Reilly Mcardle
11 Published Stories
Reilly Mcardle's Books and Stories
Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Brother
Modern I arrived at the hotel with Julian's favorite takeout, ready to surprise my fiancé before our big merger. But the moment I swiped the keycard, the silence of the hallway felt heavy and wrong.
Inside, a red-soled stiletto lay on the marble floor-the same one I'd watched my best friend Lila try on at Saks last week. Through the cracked bedroom door, I watched Julian's back arch as Lila looked me straight in the eye and smiled, wrapping her legs tighter around him to mock my heartbreak.
I fled to the penthouse to hide, only to find Grafton, Julian's "crippled" brother, waiting in the dark. To my horror, the man who was supposed to be paralyzed stood up from his wheelchair, gripped my chin with cold fingers, and forced me to sign a contract that gave him control of my family's shares. He knew about my mother's secret medical bills and used them to buy my silence, effectively turning my life into a calculated game of corporate chess.
The betrayal tasted like acid, and the injustice of it all burned in my throat. My fiancé was a liar, my best friend was a thief, and the man now controlling my fate was a predator who had been faking his disability for years.
I couldn't understand how everyone I trusted had turned out to be a monster. I was trapped between a man who cheated on me and a man who wanted to own me, with no way out and no one to turn to.
But when Julian came looking for me, Grafton didn't hide; he stood tall, looming over me with a possessive glint in his eyes. "Help me destroy Julian," I rasped, realizing that to survive the Faulkner men, I had to become the most dangerous player of them all. Stranded For His Fake Sister
Romance My fiancé kicked me out of his car on a deserted highway because his "sister" Krystle claimed her car had broken down.
He drove off with her and her daughter, leaving me stranded in the scorching heat without a backward glance.
While I trudged for miles through the dust, Krystle posted a video of him at the gala, captioning it "My Hero" as they laughed together under the fireworks.
I realized then that I was never his partner, just a placeholder he could discard the moment Krystle snapped her fingers.
I didn't cry, and I didn't call him to beg for an explanation.
Instead, I returned to our shared penthouse and took a pair of heavy tailoring shears to my custom wedding dress.
I shredded the delicate lace until it was nothing but a pile of ruined scraps on the floor, destroying the future we were supposed to have.
Then I blocked his number, packed my life into a single suitcase, and vanished.
By the time he realized Krystle had staged the breakdown to destroy us, I was already gone.
Three years later, he found me again-but I wasn't the same woman he left on the side of the road. The Player's Wife: A Queen's Revenge
Modern The soft glow of my husband David' s laptop in our quiet living room seemed innocent enough, just like his daily ritual of coming home, dropping his keys, and sighing about a "long day" at the office.
But then I saw the words on the screen: "The Player' s Sanctum," a dark forum where 'AlphaDave' detailed his calculated betrayals, turning our son Ethan into an unwitting accomplice in his web of lies, all while preaching the art of trust to facilitate deception.
The facade shattered, revealing a cold, methodical manipulator who saw our perfect life as merely a stage for his performance, a performance he thought I was too naive to see through, and a philosophy that stretched far beyond simple infidelity.
My breath caught as the birdhouse, his "secret project" with Ethan for my birthday, twisted in my mind-a symbol not of love, but of his monstrous manipulation; the discovery left me reeling, a deep, icy ache settling in my bones.
He thought he was the director, the master of manipulation in a game he invented. He was utterly wrong. The moment he walked through that door, cheerful and loving, I knew the real game had just begun. He had unknowingly challenged a queen, and I never lose. Goodbye, I'm Not Your Substitute Wife Anymore
Romance For three years, I was Mrs. Sarah Davis-a title that meant nothing more than being a ghost in my own opulent home. My architect husband, Mark, kept our marriage a secret, a mere convenience while his heart belonged to another.
The shattering truth unveiled itself in a hidden room: a shrine filled with portraits of Emily, his childhood sweetheart, his "one true love." I wasn't a wife; I was a placeholder, a warm bed until she returned.
When Emily rejoined Mark's firm, his joy was palpable, his neglect of me complete. He spent endless nights by her side, leaving me invisible, my love unrequited, my existence dismissed.
How could I have been so blind, so foolish, to waste three years on a man who could only offer polite indifference? The pain wasn't just his betrayal; it was my own self-inflicted wound, the slow erosion of my spirit.
