Into The Rival's Arms: The Decoy's Escape

Choosing The Imposter Over His Dying Wife

My fiancée sacrificed five years of her life to save my family, falling into a deep coma. But when she finally woke up, I didn't greet her with love. I greeted her with pure hatred. Convinced by my mistress, Hailie, that Ericka was a traitor faking her illness for sympathy, I became her tormentor. When she told me she had stage four cancer, I laughed and accused her of manipulation. I locked her in a freezing safe house. I forced her into a sauna until her skin blistered, then doused her failing lungs with ice water. I dragged her out of the hospital to kneel in the rain until she collapsed. Even when she fell from a balcony, broken and bleeding, I let my men beat her. I watched her waste away, believing every one of Hailie's lies over Ericka's desperate truths. It wasn't until I saw her cold, blue body on the rocks below the cliffs that the truth finally shattered me. The autopsy confirmed the cancer I mocked was real. A hidden recording revealed Hailie had framed her all along, admitting she treated me like a dog on a leash. I realized I had tortured the woman who saved my life until she bought her own grave just to escape me. I burned Hailie alive at Ericka's funeral, but death was too easy a punishment. I lived in agony, a scarred monster praying for the end. But when I finally closed my eyes in the fire, I didn't die. I heard a beep. I opened my eyes, and the date on my phone was three years ago. The day Ericka woke up.

My Lucky Day, Her Fatal Flaw

My name is Gabrielle Johns, a rising architect with everything going for me – a dream career, a great apartment, and loving parents who sacrificed for my future. I was heading to my family's lake house for a long weekend, my best friend, Jen, complaining beside me as usual. That' s when the vintage hearse hit my car, a minor fender-bender that Jen immediately declared my "lucky day." Bizarrely, her words seemed to come true: my career soared, and my parents had the full down payment for my new condo. Jen, consumed by envy, became convinced the hearse was a source of "luck," deliberately getting herself hit by it. But her "luck" turned into ruin. The hearse was priceless, and its owners sued her for damages that would devastate her. Spiraling into a paranoid rage, she blamed me for "stealing" her luck. One night, as I left my new condo, her madness culminated in the ultimate betrayal. Jen, my childhood best friend, plunged a knife into my chest, hissing, "This was supposed to be mine." Darkness consumed me, my last thought of my parents and their future, stolen. How could someone I loved become such a monster? Why did she believe my hard work was just "luck" she was entitled to? Why did this happen? Then, I gasped awake. I was in my bed, in my old apartment, on the very morning the nightmare began. My phone buzzed: a text from Jen, "I've got a feeling this is going to be a very, very lucky weekend. ;)" She was back. And this time, I wouldn't be kind.

The Unseen Killer Next Door

Twenty years. Twenty years our lives had been haunted by the ghost of a distorted lullaby and an antique music box, the only clue left behind by the monster who murdered my wife Jennifer' s parents. Just when a new murder-a replica of the old horror, right next door-offered a flicker of hope, I found myself slammed against a patrol car, my own badge glinting uselessly on the wet asphalt. My wife, Jennifer, stood before me, not with relief, but with eyes full of a terrifying resolve, and cuffed me. My partner, Andy, and Captain Clark, men I' d bled with, stood by silently, staring as the music box' s brass lid supposedly showed my reflection murdering the victim. They believed it. My wife, my partner, my captain-they all believed it, accusing me, a veteran detective, of a preposterous crime based on a magic music box. I stood there, handcuffed, watching the man I' d just tackled, the real running suspect, get set free, wondering if the entire world had gone mad, or if the cold case had finally shattered Jennifer' s mind… and mine.

The Bait Boy's Billionaire Secret

The preliminary exam for the Presidential Scholarship was about to begin. I stared at the essay prompt: "The Nature of Ambition." I knew exactly what to write. A flawless essay, every sentence a stroke of genius, destined to secure my spot in the finals and launch my brilliant future. But in my last life, that perfect essay became my death sentence. Mere minutes before I could hand in my paper, my rival, Ethan, uploaded an identical one online. Then, he and my girlfriend, Jessica, launched a brutal campaign, painting me as a fraud, a plagiarist who stole from the school's golden boy. The scandal utterly destroyed me. I was expelled, the scholarship snatched away. The immense stress broke my mother's weak heart; she died, still questioning my integrity. My father, a humble bait-and-tackle shop owner, spent his entire life savings trying to clear my name before he perished in a suspicious boating "accident." Left with nothing, watching Ethan celebrate his Yale graduation online, I extinguished my own life. The cold, hard rage of that injustice consumed me, even in death. How did they know every thought, every perfect turn of phrase? How could they have replicated my genius so flawlessly, systematically dismantling my life while I was powerless? Now, I'm back. In the same exam room, at the same desk, with the same clock ticking down. This time, I' m not just rewriting an essay. I' m rewriting history. And the script calls for a reckoning.

