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I thought I was the happiest woman in the world... until I clicked on that video.

The moment the screen lit up, my entire world came crashing down.

The woman on the bed was Calista - that girl who grew up with us since we were kids. And that hand caressing her skin was wearing the wedding ring I had personally put on Matteo's finger.

"I've missed you so much..."
"You drive me crazy, baby..."

Those sweet words I knew so well completely destroyed me.

Everyone said we were the perfect couple, but who knew this marriage was built on nothing but lies?

Since he's so good at acting, I guess it's time I gave him a show of my own. I'm going to make sure everyone sees what this "perfect husband" really is...

The day I died, I found a locked box in my husband's closet.

Inside were thirty years of lies.

Gray Reed saved my life when I was eight. Everyone said I owed him everything. At eighteen, I gave him my college applications to "help revise" - he was my guidance counselor. He told me, "Livy, you're not competitive enough. Stanford's too hard. Consider community college instead."

I believed him. I stayed in our small town, took over the family Mexican restaurant, married him. Thirty years later he died, and I discovered the truth—

He photocopied my entire application and gave it to his first love, Elysia Hunt.

She used MY application to get into Stanford. Built a Silicon Valley empire on MY life.

While I spent thirty years trapped in this town, married to the man who stole my future.

But when I opened my eyes, I was back in September 1995, first week of senior year, eighteen years old—

This time, no one steals my dreams.

I thought winning the lottery would save our family. I never imagined it would destroy it.
When Colton held up that $3 million lottery ticket, I cried with relief—no more struggling with rent, finally our kids could have a good life. I even threw a BBQ to celebrate with all our trailer park neighbors.
But he stood on that picnic table and announced to everyone: "Winning this money made me realize I've been settling for a life that's too small. Brandi, I want a divorce."
Then a blonde nail salon worker who looked barely 22 stepped out of a red Camaro: "Hi everyone, I'm Raven, his new girlfriend."
What broke my heart more was my 15-year-old daughter Skylar choosing to go with her father: "Mom, I'm tired of being poor, tired of people calling us trailer trash."
Overnight, I lost my husband, my daughter, my home, even my job. At 33, I was sleeping on my friend's couch with my 8-year-old son, the laughingstock of the entire town.
But when I discovered this nail technician's true identity, everything changed...

I thought next week I'd be walking through the daisies on Grandma's farm to marry the man who promised to treat me like a princess—until our wedding planner's call shattered everything. He'd changed our venue to a Tuscan castle because it was his childhood friend Lina's favorite place? When exactly had I agreed to that?

What chilled me to the bone was seeing Grandma's heirloom necklace—my heirloom—around Lina's throat. He told me to "be reasonable," claimed the farm was "beneath" his status, but wasn't he the one who swore he'd make my childhood dream come true?

When he slapped me in front of everyone at his family party to defend Lina, reality finally hit me: the man I'd given my heart to for four years—what exactly did he think I was to him?

Seven years ago, I left him while carrying his child.

That night, I had a reservation ready to tell him we were having a baby. He texted about a last-minute audition. Then I saw him on TMZ having candlelit dinner with a producer's daughter.

So I walked away. Had Mia alone. Built a gallery in Portland under a fake name. Four years of pretending the past never happened.

Until he showed up at my door, saying he was Noah's uncle.

Those eyes—left one blue, right one green—matched my daughter's exactly.

He said he'd been searching for seven years. That he studied my paintings every night. That he'd been living across the street, watching over me in secret.

I should've slammed the door.

But when the world called me a fraud, when I stood accused in Paris with cameras everywhere, he flew five thousand miles to tell everyone: "She's my wife. Mia's mother."

Seven years ago, he made me hide in shadows. Seven years later, he dragged me into the spotlight.

The question is—do I dare trust him again?

My husband Michael's father and my own father shared the same name—Robert. His was Robert Carter; mine, Robert Smith. I once thought it a sweet coincidence, until that 3 AM phone call turned this quirk of fate into a living nightmare.
The nursing home called to say Robert Carter had died, but when Michael returned from his business trip, he assumed it was my father who had passed. "Old Robert's finally gone," he smirked. "Should've moved him to the cheaper nursing home ages ago." Can you believe it? His own father—the man who'd left him an inheritance—and there he was, helping his medical intern mistress cover up malpractice, dismissing the death as "just some useless old man."
He has no idea he's protecting his father's killer. No clue I've seen through his cold-bloodedness all along.
I wonder, when the truth finally hits him, how will this absurd tragedy end?

My name is Mira Sawyer, an orphan adopted by the Rossi mafia family.

The night I was kidnapped, the captor pressed a gun to my temple and told Marco over video: "Five million dollars, or she dies."

