fleeting flame, but an unshakeable stone.
"Is everything ready for tonight?" my stepmother, Mrs. Davis, whispered downstairs, her voice sharp and calculating.
"The drug is in the drink," Emily replied sweetly. "Once Chloe has it, we get her to the hotel room. A few photographers, a 'concerned' call to the Wilsons... and her reputation will be ruined forever."
Their plan, so wicked and perfect, was laid bare, just as I remembered. Frame me, ruin me, force me into marriage, then erase me entirely.
But this time, I knew their game.
And this time, I wouldn't be a pawn. I would be the one setting the board. Betrayal's Sting: Her Own Path
Young Adult The university library hummed with the quiet hum of panic on the last day for college applications.
My finger hovered over the 'Submit' button for Caltech, my dream school, when I heard him.
Liam, my best friend since childhood, was laughing with his friends, his voice cutting through the silence.
"Chloe' s going there. She' s an art major, and she' s kind of nervous about being in the city alone. Someone' s got to look out for her."
Then the words that shattered everything: "Ava? It' s fine. She has my account password. When she sees I' ve changed my mind, she' ll follow suit. She can' t live without me anyway."
My breath caught.
He hadn' t just broken our decade-long promise of attending Caltech together; he expected me to abandon my own future, my father' s legacy, like a pet.
He truly saw me as an extension of himself, not a person with my own dreams.
The casual cruelty stung, deeper than any physical pain.
How could he so easily dismiss everything we' d planned, everything I was, for a new girl he barely knew?
Had our shared dream, the very foundation of my future, been nothing but a fleeting whim to him?
The betrayal was absolute, the humiliation searing.
I had built my world around a promise that, for him, was apparently disposable.
But then, a cold anger washed over me, stronger than any hurt.
He thought I couldn' t live without him?
He had no idea.
With a steady hand, I clicked 'Submit' on my Caltech application, forging my own path, free from his shadow. Seven Days to a Kiss
Fantasy My husband, Ethan, and I had a simple rule for our five-year marriage: we could have affairs, but our mansion was off-limits. It was our only sanctuary.
Then, on my birthday, he broke it.
He walked in with a girl named Tara, who looked disturbingly like my deceased sister, Gabrielle. Without even looking at me, Ethan' s voice cut through the air: "Jocelyn, I want a divorce. I' m going to be with her."
A strange calm settled over me.
I should have felt the familiar sting of betrayal, but I felt nothing.
Perhaps because two days earlier, I died. On our fifth anniversary, a truck swerved, and I died on impact. Yet, my soul, consumed by obsession for Ethan, refused to leave, binding me to this world. That' s when Papa Legba, a spirit of the crossroads, appeared.
He offered me a deal: seven days to get a true kiss from Ethan, and my life would be returned. Fail, and my soul was his.
I knew it was impossible; Ethan had never kissed me with genuine emotion. But I accepted. Now, watching my husband replace me, I was already on day two.
"Ethan, please. Just one kiss," I begged, but he scoffed, "I only kiss women I love."
Then, he kissed Tara deeply, passionately, right in front of me. The pain was so sharp, it felt like I was dying all over again. I was trapped, a phantom in my own life, with a magical red thread on my wrist visibly fading, signaling my impending eternal demise. And no one, especially not the man I loved, believed me. The Unseen Genius: A Family\'s Ruin
Modern I finally won. First place in the state math decathlon, the key to the gaming PC my family promised.
But when I walked through the door, my savings were gone, spent on ridiculously expensive lacrosse gear for my adoptive brother, Caleb, who was expertly faking devastation over a lost game.
My father scoffed, calling my victory "showing off" and my computer "stupid," while my mother and sister rallied around Caleb, reminding me of "the rule" – I was never to outshine him.
Then, at dinner, they ignored my severe dairy allergy while meticulously catering to Caleb's, leading to him faking a fall and accusing me, prompting my family to unite against me, forcing a hollow apology, and culminating in my sister throwing my backpack out the front door, effectively banishing me.
It was clear: in their eyes, I was merely a guest, a problem to be managed, and my achievements were just an inconvenient truth.
