Craving for My Tyrant Husband

Reborn To Reject: The White Wolf's Second Chance

In my previous life, while I was screaming in labor, my Alpha husband was too busy comforting his mistress to answer his phone. My son died gasping for air. But Graves didn't grieve. Instead, he dragged me out of my recovery bed because his mistress, Alex, claimed to have "silver poisoning." He commanded the doctors to cut me open right there. He watched them harvest my kidney and spinal fluid without anesthesia, just to use my essence as a beauty treatment for the woman who poisoned me. "It is your duty, Luna," he sneered as I bled out on the table. I died looking at his cold, hateful eyes, realizing my love had been a death sentence. But the Moon Goddess has a twisted sense of humor. I opened my eyes, and the calendar on the wall showed the date from three years ago. The day he brought Alex home. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I walked straight to the dark clinic with a cooler box in my hand. "Perform the Bloodline Severing," I told the terrified doctor. "Extract the fetus and freeze it in magical stasis. I'd rather stop my baby's heart myself than let that monster call him 'son'."

The Ghost Heiress: My Dangerous Double Life

I spent ten years living in a rusted trailer in Upstate New York, enduring the stench of stale cigarettes and the Millers' constant abuse. They called me a useless leech and a parasite, never realizing I was simply a top-tier operative known as "Ghost" waiting for the signal to return to my real life. The breaking point came when the Millers threw my muddy duffel bag into the dirt and shrieked at me to get out. As I walked away, a massive explosion leveled their home behind me, and a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up to the curb. A man in white gloves opened the door and addressed me as "Miss Vance," announcing that my billionaire parents were finally waiting for me. But my homecoming was far from a fairytale. My biological mother was dying of heart failure, and my cousin Victoria publicly humiliated me, calling me "trailer trash" and mocking my lack of education. To make matters worse, I was forced into an engagement with Julian Sterling, a ruthless CEO who despised the idea of marrying a "charity case" like me. No one knew that the "meek" girl they pitied was leading a double life. While Victoria tried to shame me at dinner parties, I was busy infiltrating elite clubs in tactical bodysuits and stealing encrypted drives from Russian arms dealers. I had to play the role of the helpless, boring daughter while my own fiancé hunted the mysterious thief who had pinned him against a wall and kissed him breathless in the shadows. I thought my cover was perfect until Julian's grandmother collapsed on Fifth Avenue in full cardiac arrest. While the crowd stood paralyzed, I broke protocol and used a forbidden "Ghost Needle" technique to bring her back from the dead before vanishing into the crowd. That evening, Julian watched the viral footage of the miracle rescue, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the "uneducated" girl he was forced to marry. He realized the boring woman sitting across from him at dinner was the same dangerous operative who had outsmarted him at the club, and the hunt for the truth had finally hit home.

His Wedding, Her Goodbye

My adopted brother, Noah Vance, was my whole world. He protected me, cherished me, and always put me first. I secretly loved him, a forbidden love I dared not speak. Then, my best friend, Chloe, betrayed me. She told Noah everything, and he exploded, tearing my diary to shreds and calling me "disgusting." A week later, he announced his engagement to her. He became cold, a stranger. I watched him dote on Chloe, saw him kiss her with a passion he never showed me. My heart shattered. When a family tracing agency found my biological parents, I saw it as a sign-a chance to escape the Vance family and my broken dreams. I made plans to leave the country forever. But before I left, things got worse. Noah forced me to help Chloe plan their wedding, dismissing my lifetime of dedication to dance. Then, in a horrific car crash, he chose to save Chloe, leaving me bleeding and trapped, destroying my leg and my ability to dance. Even on the night of my final performance, using the choreography I poured my soul into, he stood by Chloe as she took all the credit. He kissed her on stage, and I was left to watch my life' s dream become someone else' s triumph. How could he betray me so completely? I packed my life away, the gifts he once gave me now symbols of betrayal. I walked out on his wedding day, leaving him behind forever. I thought I was free. But a diplomat's daughter doesn't just disappear.

The Wife He Destroyed, Reborn

On our tenth wedding anniversary, my husband Liam handed me a beautifully wrapped gift. It wasn't jewelry; it was a leather-bound notebook, a "playbook" detailing years of his affairs, each encounter meticulously logged. My world shattered as he casually demanded I "disperse" his harem, paying them off so we could "start over." For ten years, I' d been the obedient wife, the replacement bride after my twin sister Chloe supposedly died. Swallowing the humiliation, I worked my way through the list, until only one name remained: Chloe, still alive, and heavily pregnant with Liam's child. He hadn' t wanted me back; he wanted me gone, to bring her home. The cruel, elaborate lie of my marriage finally unraveled. When I confronted him, Liam' s facade dropped, his hands around my throat, whispering I was just a "pathetic replacement." Then, Chloe appeared, feigning innocence and twisting our past, painting me as obsessed, while Liam demoted me from wife to servant, ordering me to care for his pregnant mistress. Driven to despair, I called my mother, who immediately came to my rescue. But just as she arrived, Chloe, in Liam' s car, brutally ran her down, killing her before my eyes. Liam then presented me with a waiver, demanding I absolve Chloe of responsibility to protect his mistress and "his son," offering me money for my mother' s death. The callous contempt in his eyes, the utter disrespect for my grief, ignited a cold, hard fury I had never known. I tore his waiver to shreds, the act a blazing declaration of war. At my mother' s funeral, Chloe brazenly confessed the murder, gloating over her "plan" to get rid of my mother, then deliberately provoked me. Liam, in his rage, viciously kicked me in the stomach, causing the miscarriage of our child-a child he didn' t even know existed. The final betrayal came when I needed him most; in the hospital, writhing in pain, he dismissed my pleas for help, choosing Chloe, leading to another devastating miscarriage. I was losing everything, suffocating in a nightmare orchestrated by the very people who were supposed to be my family. But then, my uncle arrived, a beacon of unwavering support, pulling me from the abyss. Two years passed. Reborn as Ava Sterling, a successful design mogul, I returned, ready to make Liam pay. At a charity gala, I humiliated him publicly, then gave him a choice: send Chloe, the woman he' d loved, to prison for murder, or lose me forever. He chose to sacrifice Chloe, but his act of penance was merely the opening gambit in my game of revenge. Chloe was arrested, her frantic cries exposing Liam's complicity, destroying his reputation. His calls became desperate, demanding his "reward." He had no idea his punishment had just begun.