So, I devised a desperate plan-a carefully orchestrated deception designed to win my freedom. I would get his signature on a blank sheet of paper, and then the real work would begin. He wouldn't even know what hit him, consumed as he was by his public persona and his undying devotion to Emily. He would release me, even if he never truly saw me. The Heiress's Sweet, Cold Revenge
Billionaires They found her, the long-lost true heiress of the Blakely fortune, after two decades in the rough foster system.
They saw a loud, defiant girl who "hired a gang" to attack the family's adopted daughter, Stella.
So, they sent me away, to a high-security psychiatric facility, to be reformed.
I returned, a blank slate in a plain white dress, my voice soft, my hair severely pulled back, confessing to a crime I didn't commit.
They called it recovery, but in truth, it was a subtle form of torture, designed to break me, inflicted by the very people who should have welcomed me home.
My "sister" Stella, with her perfected victim act, continued her sickening games, dropping my childhood keepsake in the trash, then faking an attack to have me banished to the freezing basement.
My "brother" Matthew, the cold CEO, put me through demeaning tasks, all the while watching for any sign of the "madness" he believed I possessed, while Andrew, the one flicker of conscience, could only watch, paralyzed by guilt.
What kind of family would do this to their own?
But they had no idea who they were dealing with, or what I truly learned in that "reforming" facility.
The docile girl they saw was merely a sophisticated weapon, quietly observing, meticulously planning, and waiting for the perfect moment to prove that their guilt would be their undoing. The Ghost He Discarded: Now A Gaming Queen
Romance I was "NyxEcho," the hidden strategist behind my superstar gamer boyfriend, Kaiser. My plain avatar was a shield, masking past trauma as I secretly built his team into champions and created his real-world brand.
Then, his message hit: "Nyx. Meet Seraphina. She's... the one." My heart shattered. He benched me, replacing me with an ethereal avatar, his long-obsessed "digital muse," declaring her his dream.
He publicly discarded me as "practice," flaunting Seraphina. In real life, Liam, blind to my true identity as Ava Chen, severed my freelance work. Seraphina's cruelty deepened: she framed, slandered me, and incited thousands to hunt my avatar for a bounty.
How could I be so invisible? Why did he believe her crafted fantasy over my genuine support? I was "not important," hunted, my true self unseen, while he celebrated her lie.
The humiliation hardened into resolve. At Liam's lavish public proposal to Seraphina, I made my choice. No more hiding. My identity, my face, my truth-it was time for them to be revealed. My Wife's Dark Secret
Romance I was Liam, a quiet woodworker, often overshadowed by my dazzling wife Victoria and our Hamptons estate.
My son, Ethan, a perfect copy of his mother, barely acknowledged me, instead fawning over his "Uncle Julian Vance."
My life felt comfortably settled, if a little overlooked.
That changed the sunny afternoon Julian arrived, a pale, small boy named Noah trailing behind him.
Ethan cruelly taunted Noah, and a horrifying "accident" soon left Noah severely burned and fighting for his life in the hospital.
As I sat outside his room, the smell of burnt fabric clinging to me, I overheard Victoria and Julian's low, conspiratorial voices.
They spoke of a "switch at that clinic in Monaco," how "Noah wasn't Julian's," and "Liam's little swimmers" disappearing because "the medication worked perfectly."
My blood ran cold.
They were planning to pull the plug, to kill a child, because "Ethan is the sole heir."
This wasn't just Julian's son; Noah, the frail, abused boy, was mine.
And Ethan, the son I'd loved and raised, wasn't.
My seemingly perfect family was a monstrous lie, a gilded cage built on unspeakable betrayals.
Everything I thought was real crumbled to dust.
They had sterilized me, swapped my child, and now plotted murder, all for inheritance.
How could I have been so blind?
How could the woman I loved be capable of such chilling evil?
The world tilted, sickening and raw.
With a horrifying clarity, I knew what I had to do next.
Pushing open that door, my voice raw, I declared war: "You want a divorce, Victoria? You got it."
But not before the world knew the truth of what you had done. More Than Just A Tutor
Young Adult My SAT prep book felt heavy as I approached Jake Peterson' s front porch for our usual Tuesday session.
Tutoring was my reliable income, essential for my college fund.