But as I walked away into the night, a quiet resolve solidified: they wanted a failure, and I would give them one – on their terms – while secretly building an empire they knew nothing about. Unwanted Pet, Undeniable Power
Romance My life was a meticulously groomed arena, flawless and secure, all thanks to Ethan Blackwood.
He rescued me, an orphaned girl clutching a lead rope and a trembling colt, after the fire took my parents and everything else.
He was my protector, my world. I believed he loved me unconditionally.
Then, the faint, expensive scent of Isabelle Thorne' s jasmine perfume clinging to his suit.
A physical manifestation of the lie he lived.
I pulled away from his embrace, the disgust a physical thing in my throat. He wasn' t just unfaithful; he saw me merely as a "talented little charity case," a prized pet.
The final blow came not from him, but from his perfect, polished mistress.
Isabelle Thorne herself sought me out, her cold smile dripping venom.
She mocked my past, confirmed Ethan' s dismissal of me, then, with a sneer, snatched my mother' s sunstone locket from my neck, deliberately breaking its delicate chain. It fell to the dusty stable floor, mirroring my shattered heart.
How could I have been so blind? So utterly devoted to a man who saw me as nothing more than a plaything, a controllable asset? The humiliation burned, making me feel physically sick.
My mother' s locket, my last tangible link, lay shattered like my trust, like my perception of my former savior.
I scrubbed my skin raw, desperate to wash away his touch, his scent, his betrayal.
I fled to Serenity Peak, determined to heal and find myself. But my quiet retreat detonated into a fierce quest for justice when a kind vet mended my broken locket.
He revealed a hidden compartment, and inside lay my mother' s secret journal, detailing not only the lost art of breeding Sunstone Stallions, but hinting at a ruthless man who coveted their work, a man who haunted their lives.
My escape was no longer just about healing; it became a quest to unravel a terrifying truth and reclaim everything I had lost. Second Chance, First Strike
Fantasy The scratchy lace of the pillowcase was the first sensation as I woke up, followed by the blinding Texas sun through thin curtains.
My heart hammered. This room. I knew this room.
It was the historic Texas ranch B&B, the very place everything in my previous life went horribly wrong.
I was breathing. Alive. Yet, I vividly remembered my death: exploited and fatally harmed at an awful "wellness retreat."
A jolt went through me. My phone confirmed the terrifying truth: I was back.
Back at the very start of the family reunion, on the infamous day of the stolen locket.
My own mother, Brenda, with her constant excuse of "I was only trying to help!" had systematically dismantled my life.
She' d framed me for theft, costing me a major promotion and my reputation.
She' d replaced my blood sample, leading to a false illness diagnosis that torpedoed my executive career.
Her relentless "help" had driven me to financial ruin and ultimately, to that fatal retreat.
Years of her suffocating "good intentions" had paved my road to hell, culminating in a betrayal that cost me my life.
The sheer injustice of it, the constant erosion of my autonomy and future, was a torment that lasted until my last breath.
But now, I was back. And this time, things would be profoundly different.
A cold, clear idea sparked, promising a future where her "help" would finally be her undoing. The Unkillable Truth
Horror My quiet dorm room shattered with the phone call that ripped my ordinary life apart.
The police officer's grim voice delivered the unthinkable: my father, brother, and grandmother were deceased, and my own mother, Eleanor, was apparently their killer, now vanished.
I abandoned university, returning to a house haunted not by ghosts, but by the unbearable silence and the world's cruel whispers of "The Miracle Cure Murders."
They painted my mother, who'd miraculously recovered from a rare disease, as a monster who slaughtered her family.
But none of it made sense; I knew only love in that house, and the inexplicable violence left me desperate for answers.
For three years, I obsessively replayed the security footage, consumed by the incomprehensible truth.
Then, a tiny detail emerged: my mother took nothing but Grandma Rose's vintage lace wedding dress, the one meant for me.
This specific dress, a coded message in the chaos, sparked a desperate plan.
I would stage a public wedding, an irresistible trap, to finally lure the vanished killer back and uncover the impossible truth. The Bellucci Bride's Vengeance
Mafia The air was thick with the scent of lilies and impending death in Don Tony Marino's master suite.