My Sacred Reckoning

For years, I was Gabrielle Johns: a dedicated librarian in our sleepy Utah town, and the devout wife of Matthew Scott, a man cherished by our church. My deepest prayer was for children, and after embracing IVF and discovering I was having quadruplets, I truly believed God had answered my prayers fourfold. My brutal pregnancy was a testament to my faith, and Matthew, my "devoted" husband, orchestrated prayer circles, praising my suffering as a mother's beautiful love. Then, six months in, at a church potluck, my world shattered. Hiding in the garden, I overheard Matthew and two elders. Matthew, the man I loved, calmly explained how I was merely a "vessel," a "righteous sacrifice" carrying children for his mistress, his sister, his old friend, and his deceased fiancée's parents. He chuckled, deeming me "so trusting," "so naive," for believing these impossible pregnancies were ours. My casserole dish crashed, mirroring the implosion within me. Each kick from inside became a violation, a chilling reminder of his cold deception. I stumbled home, the truth a gaping wound, forced to play the loving wife while a cold rage hardened my core. He' d not only used my infertility, he' d caused it, poisoning me for years with "supplements" to destroy my eggs. My love incinerated, replaced by a singular, burning desire. The devout, forgiving Gabrielle died that night. The woman who remained knew one thing with absolute certainty: She wanted revenge. She would make Matthew pay, not with quick death, but with a living hell far worse.

More Than a Hillbilly Girl

My name is Gabrielle Johns, and I have a "knack" -a gut feeling that always comes true-and a secret curse: anyone who hurts me gets their comeuppance, disastrously proportional. My prediction of a 100-to-1 long shot winning the Kentucky Derby made me famous, and when Wesley Fowler, owner of a failing bourbon empire, offered life-changing money to save his family, I agreed. But the moment I stepped onto his opulent Lexington estate, his vicious daughter, Madisyn, stormed in. Mistaking me for a "homewrecker" secretly meeting her fiancé, Anthony, her eyes seared with rage. She and her friends dragged me out, throwing me onto the sharp gravel. They kicked me repeatedly, mocking my accent and clothes, until Madisyn screamed, "You think you can take what' s mine?!" and slammed my face into the stones. The final blow came when her boot shattered my mother's locket, the last thing I had of her. A silent, freezing fury consumed me. Through the pain, a cold certainty settled: the curse was awake. I looked Madisyn dead in the eye, my voice low and steady, "You' re about to lose what' s most important to you." Madisyn scoffed, but then stumbled, falling face-first onto a sharp ironwork, gashing her perfect face. Her friends watched in horror. "You witch!" she shrieked, then grabbed an antique hatpin, pinning me to the ground. "This is for my face!" she hissed, plunging it into my throat. As darkness consumed me, I heard Wesley Fowler' s voice, but it wasn't compassion. He looked at my bleeding throat, at his ruined investment, roaring at Madisyn, "You' ve destroyed our last chance!" He chose his influential but disfigured daughter' s "modern plan" over me, leaving me for dead in favor of a PR stunt. My father, with his own gut feeling, arrived just in time, scooping me up and promising a hell the Fowlers couldn' t imagine. My vocal cords were shredded, the doctors said I might never speak again. But a tiny, stubborn whisper grew inside me: I will speak again. What happened to the Fowlers after their desperate choice? Did their "modern plan" save them, or did my curse truly deliver its retribution? Find out how a hillbilly girl with a secret knack brought down an empire.

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.

After Divorce: My Arrogant Ex Regrets Calling Me Trash

Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world. In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief." But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius. Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be.

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.

The Ghost Wife's Billion Dollar Tech Comeback

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 Almighty Alpha Wins Back His Rejected Mate

Life was a bed of roses for Debra, the daughter of Alpha. That was until she had a one-night stand with Caleb. She was sure he was her mate as determined by Moon Goddess. But this hateful man refused to accept her. Weeks passed before Debra discovered that she was pregnant. Her pregnancy brought shame to her and everyone she loved. Not only was she driven out, but her father was also hunted down by usurpers. Fortunately, she survived with the help of the mysterious Thorn Edge Pack. Five years passed and Debra didn't hear anything from Caleb. One day, their paths crossed again. They were both on the same mission-carrying out secret investigations in the dangerous Roz Town for the safety and posterity of their respective packs. Caleb was still cold toward her. But as time went on, he fell head over heels in love with her. He tried to make up for abandoning her, but Debra wasn't having any of it. She was hell-bent on hiding her daughter from him and also making a clean break. What did the future hold for the two as they journeyed in Roz Town? What kind of secrets would they find? Would Caleb win Debra's heart and get to know his lovely daughter? Find out!

Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

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.