The front door stood ajar, and a muffled thumping from upstairs hinted at something unexpected.
Suddenly, my vision warped, inundated with glowing, intrusive text: `[Live-Chat Commentary]`.
Remarks like `User_DramaQueen77: OMG, is the nerdy girl gonna bust in on them?!` and `User_JashleyFan01: Nooo, don' t ruin the Jashley moment! They' re endgame!` flashed across my sight.
My life, apparently, was now a live broadcast for anonymous strangers on the internet.
Moments later, Jake emerged, flustered, followed by a smirking blonde I immediately recognized as 'Ashley' , while the chat exploded with comments labeling me 'side character energy' .
A chilling 'prophecy' soon appeared: `User_OracleGamer: Bet Jake dumps the tutor for Ashley. Sarah' s gonna lose him AND her cash cow. Sad.`
What was this surreal nightmare, and why was my quiet, strategic existence suddenly the subject of relentless, bizarre public judgment from unseen trolls?
I wasn' t a character in their made-up drama, yet every practical decision I made, from valuing my paid time to demanding payment for a stolen item, was twisted into a display of 'Ice Queen' or 'Money Grubber' behavior.
But through the chaos, a different kind of insight emerged: this invasive commentary, while humiliating, also contained invaluable intel, revealing their malicious schemes before they even started.
If my life was now a game show for their entertainment, I decided to become the player who knew all the cheats, turning every snarky comment into my strategic advantage. Too Late for Apologies, Mr. Cole
Romance For eight years, I was the quiet mastermind behind Synapse Dynamics, its financial engine and the secret girlfriend of its brilliant founder, Ethan Cole. I poured my life, my capital, and my intellect into his vision, building his empire from the shadows, believing fiercely in our shared future.
But at an SXSW after-party, my meticulously built world imploded. I overheard Ethan publicly dismiss me as "useful but questionable," then proudly introduce Tiffany Bell, a marketing associate, as his "actual girlfriend"—and kiss her.
The humiliation snowballed. Tiffany, pregnant and cruel, flaunted their affair on social media, even AirDropping a photo of her in *my* bed with Ethan. She texted, gloating about Ethan's "disgust" with me, contrasting her "clean" image. Then, at a private clinic, she faked a fall, framing me, turning Ethan and his parents into a rage-filled mob who publicly shamed me, labeling me "used goods" who "whor*d herself out."
How could the man I loved, the company I saved, turn so viciously against me, twisting years of sacrifice into scandal? Every lie stung, designed to erase my unseen labor, to paint my dedication as depravity. Why was my loyalty repaid with such calculated cruelty?
The final blow came: a deepfake video aiming to destroy my reputation, followed by Ethan’s public engagement announcement. But as the ice settled, a chilling clarity emerged. I wasn't broken. With my father's full backing, it was time they saw what a scorned woman could truly do. The Heiress Hoax
Sci-fi The Texas heat shimmered, another ranch chore done.
For years, strange comments floated in the air, a private, unsolicited social media feed just for me.
Sometimes oddly accurate, sometimes nonsense.
Then a woman and a girl appeared on our porch, clutching a fake DNA report.
"She’s your daughter too," Maria Rodriguez declared, claiming my life.
The air crackled.
New comments hissed: "Here comes trouble. The real heiress arrives."
My blood ran cold.
I’d lived this day before.
Last time, I followed the comments' treacherous advice.
They said Ashley loved peanut butter cookies, so I baked them; she nearly died from a severe allergy.
My parents' love turned to suspicion.
Later, the comments screamed "Ashley’s in danger!"
I rushed to help, only to be framed by Maria with fake texts and videos, making my parents believe I was a monster.
Disowned, I was sent away, then found and brutally killed in a staged car accident.
The comments, my supposed guides, were actually my undoing, twisting my actions, alienating my family, and sealing my doom.
The horror of reliving this nightmare again and again was unbearable.
But waking up today, with the sun on my face, the same day endless: I refused to be a puppet.
This time, I would fight back, armed with the knowledge of their lies. You might like
Rising From Wreckage: Starfall's Epic Comeback
Huo Wuer Rain hammered against the asphalt as my sedan spun violently into the guardrail on the I-95. Blood trickled down my temple, stinging my eyes, while the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers mocked my panic.
