The Scripted Villain's Second Chance

The Scripted Villain's Second Chance

Roderic Penn

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I loved Isabella fiercely, my childhood sweetheart, the sunshine of my life. Our families were bound, our futures intertwined. I thought we were destined. Then came the betrayal. She shattered my family's legacy, my parents' health, and finally, my very life. As I lay dying, brutally tortured, I saw her, cold and triumphant, with Daniel Chen-the man she loved, whose 'death' she believed I orchestrated. My last, agonizing thought: This was never my story. I was just the villain, a disposable pawn for their destined romance. My parents ruined, my loyal dog, Max, cruelly taken on her orders-all for their 'happy ending.' The cosmic injustice hit harder than any physical torment. How could my entire existence be nothing more than a manipulated plot device? A tragic footnote in someone else's grand love story? The sheer absurdity, the profound unfairness, was suffocating. But then, I gasped. I wasn't dying. I was back. Years before my horrific end. I remembered this exact moment: the breaking point. This time, I knew the script. And I would burn it all down before it burned me again. My life, my rules.

Introduction

I loved Isabella fiercely, my childhood sweetheart, the sunshine of my life.

Our families were bound, our futures intertwined.

I thought we were destined.

Then came the betrayal.

She shattered my family's legacy, my parents' health, and finally, my very life.

As I lay dying, brutally tortured, I saw her, cold and triumphant, with Daniel Chen-the man she loved, whose 'death' she believed I orchestrated.

My last, agonizing thought: This was never my story.

I was just the villain, a disposable pawn for their destined romance.

My parents ruined, my loyal dog, Max, cruelly taken on her orders-all for their 'happy ending.'

The cosmic injustice hit harder than any physical torment.

How could my entire existence be nothing more than a manipulated plot device?

A tragic footnote in someone else's grand love story?

The sheer absurdity, the profound unfairness, was suffocating.

But then, I gasped.

I wasn't dying.

I was back.

Years before my horrific end.

I remembered this exact moment: the breaking point.

This time, I knew the script.

And I would burn it all down before it burned me again.

My life, my rules.

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The Discarded Wife's Billion-Dollar Comeback

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My life, carefully constructed over six blissful years with my amnesiac husband Julian and our sweet son Ethan, felt like a peaceful dream. I had found Julian injured on the roadside years ago, and together we built a loving, albeit simple, existence. Then, a sleek black car, a stark contrast to our humble Ohio home, pulled up outside, its occupants shattering our world. Julian's forgotten, aristocratic mother emerged, and with her presence, his lost memories violently flooded back. He looked at me, his wife, the mother of his child, and his eyes, once full of love, turned to chips of ice, dismissing our entire shared life as an "unfortunate chapter," a mere "embarrassment." His mother coolly offered me a shocking sum—a million dollars—to simply "disappear," while Julian stood by, silent, as his new fiancée, Veronica, openly sneered, calling me a pathetic "charity case." But in that moment of profound betrayal, something extraordinary happened: a terrifying premonition, a vivid flash of my future if I stayed. I saw years of excruciating humiliation, a desolate existence in their grand mansion where I was nothing but a servant, my beloved son Ethan tragically turned against me, and finally, my own confinement in a cold mental institution. The nightmare culminated with older Ethan, his youthful face twisted in pity, raising a syringe to me, whispering, "It's for the best, Mother," as darkness consumed me. Returning to the harsh reality of my porch, the raw pain of the present was strangely dulled, an old scar compared to the horror I had just witnessed. I knew with absolute certainty that I could not, would not, live that devastating fate again. So, when Julian's mother extended the check as a final dismissal, I met her gaze, outwardly calm but with a newfound, steely resolve. "Thank you," I said, my voice steady, then added my decisive condition: a fully funded MBA from a prestigious London university. This wasn't just a betrayal; it was my unexpected rebirth, a radical turning point to forge a future entirely on my own terms.

Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

Modern

5.0

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.

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