84 Book(s) Related to swiftie

I thought I was just an ordinary potter who fell for the wrong man—a billionaire heir who could never truly be mine.

I thought the worst pain would be watching him choose someone else.

Until that DNA report shattered every illusion I'd ever held.

Phoenix Blackwood and I... we're siblings.

For twenty-three years, I lived inside my mother's carefully woven lie. She wasn't just some nameless maid—she was the woman the Blackwood family destroyed and discarded.

When I watched that man drop to his knees, screaming "What does blood matter? I love you!" I finally understood....

On the day I lost our child, I discovered my husband entwined in an affair with his secretary.

He hurried to my hospital bed, tears brimming in his eyes, vowing that we would have another baby—while his mistress was already sixteen weeks pregnant.

Thus, I granted him his wishes: a lamenting wife's performance, a fabricated death, and a clean escape.

Three months later, he crashed through the door, eyes frenzied, proclaiming he would set the world ablaze to earn my forgiveness.

My childhood friend was a tech prodigy.

To comfort his influencer girlfriend who was suffering from period cramps, he wanted to forfeit the National Hackathon we had spent the entire year preparing for.

I tipped off his father.

Consequently, he was dragged to the competition, won first place, and secured a straight path to Stanford.

Years later, his startup succeeded, making him a billionaire Silicon Valley entrepreneur.

While I was nothing but his employee.

In the dimly lit basement server room, peering down at me like a god, he plunged a knife into my only seeing eye.

"Chloe, you are a vicious bitch. This is your retribution."

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the moment before everything fell apart.

Five years. Five years I gave everything to Paxton Sterling—my heart, my body, my wolf's soul. I built his empire as Chief Strategy Officer while wearing his mark like a badge of honor.

Then she came back.

Layla—my pure-blooded half-sister with her perfect smile and poison tongue. Within days of her return from Europe, Paxton was ready to throw me away like yesterday's news.

"I want to sever our bond, Freya. Lyra is my true mate."

Wrong move, Alpha.

He thinks I'm just another submissive mate who'll quietly disappear. He's forgotten I'm a mixed-blood Alpha who's been playing nice for far too long. While he's busy playing house with my backstabbing sister, Lucas Morgan—the most dangerous Alpha in the territory—is making me an offer I can't refuse.

Paxton wants to discard me? Fine.

But he's about to learn that some women don't just walk away—they burn everything down on their way out.

I'm done being the good girl. Done being the perfect mate. Done hiding what I really am.

They say some secrets are meant to stay buried.

I used to believe that too—until Roman Aldridge walked back into my life fifteen years later, no longer the broken thirteen-year-old boy I once held through his darkest nights, but a devastatingly handsome man who looked at me like I was his salvation and his damnation all at once.

"I've never stopped loving you, Vivian."

Those seven words shattered the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my heart. Because the truth? I'd never stopped loving him either.

Fifteen years ago, I was his dead mother's replacement—a twenty-three-year-old political advisor tasked with caring for a grieving child. I held him when he cried, watched him grow, and somewhere along the way, developed feelings that terrified me so much I fled Seattle like my life depended on it.

Now I'm back. Divorced, desperate, and apparently still weak enough to melt under those same dark eyes that once looked at me with innocent adoration but now burn with a man's desire.

The scandal writes itself: Governor Candidate's Son Seduces Former Caregiver. Or is it the other way around? Does it matter when the entire world thinks you're a predator who groomed the boy you were supposed to protect?

Roman doesn't care about the headlines. He doesn't care that loving me could destroy his political future, his relationship with his father, everything he's worked for. He says he'd rather burn the whole world down than live without me.

The problem is, I believe him.

And God help me, I think I might let him.

Because sometimes, the most forbidden love is the only one worth fighting for.

Even if it means that a woman falls in love with the child she once nurtured.

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 my husband handed the project I bled for to his "depressed" childhood sweetheart, he told me to be mature. "You're my wife. You shouldn't care about the credit."

So, when I was in the hospital miscarrying our baby while he threw her a party, I didn't cry. When she posted selfies wearing my anniversary necklace, I didn't scream.

Julian thought he had finally broken me into the perfect, obedient housewife. He truly believed I was nothing without him.

What a pathetic joke.

He had no idea his entire "business empire" was secretly kept alive by my family's trust fund.

He certainly didn't know the "mundane paperwork" he blindly signed this morning was my resignation—and our divorce agreement.

At our seventh wedding anniversary dinner, my husband Nathan audaciously discussed the name of the child his mistress Victoria was carrying, speaking in Spanish right in front of me.
They presumed I could not understand. Yet, not only did I comprehend every word, but I had also long ago uncovered evidence of their affair—including those passionate videos filmed in his car...
But when I vanished completely, he went into a frenzy.
When the news of the 'plane crash' broke, he spent fifty million dollars, deploying twelve rescue helicopters to search relentlessly through the storm for seven days and nights.
When the rescue team informed him that 'there were no survivors,' this once indomitable man knelt on the deck, weeping inconsolably like a child who has lost his mother.
Little did he know, there was no trace of me on that 'lost' plane.
And now, it was my turn to make him experience the true meaning of loss.