Trembling, I dialed my husband, Clive. His executive assistant answered instead, his voice professional and utterly cold.
"Mr. Wilson says to stop the theatrics. He said, and I quote, 'Hang up. Tell her I don’t have time for her emotional blackmail tonight.'"
The line went dead while I was still trapped in the wreckage. At the hospital, I watched the news footage of Clive wrapping his jacket around his "fragile" ex-girlfriend, Angelena, shielding her from the storm I was currently bleeding in. When I returned to our penthouse, I found a prenatal ultrasound in his suit pocket, dated the day he claimed to be on a business trip.
Instead of an apology, Clive met me with a sneer. He told me I was nothing but an "expensive decoration" his father bought to make him look stable. He froze my bank accounts and cut off my cards, waiting for the hunger to drive me back to his feet.
I stared at the man I had loved for four years, realizing he didn't just want a wife; he wanted a prop he could switch off. He thought he could starve me into submission while he played father to another woman's child.
But Clive forgot one thing. Before I was his trophy wife, I was Starfall—the legendary voice actress who vanished at the height of her fame.
"I'm not jealous, Clive. I'm done."
I grabbed my old microphone and walked out. I’m not just leaving him; I’m taking the lead role in the biggest saga in Hollywood—the one Angelena is desperate for. This time, the "decoration" is going to burn his world down. 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 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. 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!" 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." Beneath His Ugly Wife's Mask: Her Revenge Was Her Brilliance
Lukas Difabio Elliana, the unfavored "ugly duckling" of her family, was humiliated by her stepsister, Paige, who everyone admired. Paige, engaged to the CEO Cole, was the perfect woman-until Cole married Elliana on the day of the wedding. Shocked, everyone wondered why he chose the "ugly" woman.
As they waited for her to be cast aside, Elliana stunned everyone by revealing her true identity: a miracle healer, financial mogul, appraisal prodigy, and AI genius.
When her mistreatment became known, Cole revealed Elliana's stunning, makeup-free photo, sending shockwaves through the media. "My wife doesn't need anyone's approval." The Convict Heiress: Marrying The Billionaire
Rollins Laman The heavy thud of the release stamp was the only goodbye I got from the warden after five years in federal prison. I stepped out into the blinding sun, expecting the same flash of paparazzi bulbs that had seen me dragged away in handcuffs, but there was only a single black limousine idling on the shoulder of the road.
Inside sat my mother and sister, clutching champagne and looking at my frayed coat with pure disgust. They didn't offer a welcome home; instead, they tossed a thick legal document onto the table and told me I was dead to the city.
"Gavin and I are getting engaged," my sister Mia sneered, flicking a credit card at me like I was a stray dog. "He doesn't need a convict ex-fiancée hanging around."
Even after I saved their lives from an armed kidnapping attempt by ramming the attackers off the road, they rewarded me by leaving me stranded in the dirt. When I finally ran into Gavin, the man who had framed me, he pinned me against a wall and threatened to send me back to a cell if I ever dared to show my face at their wedding.
They had stolen my biotech research, ruined my name, and let me rot for half a decade while they lived off my brilliance. They thought they had broken me, leaving me with nothing but an expired chapstick and a few old photos in a plastic bag.
What they didn't know was that I had spent those five years becoming "Dr. X," a shadow consultant with five hundred million dollars in crypto and a secret that would bring the city to its knees. I wasn't just a victim anymore; I was a weapon, and I was pregnant with the heir they thought they had erased.
I walked into the Melton estate and made an offer to the most powerful man in New York.
"I'll save your grandfather's life," I told Horatio Melton, staring him down.
"But the price is your last name. I'm taking back what's mine, and I'm starting with the man who thinks he's marrying my sister." 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. The Queen Returns: Pampered By Her Three Powerhouse Brothers
Kleon Samorodnitsky After five years of playing the perfect daughter, Rylie was exposed as a stand-in. Her fiancé bolted, friends scattered, and her adoptive brothers shoved her out, telling her to grovel back to her real family. Done with humiliation, she swore to claw back what was hers. Shock followed: her birth family ruled the town's wealth. Overnight, she became their precious girl. The boardroom brother canceled meetings, the genius brother ditched his lab, the musician brother postponed a tour. As those who spurned her begged forgiveness, Admiral Brad Morgan calmly declared, "She's already taken." 
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