Southern Melody, Broken Heart

I woke up young again, back in my Southern hometown. For sixty years, I' d been married to Mark, my childhood sweetheart, and I cherished the hope for a perfect do-over. This was our second chance, our love story, chapter two. But then, Mark arrived at the welcome-home BBQ. He didn't even glance my way as he strode to the gazebo, microphone in hand, and publicly declared his undying love for Jessica Miller, the town's golden girl. My heart, still aching for shared pasts, turned to ice. My whole life with him-our sixty-year marriage, our shared memories-cracked and shattered, revealed as nothing but a carefully constructed lie. He began showering Jessica with grand gestures he'd always dismissed as "silly," utterly ignoring me. At the town dance, he publicly humiliated me, accusing me of theft and jealousy. Then, at the talent show, he even sabotaged my guitar, desperate for Jessica to win, trying to silence my last shred of hope. How could the man I spent a lifetime with, the man I thought was my soulmate, inflict such cold, calculated cruelty? Was our entire love story truly just a sham, a convenience concocted by him? Every memory of our intertwined past felt tainted, leaving me heartbroken and desperate for an answer. Just as despair threatened to consume me, a stranger-a music scout-approached me after hearing my raw, pain-filled song. He offered me a chance at a dream I' d long buried. It was time to write a new song, for me, and reclaim a life he never wanted me to have.

Reborn from Betrayal: The Scientist's Reckoning

Ellie Vance, a brilliant scientist, thought she had it all: a groundbreaking research project nearing completion, and a loving fiancé, Ethan. Her engagement party was supposed to be the celebration of a perfect future. But then, the world stopped. At her own party, Ethan announced he was marrying her cousin, Vicky Croft. And in front of everyone, Vicky unveiled Ellie' s life' s work, presenting it as her own. Ellie' s protests were met with dismissals, even from her own brother, Leo. As Ellie' s world spiraled into grief and disbelief, Vicky' s insidious cruelty secretly targeted Ellie' s ailing mother, accelerating her decline and ultimately leading to her death. Ellie was emotionally and physically broken, effectively "dead." The injustice burned. How could they flaunt her stolen work and celebrate their deceit, while her mother suffered and died from their malice? The betrayal was absolute, leaving Ellie with nothing but shattered dreams and a profound sense of wrong. Yet, a casual, cruel confession from Vicky changed everything. Overhearing her gloating about tormenting Ellie's mother and effortlessly stealing her research ignited a cold, steel resolve. The naive girl was gone. Now, Ellie would attend the grand gala celebrating Vicky, not as a victim, but as a force reborn, ready to unleash a reckoning and expose every single lie.

Fated To The World's Richest Man

The day Lilah found out that she was pregnant, she caught her fiancé cheating on her. Her remorseless fiancé and his mistress almost killed her. Lilah fled for her dear life. When she returned to her hometown five years later, she happened to save a little boy's life. The boy's father turned out to be the world's richest man. Everything changed for Lilah from that moment. The man didn't let her experience any inconvenience. When her ex-fiancé bullied her, he crushed the scumbag's family and also rented out an entire island just to give Lilah a break from all the drama. He also taught Lilah's hateful father a lesson. He crushed all her enemies before she even asked. When Lilah's vile sister threw herself at him, he showed her a marriage certificate and said, "I'm happily married and my wife is much more beautiful than you are!" Lilah was shocked. "When did we ever get married? Last I checked, I was still single." With a wicked smile, he said, "Honey, we've been married for five years. Isn't it about time we had another child together?" Lilah's jaw dropped to the floor. What the hell was he talking about?

