Star Cruiser
10 Published Stories
Star Cruiser's Books and Stories
The Secret I Heard in the Operating Room Changed Everything
Modern I'd had a hopeless crush on Rhett Beaumont since I was practically a kid.
He was my dad's business partner – older, suave, the kind of Southern gentleman who could charm anyone.
For years, I'd built up these elaborate daydreams about him.
Then, at the annual Historical Society Gala, he finally seemed to see me.
His smile, just for me, made my heart do that stupid little flip.
He leaned in, promising a private chat later, and my head was spinning. This was it.
But "it" turned into a horrifying trap.
A week later, after a staged mugging where he played the hero, we ended up in a passionate encounter.
That single night led to his childhood sweetheart, Caroline, crashing her car.
Then came our cold, guilt-driven marriage, years of painful, invasive IVF treatments, and him controlling every aspect of my life.
The final blow? Hearing him coldly tell the doctors, "Just let her go if it comes to that," as I bled out on an operating table.
He never loved me. Not for a second.
I was just a pawn, a convenient distraction in his twisted games.
He blamed me for Caroline's accident, resented my very existence.
My body became a failed experiment, my spirit crushed under his icy indifference.
All those years of adoration, wasted on a man who saw me as less than nothing.
The injustice of it all was a physical ache.
How could I have been so stupidly blind to his manipulation?
He'd used my innocent crush to utterly destroy me.
The man I'd put on a pedestal despised me enough to watch me die.
Then, blackness. My last thought: what a complete fool I'd been.
But in the next instant, I gasped, my eyes snapping open.
The scent of lilies and champagne filled the air.
I was standing by that same floral arrangement at the Gala, the night it all began.
Rhett Beaumont was walking towards me, that familiar, predatory smile on his face.
I was dead. I knew I was.
Yet, here I was.
A second chance? This time, things would be different. The Claw's Penalty: She Survived to Rule Them All
Werewolf "I want an annulment."
To escape my five-year hell of a marriage to Alpha Kaden, I agreed to the "Claw's Penalty"—thirty lashes.
That was preferable to watching my husband coddle his mistress, Brittaney, while I slowly died of neglect.
But Kaden wouldn't let me leave with dignity.
When Brittaney's gene-mod hound bit me, Kaden used his Alpha Command to force me into the gravel to apologize to the dog.
When Brittaney poisoned herself with wolfsbane to frame me, Kaden pistol-whipped me and let a torturer jam silver needles under my fingernails.
He called me a "guilt-trip" left by his father, a slave with a title.
The final straw came when Brittaney faked a fall from a horse.
Kaden didn't ask questions. He kicked in my ribs and ordered "The Quartering"—execution by silver chains.
As my joints popped and the silver burned my skin, he roared, "I protect this family!"
He didn't know I was the family's only hope.
His mother intervened just in time, cutting me down and handing me the signed annulment papers.
I left that night, and the mate bond didn't just break; it vanished into silence.
Kaden thought he had broken a weak Omega.
He didn't realize that by shattering the bond, he had unlocked my true form.
Six months later, I returned not as his wife, but as the legendary White Wolf.
And Kaden was waiting in a cage to beg for a forgiveness I no longer possessed. Love's Betrayal: A Forged Marriage
Romance "I want a divorce." The words, quiet but firm, cut through the tense air. For five years, I, Harlow Love, had been Kaden Barnes's wife in name only, a transaction to salvage his family's image after my father died saving his life. I endured his cruelty, his humiliation, and watched him openly love another woman.
When I finally gathered the courage to ask for freedom, his mother, the matriarch, coldly informed me I'd have to endure the family's "disciplinary measures"—thirty lashes—to prove I wasn't being cast out. But then, a shocking truth shattered my world: "A forgery," Kaden casually revealed. "That marriage isn't even legal." My five years of suffering, the beatings, the public shame, all for a lie.
The relief was short-lived. Brittaney, Kaden's mistress, framed me for hurting her dog, then for trying to kill her during a horseback ride. Kaden, blinded by his devotion to her, believed every lie. He brutally punished me, breaking my leg and dislocating my arm, leaving me for dead.