I watched Marco Rossi—heir to New York's mafia empire—laugh with a blonde in his arms: "Keep her. Maybe she'll finally learn I don't want a pathetic puppy following me around."

Ten years of waiting, shattered at gunpoint.

Then the warehouse exploded.

Through the smoke walked a man in a black coat, eyes colder than death itself. Three shots. Three bodies. He stopped in front of me: "Nobody touches what's mine to protect."

That night changed everything.

The next day, I returned to the manor and saw him descending the stairs. Marco's face went white:

"Uncle Luca?! You're back from Sicily?!"

The legendary killer, exiled for twelve years. The real power behind the Rossi family. Marco's uncle.

He was the man who saved me.

And in that warehouse, I'd already become his.

Echo Miller once had the perfect married life—a gentle, caring husband Jason, an adorable daughter Emma, and an enviable middle-class lifestyle. Until one midnight, she felt a stranger's brutal assault through a drug-induced haze, only to wake up and find her husband sleeping peacefully on the couch.

At first, she thought it was a nightmare, until the tearing pain and bodily fluids on her underwear made her realize—someone had raped her while she was completely defenseless.

When Echo began investigating the truth, she discovered a devastating reality: her husband had been drugging her milk with sleeping pills, then "renting out" her unconscious body like merchandise to a masked pervert, with the entire rape being livestreamed for perverts worldwide to watch.

For two years, she wasn't a wife—she was her husband's trafficked sex slave.

My name is Victoria Sterling. Thirty-seven, Silicon Valley CEO, millions in the bank.

I don't believe in love. But I believe in deals.

Fifty grand a month for a compliant companion and bed partner—that's been my life for three years. Until I met Ethan Cole: twenty-nine, Stanford dropout, bankrupt with $1.8M in debt, mother dying of cancer.

He's smart, he's handsome, and he's desperate.

Perfect prey.

I thought I controlled everything. Until two months later, when his creditor showed up in my office lobby and said:

"Ms. Sterling, do you know his real reason for approaching you?"

That's when I saw Ethan's face—

Pure, devastating guilt.

Three days after giving birth to Sofia, I arrived at the luxury postpartum suite my parents had carefully chosen for us. The GPS said I'd reached the right place, but when I opened the door to room D12, I knew something was terribly wrong. This wasn't the premium suite we'd paid for. And when I found my brother-in-law's girlfriend lounging in MY corner suite, sipping the special recovery soup MY mother had made for me, while my newborn's organic cotton blankets wrapped around HER baby, I realized this wasn't a mistake. My hand was shaking as I held my phone, my parents' number ready to dial.

I was the most pathetic existence on campus.

Thick glasses, baggy sweaters, walking through the cafeteria like crossing a minefield. Albert, my childhood crush of three years, publicly mocked me as "a pathetic little dog following him around." Campus queen Madison crushed me under her heel. That rainy night, I gave up completely and swore to make them all pay.

Three months later, I returned.

Bronze skin, perfect curves, stunning hair—the entire campus was buzzing about this "mystery goddess." No one recognized that I was once the pathetic Molly Baker.

When Albert discovered the truth, it was too late. The man standing beside me shocked the entire school.

On the day I was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer, my husband's old flame returned. He greeted her with deep affection: "Welcome home."

For three years, I'd been nothing more than a stand-in, molded to resemble her. That lasted until she appeared at a charity gala in the same dress as mine, arm-in-arm with my husband, who pushed me aside with, "You're blocking Valerie."

I signed the papers to refuse treatment and resolved to end my silence. I could still muster a faint smile as she brought in designers to plan renovations for my apartment. But when she fed chocolate to my dog with a laugh, watching it convulse and die in my arms—

In that moment, cradling its body as it grew cold, I told my brother over the phone: "Find out everything about Valerie."

I died—not in the way you'd expect, but slowly, painfully, while he was entangled with her.

He called her his savior, the woman who sold everything to rescue his failing empire. Little did he know, it was my money, my life's work, that he squandered.

The betrayal burned hotter than any flame, and I vowed he'd pay.

Now, he's gone—a leap from the heights he once ruled, his fall as swift as his rise.

When I was twenty, Samuel called off our engagement and chose Stella instead.

After the engagement party ended, he told me: "Stella saved my life once. Now her father wants to marry her off to that disgusting old man Harrison Burke. I can't just stand by and watch."

He said to give him three years to repay his debt of gratitude, and after three years he would come back to me.

Like a fool, I waited for him for three years.

During those three years, I went from being his fiancée to becoming his secret lover, telling myself it was only temporary.

Until that day, when he knew I had a heart condition but still made me go extreme skydiving for the sake of a business deal.