The Surgeon's Vow: Healing My Billionaire Husband

I sat in the gray, airless room of the New York State Department of Corrections, my knuckles white as the Warden delivered the news. "Parole denied." My father, Howard Sterling, had forged new evidence of financial crimes to keep me behind bars. He walked into the room, smelling of expensive cologne, and tossed a black folder onto the steel table. It was a marriage contract for Lucas Kensington, a billionaire currently lying in a vegetative state in the ICU. "Sign it. You walk out today." I laughed at the idea of being sold to a "corpse" until Howard slid a grainy photo toward me. It showed a toddler with a crescent-moon birthmark—the son Howard told me had died in an incubator five years ago. He smiled and told me the boy's safety depended entirely on my cooperation. I was thrust into the Kensington estate, where the family treated me like a "drowned rat." They dressed me in mothball-scented rags and mocked my status, unaware that I was monitoring their every move. I watched the cousin, Julian, openly waiting for Lucas to die to inherit the empire, while the doctors prepared to sign the death certificate. I didn't understand why my father would lie about my son’s death for years, or what kind of monsters would use a child as a bargaining chip. The injustice of it burned in my chest as I realized I was just a pawn in a game of old money and blood. As the monitors began to flatline and the family started to celebrate their inheritance, I locked the door and reached into the hem of my dress. I pulled out the sharpened silver wires I’d fashioned in the prison workshop. They thought they bought a submissive convict, but they actually invited "The Saint"—the world’s most dangerous underground surgeon—into their home. "Wake up, Lucas. You owe me a life." I wasn't there to be a bride; I was there to wake the dead and burn their empire to the ground.

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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.

The Heiress' Secret: Ex-Husband, Meet The Real Me

For three years, Deanna endured scorn in a one-sided marriage. When Connor forced her to choose between her career and a divorce, she didn't hesitate-she walked away. Determined to reclaim her birthright, Deanna returned as the brilliant heiress to a medical conglomerate. Her ex and his family begged for another chance, but it was too late. With a tycoon father, a legendary healer mother, a CEO brother who adored her, and a showbiz powerhouse sibling, Deanna's life overflowed with power. Even her arrogant rival, heir to billions, only ever had a soft spot for her.

The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

I spent four hours preparing a five-course meal for our fifth anniversary. When Jackson finally walked into the penthouse an hour late, he didn't even look at the table. He just dropped a thick Manila envelope in front of me and told me he was done. He said his stepsister, Davida, was getting worse and needed "stability." I wasn't his wife; I was a placeholder, a temporary fix he used until the woman he actually loved was ready to take my place. Jackson didn't just want a divorce; he wanted to erase me. He called me a "proprietary asset," claiming that every design I had created to save his empire belonged to him. He froze my bank accounts, cut off my phone, and told me I’d be nothing without his name. Davida even called me from her hospital bed to flaunt the family heirloom ring Jackson claimed was lost, mocking me for being "baggage" that was finally being cleared out. I stood in our empty home, realizing I had spent five years being a martyr for a man who saw me as a transaction. I couldn't understand how he could be so blind to the monster he was protecting, or how he could discard me so coldly after I had given him everything. I grabbed my hidden sketchbook, shredded our wedding portrait, and walked out into the rain. I dialed a number I hadn't touched in years—a dangerous man known as The Surgeon who dealt in debts and shadows. I told him I was ready to pay his price. Jackson and Davida wanted to steal my identity, but I was about to show the world the literal scars they had left behind.

The Billionaire's Secret Twins: Her Revenge

I was four months pregnant, weighing over two hundred pounds, and my heart was failing from experimental treatments forced on me as a child. My doctor looked at me with clinical detachment and told me I was in a death sentence: if I kept the baby, I would die, and if I tried to remove it, I would die. Desperate for a lifeline, I called my father, Francis Acosta, to tell him I was sick and pregnant. I expected a father's love, but all I got was a cold, sharp blade of a voice. "Then do it quietly," he said. "Don't embarrass Candi. Her debutante ball is coming up." He didn't just reject me; he erased me. My trust fund was frozen, and I was told I was no longer an Acosta. My fiancé, Auston, had already discarded me, calling me a "bloated whale" while he looked for a thinner, wealthier replacement. I left New York on a Greyhound bus, weeping into a bag of chips, a broken woman the world considered a mistake. I couldn't understand how my own father could tell me to die "quietly" just to save face for a party. I didn't know why I had been a lab rat for my family’s pharmaceutical ambitions, or how they could sleep at night while I was left to rot in the gray drizzle of the city. Five years later, the doors of JFK International Airport slid open. I stepped onto the marble floor in red-soled stilettos, my body lean, lethal, and carved from years of blood and sweat. I wasn't the "whale" anymore; I was a ghost coming back to haunt them. With my daughter by my side and a medical reputation that terrified the global elite, I was ready to dismantle the Acosta empire piece by piece. "Tell Francis to wash his neck," I whispered to the skyline. "I'm home."