Leanora Tanouye
8 Published Stories
Leanora Tanouye's Books and Stories
My Kidney For His Mistress: Never Again
Mafia I woke up from surgery with a jagged scar on my side and a missing kidney.
My fiancé, Dante Moretti, the Capo of the Chicago Outfit, hadn't saved me from an illness. He had harvested me like spare parts to save his mistress, Sofia.
"She pays the tithe," he had told the surgeon coldly while I was paralyzed by anesthesia.
For ten years, I was his loyal shadow. I managed his legitimate empire, took bullets for him, and even aborted our child three years ago because Sofia threw a tantrum about bloodlines.
I thought my absolute loyalty would eventually earn his love.
But when the Cartel held us both over the edge of a bridge days later, Dante didn't choose me.
He tackled Sofia to safety and watched as I fell backward into the freezing black river.
He thought I drowned. Or worse, he assumed I was a dog that would eventually swim back to its master, no matter how hard he kicked it.
He was wrong.
I dragged myself out of that water, but the woman who loved him died in the depths.
Seven days later, I didn't return to the Moretti penthouse.
I walked straight into the headquarters of his mortal enemy, Enzo Falcone.
"Do you still want to marry me?" I asked the man who wanted Dante’s head on a spike.
Enzo didn't hesitate. "I will burn the city down before I let him touch you again."
Now, Dante is crawling at my gates, paralyzed and ruined, holding a medical box containing my stolen kidney.
But he forgot one thing: I don't want it back. The Photographer's Deceptive Lens
Modern My husband, Austen, was the handsome, stable anchor in my life as a fashion influencer. His one flaw? He was hilariously bad with a camera. Or so I thought, until a viral photo exposed him as Chiaroscuro, a legendary photographer who vanished years ago for his muse, Isolde.
On our anniversary, while I was secretly pregnant, he abandoned me to save her comeback show.
He called not to check on me, but to demand I ship him my $15,000 camera-a gift from him-for her use.
"It's wasted on your little influencer shoots anyway," he said, his voice flat.
His words hit me as I sat alone in a clinic, having just lost our baby.
He hung up. The dial tone buzzed in the silent room. I wasn't just a placeholder; I was a tool.
I looked down at my phone, where the number for my lawyer was already saved, and pressed call. The Ninth Goodbye: My Husband's Cruel Bet
Modern On the night of our fifth anniversary, my husband left me standing on the shoulder of the Montauk Highway in a blinding thunderstorm.
His red taillights didn't even hesitate as they faded into the rain.
He abandoned me there because his ex-girlfriend, Isabelle, called to say she heard a scary noise in her basement.
I stood in my soaked silk dress, shivering not from the cold, but from the realization that this was the ninth time.
He had missed my gallbladder surgery to support her at a polo match.
He had missed my grandmother’s funeral to fix her flat tire.
But the truth was far crueler than simple neglect.
Weeks later, after I survived a terrifying elevator accident that left me with a permanent limp, I overheard them talking at a gala.
"The bet was for nine goodbyes, Marcus," Isabelle laughed, clutching his arm. "I bet you that I could make you leave her nine times before she finally snapped. And look at that. I won."
My marriage wasn't a tragedy; it was a game. A wager between lovers who used my pain as a scoreboard.
I didn't cry. I didn't make a scene.
I went back to our penthouse, packed my sketchbooks, and vanished into the night without a word.
Five years later, Marcus found me in a small coastal town in Maine.
I was no longer the waiting wife. I was a celebrated sculptor, and I was holding the hand of a man who treated me like a treasure, not a toy.
Marcus stormed into my studio, demanding I come home.
My new husband stepped between us, calm and unyielding.
"You're trespassing," he said.
"I'm talking to my wife!" Marcus yelled.
I finally turned around, looking at the man who had destroyed me, and smiled.
"Ex-wife," I corrected softly. "And you're late. About five years too late." Second Chance At A Loveless Marriage
Romance The antiseptic smell of my deathbed couldn't mask the stench of betrayal.
My wife, Emily, played the grieving spouse, her tears a performance, her whispers to her lover, Daniel, charting my demise.
"He's not going to make it through the night. I'll be free soon, my love."
That name, Daniel Sterling, a family friend I admired, shattered my world faster than my failing heart.
My final sight was Emily's beautiful, lying face, cold and irritated by my inconvenient death.
Then, blinding light. I gasped, sucking in real air, not in a hospital, but my old bedroom, decades younger, strong, unblemished hands.
It was real. I was back.