I was just a prop, a placeholder, less than a spoiled dog in his eyes. My pain, my dignity, meant nothing. Why did he believe her every word, every tear, over my bleeding body?
But in the depths of despair, a lifeline appeared. His mother, horrified by his cruelty, secretly sent me to London, granting me the freedom I had so desperately craved. I was finally free, and I vowed never to see Kaden Barnes again. The Family's Secret: A Love Consumed
Modern My sister, Honora, told me I killed our family in a car crash. Our parents and my adopted brother, Aloysius, were dead. She said it was all my fault.
She told me I had a debt of blood and ruin to repay.
For eight years, I worked three jobs, my body aching from sixteen-hour days. I lived in a tiny, damp room, ate the cheapest bread, and sent every single penny I earned to her.
The money was for one thing: to buy back our family's lake house. It was the symbol of the life I had destroyed, the one place I thought I could find forgiveness.
After eight years of sacrificing my health and my youth, I finally saved enough.
I went to the house, ready to atone. But when I peered through the window, my world stopped. My parents were there, alive, holding champagne glasses. And sitting between them, smiling, was Aloysius—the boy who was supposed to be dead.
They were celebrating his birthday. Then I heard my mother speak.
"It's also Jesse's birthday today," she said casually. "We've punished him for five years. Don't you think it's time we bring him back?"
Honora's smile vanished. "No. We agreed on seven years. Not one day less."
Hidden in the shadows, I clutched the medical report in my hand. Their cruel game was about to be cut short. I was already dying. Rebuilding A Life, Not A Home
Romance For twenty years, Liam Davis was my world.
From juice boxes in kindergarten to our first kiss under the bleachers, he was my constant.
I put my architecture career on hold, working a quiet desk job so his tech startup could thrive, believing his dream was our dream.
Then, one warm evening, as I sorted our old college textbooks, he walked in, a wide, charming smile on his face.
"I need the spare set of apartment keys," he said casually.
My heart sank when he clarified: "Not for us, Ava. For me. For Chloe. To decorate our wedding home."
Chloe. The social media influencer whose perfect life filled the internet.
My mind went blank. Wedding home? My fiancé? He was getting married next month.
He scoffed at my devastation. "It was convenient. You were always there. It was easy. Like marrying your right hand. You don' t put a ring on it."
His words, meant to shatter, ignited a cold fury. My sacrifices, my career, my love - reduced to a crude, dismissive metaphor.
I handed him the keys to our apartment, and watched him change the door' s passcode to my birthday-only to instantly change it again.
"Password successfully changed," a female voice announced from the smart lock, sounding the death knell of my life as I knew it.
He walked out, leaving me alone in what was no longer our home.
The tears came then, hot paths through the dust on my cheeks.
At my parents' house, still reeling, the doorbell rang. It was Liam, snow melting in his hair.
He sneered, "What the hell did you tell your parents? Did you send them to beg for a wedding? My mother's furious your low-class family tried to trap me."
He called me pathetic, unclean. He gloated about changing the apartment code, implying I' d trash the place out of spite.
Something snapped inside me.
"Get out," I said, my voice rising to a raw scream. "GET OUT!"
He snatched a cherished architectural sketch, my childhood dream of a treehouse. "It was our dream house, wasn' t it, Ava? But it was never exciting. Like left hand holding right hand. Familiar, but ultimately, you' re just holding yourself."
He cooed into his phone, "Hey, baby... just wrapping up an old loose end. She's nothing. I love you too, Chloe."
My mother raged, detailing all I' d given up, how I built his company. "A spoiled kid with a half-baked idea! This is how you repay her?"
He countered, "If you' re going to come begging, at least bring a respectable dowry, not just the sob story of a plumber."
He tore a hand-carved necklace, his ten-year anniversary gift, from my neck. "Chloe would like it."
In that moment, the love I' d felt for twenty years curdled into pure void.
I raised my right hand, the one he' d mocked, and slapped him across the face.
"My right hand is my own, Liam," I said, my voice steady and cold. "And from now on, it will be busy building my own life. A life you are no longer a part of."