After that, I completely came to my senses and abandoned him. And he seemed to suddenly regret it.

How does fate weigh the value of a ten-year-old girl? To my father, I was just a debt waiting to be settled; to Marco Rossini, I was nothing more than the rare RH-negative blood pulsing in my veins.

"Elvira, you're special," he'd whisper, his slender fingers gliding along my veins, his eyes shining with a hunger I foolishly took for love.

For eight long years, I matured in that opulent prison, surrendering my blood and my heart, vial by vial. When he draped the sapphire necklace around my neck, I foolishly believed salvation had come at last. Little did I know, every drop of crimson I gave was fueling another woman's fairy-tale romance. Tell me—where does love end and hatred begin when your very life is just a means to prolong someone else's?

My eighteenth birthday wasn't the rite of passage I'd dreamed of—it was a coldly calculated offering, the final betrayal.

Thunder ripped me back from the edge of death—back to my 18-year-old bedroom, March 15, 2022 staring at me from the calendar. Seven days before Blake left me bleeding in the rain, before that drunk bastard finished what heartbreak started.

"Did you honestly think someone like me could love someone as pathetic as you?"

His words still burned as I grabbed the scissors and hacked off my hair. The chest binder squeezed tight as I pulled on an oversized shirt. The stranger in the mirror—this "River"—looked nothing like the girl who'd died for love. Good.

My sob story about being an orphan got me into the Ashworth mansion easily enough. But when I came face to face with Blake's perfect fake smile, Quinn was watching from across the room, her face white as a sheet.

Did she know?

This whole revenge plan was already going sideways, and I'd barely started. But I was done being the victim. Time to find out what really happened—and make them all pay.

Six years of marriage. All of it, just an elaborate revenge plot.

When Lorenzo played that recording in front of a room full of guests, telling everyone I was the daughter of the undercover cop who killed his father, I finally understood—every kiss, every sweet word, every night of passion was nothing more than a move in his game of vengeance.

I thought the worst pain was being abandoned, humiliated, stripped of everything.

Until Elena collapsed in a pool of blood because we couldn't afford her medication. That's when I learned what true despair meant.

But when the man who destroyed me used his own body to shield me from bullets, when he used his dying breath to whisper "I love you"—

Should I hate him, or should I forgive him?

At the Met Gala, I heard my husband tell his friends in French that I'm "boring." That his 22-year-old girlfriend is "so much more exciting in bed."

He laughed when they asked if I knew. "Elle ne comprend même pas 'bonjour'." (She doesn't even understand 'bonjour'.)

What Marcus doesn't know: I spent two years at the Sorbonne.

Je comprends tout, Marcus. I understand everything.

The diamond necklace he gave me after my miscarriage suddenly feels too tight. I smile at him across the champagne and candlelight.

He has no idea what's coming.

I thought my past was buried until Kieran walked into that bridal shop. The same guy who chose video games over becoming Alpha, who watched me work three jobs while he did nothing. Three years later, I'm building something beautiful with Nathaniel and our growing pack alliance. But Kieran's back, obsessed and desperate, hunting me down at every turn. He thinks I owe him another chance. Some men never learn when to quit.

"Ivory's six months pregnant. She needs to get back more than you do."

When my husband Donovan said those words at a South African mining disaster site, I knew my marriage was over. Two helicopter seats, three British nationals. He chose to save his mistress instead of his pregnant wife.

"I'm pregnant too," I told him, my voice shaking.

"I know," he replied without emotion. "You're only three months along. You'll manage."

He knew. He knew I was carrying his child, and he was still choosing her over me. Over us.

"You'll manage. You're stronger than anyone," he told me as he left me in a war zone, helping his precious Ivory onto the helicopter like she might break.

Three months pregnant and abandoned, the stress nearly killed me. I had no choice but to terminate the pregnancy – the last tie connecting me to the man who betrayed me.

But I discovered something deeper than just adultery. Something that would destroy them both.

My husband Steven was in late-stage cancer, but he suddenly insisted on divorcing me.

He said it was for my own good, but I absolutely refused.

We loved each other so much - how could I possibly abandon him at a time like this?

Until I was going through some paperwork and accidentally found an $1.8 billion trust fund - but I wasn't the beneficiary.

Why would my soon-to-be ex-husband transfer our family's massive fortune to someone else?

After I discovered the truth, he quickly ended up in the hospital in critical condition. And on the very night his resuscitation failed, I had him cremated.