Memories of my first life flooded me: the loveless marriage, the quiet sacrifices, the children who weren't mine.
Then, the pivotal memory from this timeline, the one that started it all: a party, too much to drink, Emily crying, pregnant, my naive proposal driven by a sense of duty, a lie.
She was already carrying Daniel's child, using me as a shield to protect his budding career.
The bedroom door creaked open. "Ethan? Are you awake?"
It was Emily, radiant and innocent, carrying breakfast, her hand reaching for my forehead with the same feigned care from my deathbed.
I flinched from her touch. "Emily," I said, my voice cold, "We need to talk about the wedding."
Her smile faltered as I flatly stated, "I don't think we should get married."
Her crocodile tears flowed, "I love you, Ethan!" she whimpered.
"Don't," I warned, her words now poison.
She played her trump card, placing her hand on her stomach. "I'm... I'm pregnant, Ethan. It's your baby."
I almost laughed, knowing the truth this time.
"Emily has always been like a sister to me," I announced, loud enough for our families downstairs to hear. "I'll always care for her."
Her face, pure unadulterated panic, confirmed it. The game had just begun, and this time, I was making the rules. His Fake Death, Her Real Power
Romance The call came on a Tuesday, the day before my wedding.
My fiancé, David, was dead, killed in a gang shootout.
My world shattered; I was five months pregnant, and the grief choked me so completely I tried to take my own life six times.
Why was this pain so absolute, so suffocating, when his mother' s eyes were dry and his twin brother, Mark, couldn' t even be bothered to come home for the funeral?
Then, late one night, I heard hushed voices from the study-David' s mother and a voice that was undeniably David' s.
"You can't keep this up, David," she said.
My blood ran cold.
"She's strong, Mom. She'll get over it," David' s voice replied, callous and cruel.
He wasn' t dead.
He had faked his death to be with Olivia, his brother' s wife, claiming she was too "fragile" to handle the truth of losing Mark.
Every tear, every desperate attempt to die, had been for a lie.
The grief burned away, replaced by an icy fury.
My pain wouldn' t vanish; it would transform into fuel.
I picked up my phone, scrolled to a name I never thought I' d call-Ethan Thorne, David' s biggest rival.
"Mr. Thorne, this is Sarah Miller," I said, my voice shockingly steady.
"Your offer… for a hundred-million-dollar dowry to marry me. Does it still stand?" No Longer Just a Wife
Billionaires I was Ava, the unsung architect behind InnovateNext, the tech empire my husband Ethan now helmed.
For eight years, I' d been his devoted wife, sacrificing my groundbreaking career and protecting his fragile ego by taking the blame for our infertility.
Our Connecticut home was a picture of domestic bliss, a testament to our seemingly perfect life.
Then came the ping.
A casual link from a friend, unfurling a private Instagram story, shattered everything.
There was Ethan, supposedly headlining a conference in San Francisco, but geotagged in SoHo, New York.
He stood beaming in a luxury baby boutique, arm around Chloe, a young intern, her belly unmistakably round.
The look on his face – pure, unadulterated joy – was a stranger to me.
My frantic call to him went to voicemail, followed by his immediate lie: "In a keynote session. Can't talk."
Within hours, I faced Chloe in a lavish SoHo loft, perfectly tailored to the desires Ethan had always denied me.
She smugly revealed their three-year affair, flaunting how Ethan mirrored "my Pinterest boards" for her, not me.
Her final, cruel blow: "He feels sorry for you... A man needs a woman who can give him a family. He needs a woman who is soft, not one who is... capable."
The profound betrayal was a punch to the gut, erasing a decade of loyalty and self-sacrifice.
My heart didn't break; it turned to ash.
All my years shielding his insecurities had been for a man who saw me as merely "capable," not a woman worthy of love or a family.
But from that ash, something sharp and cold ignited.
Revenge.
I wasn't just leaving him.
I was going to dismantle every empire he built on my back.
The war had just begun. The Man Who Faked His Own Death for Freedom
Romance Ethan Miller, an architect adrift in the shadow of his formidable wife, Isabella Vance, found his fragile existence shattering around him.
His public humiliation began when Isabella outbid him for his deceased father's cherished vintage watch, only to immediately gift it to her sleek young lover, Julian Thorne.
This cruel public spectacle was merely a prelude to Isabella's escalating emotional warfare.
She held his ailing sister, Sarah, hostage with the threat of cutting off her life-saving experimental treatment, using her as leverage to solidify Ethan's subservience and tolerate Julian's constant presence.