I turned my back, walking towards the kitchen, leaving him stunned. There would be no regret. His Threat, Her Silent Strength
Modern The order confirmation email glowed on my phone, a beacon of pride for Emily, my sister and the first in our family to graduate college. This custom gown wasn't just fabric; it was a symbol of her extraordinary achievement, bought with my hard-earned money.
An hour later, a message from "Mark\'s Master Gowns" shattered that peace: "Your address is flagged as a high-risk area. We require an additional $50 insurance fee." Then, a venomous follow-up: "So you admit it. You\'re trying to scam me. I know your type. You order expensive stuff, then claim it never arrived to get it for free."
My attempts to de-escalate, to explain I was a social worker, were met with relentless, ugly insults. He canceled my order, kept my money, and then called, his voice a snarl.
"Is this the scammer, Sarah Miller?"
My heart hammered. "You have my money. You haven\'t sent my product. That makes you a thief."
His threat hung heavy in the air: "You don\'t know who you\'re messing with. I have your address. I know where you live. Maybe I should pay you a little visit and we can sort this out in person."
He actually hung up. I stood there, stunned, believing it was over. I was wrong. The next morning, my face, labeled "WARNING: SCAM ARTIST AT WORK," was plastered all over local social media. My boss gave me 24 hours to make it disappear or lose my job. He didn' t care about the truth.
Then, Mark brought his harassment right to my doorstep, organizing a public shaming spectacle on my quiet street. His megaphone blared, "She lives right here! The woman who steals from hardworking veterans!" As my neighbors watched, judging, he spoke chillingly to a confederate, "This is how you get them to pay. A little public pressure and they\'ll give you anything."
Humiliated, desperate, and feeling utterly defeated, I capitulated, wiring him a substantial payment. I had paid the monster. He had won. But as I watched him drive away, a cold, unyielding resolve settled deep within me. This wasn\'t surrender. This was just the beginning. I picked up my phone and dialed 9-1-1. Her Borrowed Life
Romance The first thing I registered was the cold, then a throbbing migraine as a flood of memories that weren' t mine overwhelmed me. I was Anya, the new, unwelcome wife of ruthless Julian Vance, trapped in a mansion that felt more like a museum. This wasn't my life; my own had ended in a stupid, unremarkable accident.
The previous Anya had been desperate, marrying for money, set to become just another one of Julian's possessions, heading for a very bad end. But a disembodied voice inside me had given a clear directive: survive. Change the script.
My immediate challenge: Leo, Julian' s nephew, who stood at the top of the grand staircase, his face resentful. The memories told me the original Anya had been cruel to him, turning him into a rival, destined to make my future miserable. I was supposed to be his wicked stepmother.
A cold dread settled in. No, I wouldn' t be. The original Anya's path led to ruin, her abuse of the boy ultimately causing her downfall.
This wasn't my life, but it was my problem now. My new job wasn't just to survive; it was to get paid, and step one involved flipping the script entirely. I wasn't just going to survive; I was going to explode this whole narrative. My first strategic move: win over the angry kid who stared daggers at me from the stairs. The Price of a Mother's Pain
Billionaires Sarah Winchester, the silent matriarch of Texas's vast Winchester empire, lived reclusively, her custom silver-tipped cane a constant reminder of the bullet she took for her son, David.
David, who worshipped his mother, now headed the dynasty. But his fiancée, Brittany, a superficial socialite, dismissed Sarah as an inconvenient "crazy old ranch hand' s widow," a relic to be removed before her grand announcement.
High on champagne and arrogance, Brittany and her posse stormed Sarah' s guesthouse.
When Sarah calmly revealed her identity as David' s mother, Brittany laughed, sneering at her simple appearance. After brutally knocking out Sarah' s loyal housekeeper, Brittany turned a chilling fury on Sarah herself.
She ordered her goons to assault the matriarch: breaking her remaining good leg, wrenching her arm, hacking off her hair with garden shears. Sarah, gagged and bound, was then stuffed into a coarse feed sack.
