My Second Death, My Second Chance

Jilted Bride's Revenge: The Valkyrie Awakens

I had been a wife for exactly six hours when I woke up to the sound of my husband’s heavy breathing. In the dim moonlight of our bridal suite, I watched Hardin, the man I had adored for years, intertwined with my sister Carissa on the chaise lounge. The betrayal didn't come with an apology. Hardin stood up, unashamed, and sneered at me. "You're awake? Get out, you frumpy mute." Carissa huddled under a throw, her fake tears already welling up as she played the victim. They didn't just want me gone; they wanted me erased to protect their reputations. When I refused to move, my world collapsed. My father didn't offer a shoulder to cry on; he threatened to have me committed to a mental asylum to save his business merger. "You're a disgrace," he bellowed, while the guards stood ready to drag me away. They had spent my life treating me like a stuttering, submissive pawn, and now they were done with me. I felt a blinding pain in my skull, a fracture that should have broken me. But instead of tears, something dormant and lethal flickered to life. The terrified girl who walked down the aisle earlier that day simply ceased to exist. In her place, a clinical system—the Valkyrie Protocol—booted up. My racing heart plummeted to a steady sixty beats per minute. I didn't scream. I stood up, my spine straightening for the first time in twenty years, and looked at Hardin with the detachment of a surgeon looking at a tumor. "Correction," I said, my voice stripped of its stutter. "You're in my light." By dawn, I had drained my father's accounts, vanished into a storm, and found a bleeding Crown Prince in a hidden safehouse. They thought they had broken a mute girl. They didn't realize they had just activated their own destruction.

Five Billion Dollar Bride: The Reborn Genius

She was collateral. A silent bride in a five-billion-dollar deal, bound by a contract that stripped her of her name and her voice. He was Austin Walton. A ruthless billionaire who viewed his new wife not as a partner, but as an asset with a depreciating value. His plan was simple: use her to secure his empire, then discard her. Her plan was simpler: survive him. But on their wedding night, something changes. The terrified girl he expected is replaced by a woman with cold fire in her eyes, a woman who can do the math faster than his analysts and anticipate his enemies' moves before they happen. She dismantles her own family's treachery from the inside out, turning his wedding into a corporate battlefield where she is the undisputed victor. Austin bought a pawn for his chessboard. He's about to discover he married his queen. And in this game of power, the only rule is winner takes all.

He Saw My Soul, Not My Scars

My husband, Jeremiah, let me die from an allergic reaction because he couldn't pause his video game. He dismissed my kidnapping as a prank and refused to come to the hospital when I was miscarrying our child. But the final straw came when he ordered doctors to carve skin from my body for his mistress's minor burn. He thought he had broken me, but he was wrong. I exposed his affair, took his company, and left him with nothing. Years later, he crashed my wedding to another man, begging for a second chance. "Elena lied to me! She manipulated me! It was always you, Celina!" I looked at the monster who had destroyed my life, my family, and my child. Then I picked up a wine bottle and smashed it over his head.

The Vows Unspoken

For five years, Liam was my world. I thought we were building a future, heading for marriage, and I even used my connections to get us VIP tickets to a tech conference-a power move for his career. Then, on the giant live-stream screen, I watched him kiss his new assistant, Sarah, a deep, passionate embrace for thousands to see. Hours later, after a dazed walk and a screech of tires, I woke up in a hospital, bruised, concussed, and staring at Liam, who casually informed me he had hit me with his car. He then lied to my face, claiming Sarah was just his boss, and somehow convinced the hospital I had amnesia, painting me as an unstable woman who' d simply "forgotten" our relationship. The humiliation deepened when I discovered his hidden journal-a five-year chronicle of how I was merely a "placeholder," a temporary fix until his true love, Sarah, returned. He tried to reconcile, offering money and calls, but his desperate attempts felt hollow against the truth: he had never seen me as a person, only a convenient stand-in. Then came the final blow: Sarah announced as the new Head of Architecture, taking the promotion I' d worked years for, a public, corporate execution. But just as I thought I' d lost everything, a forgotten connection resurfaced. My Uncle David' s persistent offer of an arranged marriage, a path I' d once dismissed, suddenly glimmered with an unexpected promise. Little did I know, the man I was about to meet wasn't just a family friend, but a quiet, constant presence from my past, ready to offer a future I never dared to dream of.

The Second Chance Life

The sterile beep of the heart monitor was counting down the final seconds of my life. Then the door creaked open, and Scarlett Hayes, my husband' s manipulative childhood sweetheart, entered with a venomous smile. She informed me, with cruel satisfaction, that my husband, Mark, had only married me for a free nurse and babysitter, and that our son, Tommy, wasn't truly mine – he was theirs. My own baby, she revealed, wasn't stillborn, but had been given away by Mark to prevent me from having a "real heir." As she casually unplugged my life support, my world went black. The silence was deafening, the betrayal immense and crushing. I couldn't comprehend such calculated cruelty, and the pain left me paralyzed in my own body, unable to scream. But then, a blinding light, a familiar voice, and I gasped, sucking in air that didn' t feel like it came from a machine. I was back in my parents' living room, staring at Mark Peterson, kneeling before me with a velvet box, proposing. It was the day my miserable past life began, and this time, I wouldn't let it.