Julian, an utter villain, brazenly destroyed Ethan's father's watch and framed Ethan for a violent attack, all while Isabella blindly defended her lover, even sanctioning Ethan's physical assault.
The ultimate devastation came when Julian, with Isabella's unwitting complicity, orchestrated Sarah's tragic death during experimental surgery.
In a final act of horrifying rage and injustice, Isabella, unaware of Ethan's long-held secret protecting her own infertility, summarily aborted their last, desperate chance at a child.
Left with nothing but the unbearable grief for his sister, the incomprehensible loss of his unborn child, and the sting of profound betrayal, Ethan wrestled with the unfathomable depths of his wife's cruelty and blindness.
How could the woman he'd once loved, who had once saved him, become such a monstrous architect of his destruction?
But out of the ashes of his shattered life, a new resolve burned: Ethan meticulously gathered damning evidence against Julian, orchestrating his own 'death' to escape Isabella's suffocating control.
He shed his old identity, transforming into Marcus Thorne, finding a new purpose and unexpected love, while Isabella, confronted by his evidence, embarked on her own path of chaotic revenge and desperate atonement. Tangled In Love And Lies
History Here's the translation of your text into English:
"In order to avenge the Zleanding family that was wiped out, I became a tool for Prince Cody. He sent me to the regent's residence, and I helped him seize the throne. With the help of love witchcraft, I became the only woman to climb into Regent Tobias's bed since the death of his wife. Tobias couldn't live without me, and he followed my every word and action.
As I spent day after day with him, I discovered that the back garden of the Marsh Residence was imprisoning many Zleanding women. In an attempt to bring his deceased wife back to life, he poisoned them to extract resurrection witchcraft. I wanted to take them away, but on the day I obtained the antidote, my identity was revealed to the public. Tobias hated me, yet he loved me because of the witchcraft.
Caught between love and hate, I ended his life and left Egoding with those girls who had been imprisoned for half their lives, to rebuild our home." You might like
Rejected by the Son, I Chose the Don
Rabbit On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up.
As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress.
The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me.
The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one.
With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered.
I chose the one man they never expected.
I chose his father, the Don himself.
The Jilted Bride's Secret Mafia King
Benjamen Ernst Standing at the altar of St. Patrick's Cathedral, I waited to marry my wealthy fiancé in front of three hundred of New York's elite.
But right before the vows, my phone vibrated in my bouquet. It was a text from my groom: he was backing out because my maid of honor—my supposed best friend—was pregnant with his child.
Before the shock of this double betrayal could even settle, his mother dug her manicured claws into my arm and publicly humiliated me.
"A woman who can't even attract her own man, how is she worthy of the Doyle name?"
She mocked my background, calling me a worthless orphan who only knew how to draw blueprints, turning my broken heart into a public execution of my dignity.
The terrified girl inside me vanished, replaced by a dark, burning rage. I didn't understand why I had to let this arrogant family step all over me while they played the innocent victims.
I yanked my arm free, tore off my expensive lace veil, and walked straight to the podium to grab the microphone.
"The wedding is canceled. The groom is currently busy with my maid of honor."
I walked out of the church, leaving them in absolute shock. But as I stumbled onto the street, I fell right into the arms of Damiano Moretti—the exiled, dangerous mafia boss known as the Ghost, who sat in a custom wheelchair.
Looking into his cold, storm-gray eyes, I made a reckless, desperate deal.
"Marry me." His Vow Broke, Her Empire Woke
Hei Baidong I was the perfect Mafia wife, my dowry the foundation of my husband's ambition. I paid for his Yale degree, his tailored suits, and the very mansion he called his own. My reward? He paraded his mistress into my bedroom and declared her his second wife, expecting me to silently finance their affair.
They thought they had broken a merchant's daughter. They forgot I was raised by wolves.
Armed with a blood chit—a life debt owed to my family by the most feared man in Chicago—I walked into the lion's den. I went to Damien 'The Wraith' Falcone, the Dark Don who rules the Outfit with an iron fist, to demand a simple annulment.
But the King of Chicago isn't interested in simple transactions. He saw the steel beneath my silk, the vendetta burning in my eyes. He granted me my freedom, but at a price: my allegiance. Now, I'm a pawn in his lethal game of thrones, caught between a treacherous husband I swore to destroy and a ruthless Don who looks at me with a terrifying, possessive hunger.
In a city built on loyalty and betrayal, I'm about to teach them all that a queen's wrath is the deadliest weapon of all. 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. Betrayed, I Married the Feared Cripple
Hu Minxue Three days after my fiancé publicly dumped me for my stepsister, the Supreme Don issued a command that silenced the entire estate.