In a horrifying act of calculated deception, Brittany presented the sack to David, lying that it contained a "trespasser" who was viciously badmouthing his mother.
Blinded by rage and believing he was defending Sarah' s honor, David grabbed a brutal branding iron and savagely struck the sack multiple times, ordering his own mother' s broken body to be thrown to the coyotes in the remote "back forty."
Imagine the unspeakable horror: Sarah, battered and discarded, listening as her beloved son delivers the final, soul-crushing blows. How could the man she shielded from death inflict such a monstrous fate?
Why was his devotion so easily twisted into deadly rage? Left for dead, she miraculously clung to life, the wild coyotes circling, eerily silent, almost protective, as dawn approached.
This unimaginable betrayal forged a steel resolve in Sarah.
While David, consumed by guilt, wreaked meticulous, terrifying revenge on Brittany before meeting his own tragic end, the powerful Winchester throne stood empty. Sarah, the wounded matriarch, would rise. Her silver-tipped cane, once a crutch, would become a formidable scepter, as she steps forward to rule her empire with an unyielding iron will, a legend born from pain and unbreakable resolve. Playing the Pawn, Winning the Game
Billionaires For seven long years, I've lived in this gilded cage, the King family mansion, playing the role of the quiet, mousy charity case, pathetically infatuated with Ethan Prescott – Victoria King' s dazzling fiancé. Everyone, especially Victoria, thought I was a fool, a harmless fixture always mooning over her prize.
Then, hidden in the library shadows, I overheard their wicked plan. Victoria' s voice, sharp with disdain, saying I was 'still mooning over him.' And Ethan, smooth as silk, calling it 'useful,' for 'keeps her docile.' The chilling part? Their scheme to ensure I was 'out of sight for good,' and horrifyingly, Ethan's suggestion: 'Or better yet, pregnant. That would certainly tie things up neatly, wouldn't it?'
My breath caught, but inside, a cold fire ignited. Pregnant. So that was their game: ruin me completely, tie me down, then discard me. And I played my part beautifully. I let them see my 'blush,' feigned shyness, even made sure they 'overheard' my morning sickness. They exchanged triumphant glances, utterly convinced their cruel masterpiece was unfolding perfectly.
They believed I was a mere pawn, eating out of their hands, destined for a pauper's grave like my mother, Sarah Vance. They took everything from her – her life, her dignity – and then from me. Every sneer, every whispered insult, every moment of humiliation I endured was a necessary sacrifice, a foundation built on their scorn.
But they were fools, hopelessly blinded by their arrogance. They had no idea who they were truly dealing with. Ethan, their precious golden boy, was just a finely crafted key, and I was learning every single one of its grooves. Let them think they were in control. The game, this grand, devastating game of revenge, had been mine all along. The Senator's Secret Son
Romance I' m Sarah Jenkins, an independent graphic designer who only longed for a child, not a husband. Five years ago, after a traumatic past, I built a quiet, safe life in Northern California with my son, Leo. I was finally marrying Mark, a kind, stable man, promising us the uncomplicated future we deserved.
But peace was fleeting. A week before my wedding, Jax, security chief for Alexander Sterling-the powerful man I' d fled-appeared. He knew. They found me. Then, Alexander himself stepped from a black SUV, confirming my greatest fear: my meticulously faked death and new identity were exposed.
The once-amnesiac man, now a formidable Senator, was intent on reclaiming what he believed was his. He publicly crashed my wedding, declaring Leo his son and me his wife. He tore apart the quiet world I' d painstakingly built, leaving me utterly exposed before our stunned community.
My heart pounded with terror. Six years hiding, fearing discovery, only to be dragged back into his dangerous orbit? The abandonment, the cold payoff, years of fear-all surged back. What did Senator Sterling, a man of immense influence, truly want from the woman he' d discarded and the child he' d presumed dead?
Then he knelt, not accusingly, but with a profound plea. He presented a stunning prenuptial agreement securing my independence and Leo' s future. He hadn' t come to control, but to confess, commit, and offer a path I never dreamed possible. Was this a genuine chance, or a trap disguised as freedom? 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." 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. 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 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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