I found the receipt in my husband Owen's jacket. Le Bernardin. 8:30 PM. Two entrees, wine, crème brûlée—Kenna's favorite.
At 8:30, I was sitting in the ER. My mom needed emergency surgery, and I'd begged him to come. He said he was working late.
He lied.
For three years, I gave Owen everything. Eighty thousand dollars from my parents—our down payment money—to fund his architecture studio. My income to pay our bills while he "built his dream." My design work, free of charge, to make his projects shine.
And he made me invisible.
His website lists Kenna as his partner. His award speech thanks her. When clients ask who did the gardens that sell his buildings, he credits "various contractors."
I kept a notebook. Every dollar, every project, every time he chose her over me.
Now I want it back. All of it.
I'm leaving him a note, my lawyer's number, and one demand: my money, or 25% of his studio.
The roses on our table are dead. I forgot to change the water this week.
Maybe it's time I stopped trying to keep dead things alive.

I thought I saved him.
Six years ago, Marcus came back from Afghanistan broken, traumatized, plagued by nightmares. I was his therapist, walked him through every panic attack, broke every professional rule to fall for my own patient.
"Age is just a number," he used to say. "You saved my life, Sophia."
Now he tells his friends I'm "stale," that I'm too old at thirty-six, that my face shows wrinkles.
When I saw the bank transfers to Emma Wilson, when I discovered this 25-year-old grad student looks like a younger me, when I realized they're using my money for couples therapy workshops...
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear. From rage.
I thought I saved a broken man. Now I understand I just raised a monster.
He forgot one thing—
I still remember how to destroy a person.

In three days, I'll put on the white ceremonial dress and stand beneath the moonlight, addressed by the entire pack as—his Luna.
I've replayed that moment countless times: his hand closing around mine, his voice declaring our bond to the tribe,
and me—no longer an ordinary Omega, but the partner who stands beside an Alpha.
In my mind, that moment has always felt like fate.
I've believed that the second I step onto that ritual platform, my life will change forever—
as if every wait, every hope I've ever held, will finally be answered.
I keep telling myself:
destiny is waiting for me.
I just don't know
what it's preparing to give.

The crash four years ago killed my parents and stole my memories. When I woke up, Gino was holding my hand, crying: "Thank god you're awake." He told me it was an accident, a drunk driver. He swore he'd help me find the killer.

I believed him for four years.

Until that weekend in Napa, when I overheard a conversation I was never meant to hear.

"You crashed your car chasing after me four years ago, you can't have forgotten!" his stepsister Ivy screamed. My blood ran cold. Four years ago? The exact night my parents died?

Five years ago, I walked away pregnant and heartbroken.
He chose someone else.
He let me go without looking back.

Now I’ve returned—with a son who carries his blood
and a strength I never knew I had.

He kneels, begging for forgiveness.

I died in his fire.

Lucian Cross made me Ghost—the deadliest assassin in New York's underworld. Thirty-seven kills. Ten years of loyalty. Then he locked the cuffs himself and told me I was too soft to live.

But death gave me a second chance.

When I open my eyes again, I'm back in that warehouse. This time, I'm not crying. This time, I'm escaping. And this time, I'm taking everything he built and burning it down.

There's just one problem: Kael Vaughn, Lucian's sworn enemy, pulled me from the rubble. Now I'm hiding my identity while falling for the one man who'd kill me if he knew the truth.

Except when my secret comes out, Kael doesn't pull the trigger. He hands me a gun instead.

"I don't care who you were. I care who you choose to be now."

But Lucian never lets go of what's his.

"Not pregnant again?"
Those three words have become more familiar than "I love you" in my marriage. For two years, I've dreaded the monthly ritual—the single line on the test, Damon's disappointed sigh, his mechanical "We'll try again."
Until yesterday.
"Congratulations, you're four weeks along," the doctor beamed, sliding the report across her desk.
I gripped that paper like a lifeline, tears streaming down my face as I touched my still-flat belly. Finally, he'll look at me the way he used to.
But some victories come with a price I never saw coming...

Selene thought she'd found true love with Alexander Morrison. She was WRONG—she was just a stand-in for Jessa, the woman he really wanted.

When Alexander and his twin brother Adrian's yacht exploded in the Gulf of Mexico, Alexander came home with Adrian's ashes, claiming to BE Adrian. His goal? To steal Adrian's wife Jessa—the woman he'd always loved.

Selene knew instantly he was lying, but when she told everyone, no one believed her. Alexander called her "crazy from trauma" and locked her away in a mental facility. She was PREGNANT.

They drugged her daily. After she gave birth, Alexander told her the baby died. She broke completely.

Three years later, dying in that white hell, Selene heard Alexander's final confession:

"I always loved Jessa. Adrian just got to her first. YOU? You were just her replacement."

"The kid's alive. I gave him to Jessa. He calls her Mom now."

Selene died full of rage—then woke up reborn, back to the moment Alexander walked in with that urn.

This time, she'd expose his lies and make him PAY.