As his daughter-in-law, I was expected to maintain composure, a mask I wore expertly through the hushed murmurs of the family.
But nothing could prepare me for the scene that unfolded before my eyes.
My husband, Sonny, burst into the death room, dragging a garish woman with too much makeup.
His frantic shouts echoed: "Pop, I' m in love! This is Luna. I want an annulment from Izzy!"
He declared his intention to marry this gold-digger, shattering our family's most crucial alliance with my father, Don Marcus Bellucci.
A betrayal so audacious, it nearly brought the dying Don back to life in pure rage.
The shock reverberated through the hushed capos and family gathered outside the door.
Sonny, blinded by obsession, publicly shamed me, calling me cold and calculating.
Then, Luna, the parasite, offered her "brilliant" plan to save the family: an outdated cryptocurrency money-laundering scheme.
A plan so simple, so fatally flawed, even street dealers knew better.
My heart ached, not for Sonny, but for the profound disrespect shown to my family, to the very alliance cemented by my brothers' sacrifice.
How could he be so foolish? So reckless?
Was this truly the end of everything our combined families had built, all for a cheap Vegas grifter?
But as Luna babbled, a quiet, cold determination ignited within me.
I calmly exposed her amateur scheme, revealing its fatal flaws for everyone to hear.
In that fraught moment, a dying Don Tony Marino looked at me not as just an ally's daughter, but as the only one capable of confronting the chaos.
Little did I know, this public humiliation was just the first tremor.
The true reckoning for our family, and the rise of a new era, was about to begin. Don't Take The Test
Sci-fi It was SAT day, a pivotal moment, when a text from my brother Michael – vanished three years ago – shattered the calm: "Don't take the test!" My stomach twisted. He' d resurfaced. But how?
Then, my world truly fractured. My 'Mom' entered, her smile unsettlingly wide, her familiar mole bizarrely on the wrong side. Her reflection in the mirror seemed to melt. My 'Dad' also felt wrong, his touch cold, wearing a hated rival's jersey. These weren't my parents. My home, my family, had become an unnerving performance.
As they subtly pressured me towards the exam, even Michael's best friend, Ethan, joined their unsettling charade. A mysterious 'Dr. Reed' called, claiming Michael was dead, that I was hallucinating his texts, suffering from PTSD. They presented a fake funeral video with glaring inconsistencies.
Was I insane? Was my grief twisting reality? Deep-seated defiance screamed no. Only a single, secret promise, known just to the real Michael and me, could slice through this elaborate deception. I texted him, and his perfect, instant reply confirmed it. This world was a meticulously crafted lie. Michael was alive, trapped somewhere. I had to break free, through every twisted layer of illusion, until I hunted down the true mastermind. My freedom, and Michael's, depended on it. And I was ready to crash this reality. My Formidable Beggar Husband
Romance Here’s the translation of your text into English:
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Andrew became the top scholar of the nation, and immediately turned his back on me, becoming Krista's subordinate. Krista, jealous of Andrew's lingering feelings for me, forced me to become a prostitute in front of everyone. The countless stares and curses from the crowd made me lose all hope of living. Just as I was about to end my own life, a beggar reached out to me.
"Don't seek death; I want you," he said. He draped his tattered robe over me and took me away. Krista sat high on her platform, laughing mockingly: "A bitch is well-suited for a beggar; a match made in heaven."
The beggar held me tighter and whispered, "Next time we return, take their heads as your bride price..." I thought this was just empty comfort, but to my surprise, he donned silver armor and led an army of 150,000 to come and fight...
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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 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. 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.* 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." 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. 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. Revenge Is Sweet: Marrying His Worst Enemy
CHRISTINE ROBINSON 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." 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. Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him
SHANA GRAY I died on a Tuesday.
It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father.
I was twenty years old.
He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant.
He chose her. He always chose her.
And then, I woke up.
Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for.
This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice.
He didn't know he was talking to a ghost.
He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal.
He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder.
That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry.
She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts.
So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie.
I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane.
But I will not be a victim.
This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter.
This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain. 
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