Justice Served Cold

My 18th birthday was supposed to be a celebration, a chance for my biological family, the Hewitts, to finally accept me. Living in their lavish Napa Valley winery, I desperately hoped for their love, despite being cast aside for their adopted daughter, Nicole. But the party turned into a nightmare when Nicole burst in, smeared with fake blood, dramatically accusing me of hiring men to hurt her. The room erupted. My "parents" looked at me with disgust, my brother Andrew, the one I' d longed for a bond with, unleashed his fury. He beat me, kicking me as I collapsed, while my father watched indifferently and my mother prepared to institutionalize me. They dragged me out like trash, sending me to Dr. Albright' s "behavioral correction facility" – a private asylum for inconvenient children. I felt a deeper pain than any physical blow; the betrayal was absolute, the injustice unbearable. How could they believe such a monstrous lie? How could my own family turn on me so viciously, so easily? They broke Molly there, with every needle and shock, every whispered lie, until, on the brink of sexual assault, her gentle spirit gave way. But a whisper echoed in my mind: "Stella… make them pay." That night, Molly died, and I, Stella, was born, ready to exact a chilling revenge.

Jilted Bride's Revenge: The Valkyrie Awakens

I had been a wife for exactly six hours when I woke up to the sound of my husband’s heavy breathing. In the dim moonlight of our bridal suite, I watched Hardin, the man I had adored for years, intertwined with my sister Carissa on the chaise lounge. The betrayal didn't come with an apology. Hardin stood up, unashamed, and sneered at me. "You're awake? Get out, you frumpy mute." Carissa huddled under a throw, her fake tears already welling up as she played the victim. They didn't just want me gone; they wanted me erased to protect their reputations. When I refused to move, my world collapsed. My father didn't offer a shoulder to cry on; he threatened to have me committed to a mental asylum to save his business merger. "You're a disgrace," he bellowed, while the guards stood ready to drag me away. They had spent my life treating me like a stuttering, submissive pawn, and now they were done with me. I felt a blinding pain in my skull, a fracture that should have broken me. But instead of tears, something dormant and lethal flickered to life. The terrified girl who walked down the aisle earlier that day simply ceased to exist. In her place, a clinical system—the Valkyrie Protocol—booted up. My racing heart plummeted to a steady sixty beats per minute. I didn't scream. I stood up, my spine straightening for the first time in twenty years, and looked at Hardin with the detachment of a surgeon looking at a tumor. "Correction," I said, my voice stripped of its stutter. "You're in my light." By dawn, I had drained my father's accounts, vanished into a storm, and found a bleeding Crown Prince in a hidden safehouse. They thought they had broken a mute girl. They didn't realize they had just activated their own destruction.

He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him

The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

My Alpha's Heartless Contract Wife

"Anya, a 'wolfless' in a world of powerful werewolves, was invisible, drowning her sorrows and desperately lonely. One drunken text, a desperate cry for attention, accidentally reached the Alpha, pulling her into his terrifying orbit. Now, she's trapped, a pawn in his game, forced to warm his bed while he waits for his true mate, her heart breaking with every stolen moment. As a 'wolfless' in the Blackwood Pack, Anya felt like an outsider, always yearning for a connection. One night, in a drunken haze, a misdirected text meant for her best friend landed in Alpha Declan Blackwood's inbox: ""Send me something hot."" Minutes later, the most powerful, terrifying man in the Pack stood at her door, claiming her with a possessive kiss that ignited a dangerous, unwanted fire. The next morning, his cold indifference shattered her world. Publicly humiliated and instantly fired, Anya became a pariah. Her dying mother's urgent need for a million-dollar heart transplant left her with an impossible choice: accept the Alpha's cold, transactional marriage proposal or watch her mother die. She became his ""placeholder"" wife, a contract, not a partner, all while battling a confusing attraction to the man who treated her as property. Why did he demand her, only to remind her constantly of her worthlessness, especially when everyone knew he waited for his true mate? Her world crumbled when she overheard Declan tell his returning ""true mate,"" Kristin Larsen, that Anya was ""just a substitute."" Despite the crushing betrayal and a strange, unyielding pull, Anya, fueled by her mother's desperate need, vowed to survive this gilded cage and reclaim her life before she lost herself completely."

HIS DOE, HIS DAMNATION(An Erotic Billionaire Romance)

Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.

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.

Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."