I wasn't being cast aside. I was being sold to Damien Russo.
The "Broken Don." A crippled, scarred monster rumored to have murdered his last two wives.
My adoptive mother, Elena, didn't cry for me. She smirked.
To her, I was finally being disposed of.
She was so confident I was walking to my death that she decided to loot my corpse before I even left.
She forged documents to steal my entire inheritance—my biological mother’s trust fund—to pay for my stepsister’s lavish wedding to my ex.
"She won't need money where she's going," my stepsister laughed, wearing a dress bought with my stolen funds.
They thought they were sending a lamb to the slaughter.
They thought I was too weak, too stupid, and too afraid of the monster to fight back.
But they made a fatal mistake.
With my aunt’s help, I didn't just find the proof of their embezzlement; I found a weapon.
I’m not running from the monster. I’m going to marry him.
And when I hand him the evidence that the Herrera family stole from his bride, he won't be my executioner.
He will be my vengeance. To Ruin Him, I Married His Rival
Rabbit Andrew Hebert, the man who promised to protect me, stood on a stage and announced his engagement to my tormentor. It wasn't just heartbreak; it was a business deal. He was selling me to a creditor to cover his gambling debts.
The applause of the powerful families was a death sentence, each clap sealing my fate as collateral. Andrew had paraded me here just to show everyone I was an asset to be liquidated, while his new fiancée smirked at me from the stage.
I was trapped, with no money and no one to turn to. The man I loved was leading me to the slaughter.
But as I fled into the library, a voice emerged from the shadows, deep and dangerous.
Damien Maddox. The Dark Don. The only man Andrew feared.
He offered me a different kind of cage, one with the power to burn Andrew's world to the ground.
With nothing left to lose, I looked the devil in the eyes.
"Take me with you." Too Late, Mr. Capo: Your Wife Is Gone
Mo Yufei "Happy Anniversary," my husband said, sliding the separation agreement across the mahogany desk.
It was the eighteenth time in five years I had signed these papers.
Matteo De Luca, the most ruthless Capo in New York, checked his Rolex with cold impatience.
"Sign it, Sera. Bianca is on the ledge again. She needs to see we're over, or she jumps."
Bianca. The ward. The broken bird. The woman whose fragile psyche dictated every moment of my marriage.
I signed my name, and he left me alone on our anniversary to save her. Again.
But saving her wasn't enough.
When Bianca pushed me down a flight of marble stairs in a fit of jealous rage, shattering my spine and leaving me paralyzed, I thought Matteo would finally choose me.
I was wrong.
I woke up in the hospital to find him holding her hand, not mine.
"The security footage has been wiped," he told me, his voice void of emotion. "We cannot have a scandal. You fell, Sera. That is the story."
He erased the truth. He erased my pain.
He protected the woman who crippled me over his own wife.
Two months later, he wheeled me into a gala, playing the doting husband while I sat in the chair that was my prison.
He didn't know I had a burner phone hidden in my velvet dress.
He didn't know that tonight, the obedient wife was going to die on the pavement, and a ghost would rise in her place.
I looked at him one last time and dropped the phone in his lap.
"I hope she's worth it." 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. Reborn, I Ruined Their Perfect Life
Priority I spent five years laundering my family's wealth and buying military-grade weapons to crown my husband, Alistair, the Don of the Chicago Mafia.
But the night before his coronation, he drove an Italian stiletto into my stomach.
He sneered that a Don needed a true Mafia Queen, and that was always meant to be his "fragile" friend, Kylie.
As I bled out on the Persian rug, he revealed the sickening truth.
The night I was found in a rival Irish boss's bed two years ago wasn't a setup by our enemies. Alistair had ordered his own mother and sister to drug and frame me.
He just needed me terrified enough to sign over my merchant trust fund to prove my loyalty.
My entire marriage, my sacrifices, and my stolen wealth were just stepping stones for him and his mistress.
I had bled for him and won him the city, only to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb so he could hand my empire to another woman.
Before the flames I started consumed us both, I swore I'd drag his entire family to hell.
Opening my eyes again, the suffocating smoke was gone, replaced by the scent of lavender and the bitter taste of chloral hydrate.
I was back on the exact night of the frame-up two years ago.
Outside the door, my sister-in-law was whispering, waiting for the Irish boss to arrive so they could ruin me.
This time, I was going to make sure she was the one in that bed. 
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