I spent two years alongside the Mafia don, serving as his most obedient secretary and most transparent wife, watching as he bestowed all his tenderness upon his shining muse. With great effort, I deceived him into signing the divorce papers and, turning away, fled to war-torn Syria, carrying his child within me. I believed I would never cross paths with him again, until one day, drenched in blood, he knelt amidst the rubble, desperately clawing at the stones, screaming my name. It was only after I left that he truly understood the meaning of loss...

I was forced by my father to fulfill an arranged engagement with an Alpha I'd never met face-to-face. Pushing open the jewelry store door, I found my fiancé Kane spoiling his childhood sweetheart Briar, who was trying to snatch my mother’s ring. "Security! Get this stray out of here!" Briar screamed, pointing at me. When I revealed my identity, Kane sneered coldly: "What bullshit pact? I would never marry a woman like you." Briar snatched the ring and threw water at my face: "Kneel down and beg me to give it back!" When I fought back, Kane exploded in rage: "How dare you touch my woman? Hold her down!" Four warriors pinned me down as Briar laughed cruelly: "Let everyone see this delusional bitch who doesn't know her place!" They stepped on my hand while Kane watched coldly, even urging her on: "Hurry up, let her learn her lesson." Just as she was about to chop off my finger with a knife, the door suddenly burst open—"Do you have any idea whose daughter you're humiliating?"

I died on my 28th birthday.

My family was throwing a birthday party for my sister Stella—yes, we share the same birthday, but in this house, only hers was worth celebrating.

My corpse was slowly rotting in the storage room while laughter and birthday songs echoed from the living room. They thought I was just "throwing another tantrum," completely unaware of the torment I had endured before dying.

The irony was crushing: I had spent five years ghostwriting musical compositions for her, making her the "genius composer" everyone adored. Meanwhile, I—the real creator—was dismissed as nothing more than a jealous older sister.

By the time they finally discovered my body, guided by the stench of decay, it was far too late.

But death was only the beginning of my revenge.

Every single person who had hurt me would pay the price.

Including those I loved most.

When I opened my eyes once more and beheld the familiar glint of scheming in my sister's gaze, I knew—she had also been reborn.

In my past life, she shattered the souls of my child and me with a forbidden moonlight ritual, driven solely by envy of my perfect partner and healthy heir. In my dying moments, I saw no remorse in her eyes, only a twisted satisfaction.

In this life, she still seeks to seize everything from me—my fiancé, my child.

This time, I have chosen the one whom everyone scorns as the "exile."

They call him a monster, curse him, and claim that any woman who unites with him will bear only deformed beasts.

What they fail to comprehend is that as I lay on the brink of death, it was he whose golden eyes reflected the anguish of despair. What they know even less is the secret I harbor—one that even I scarcely believe.

My dear sister, do you desire the perfect heir? Do you yearn for supreme power?

Come, then.

Let us see how long your hypocritical facade can endure when the blood moon rises again, and all discover the true "monster."

I was but eighteen when I found myself captivated by my best friend’s brother.

At twenty-one, I mustered the courage to confess my feelings. He welcomed me into his bed but never once into his heart.

For three long years, I reassured myself: "Just a little while longer. He will see me in due time."

Then Stella returned—the girl he had always yearned for, even while his hands roamed my body in the shadows.

He greeted her return with champagne and candlelight, and then, locking his gaze upon me amidst a gathering, he coldly declared:

"You crawled into my bed and offered yourself. Don't you see how cheap and pitiable you appear?"

I raised my eyes, meeting his once more.

"I shall no longer trouble you."

I retrieved my phone, navigated to a contact I had seldom engaged—my betrothed by arrangement—and typed: "I consent to the marriage."

Minutes before the Stanford Hackathon began, my childhood friend decided to bail to help his girlfriend shoot a TikTok video.

I was just about to stop him when his inner voice suddenly exploded in my head: 'I actually got reborn?'

'Last time, I listened to Maeve and stayed for the competition, securing my spot at Stanford. But Sloane went to Malibu alone to shoot her video and fell off a cliff!"

'Even though I pushed Maeve off a roof to avenge her, I still lost the love of my life.'

'This time, I'm not losing Sloane. If Maeve dares to stop me again, I'll make her pay with her life all over again!'

My blood ran cold, and the words of persuasion died in my throat.

If he wanted his tragic romance so badly, he could have it.

On the eve of the violin competition, I was dragged into the basement and tormented for three excruciating hours, my hands shattered by iron rods, rendering me incapable of ever playing again.

As I lay in the hospital awaiting emergency care, I discovered the truth: it was my own father who had hired the assassins to ruin me; it was my fiancé who deliberately delayed my surgery, aiming to leave me permanently disabled; and ultimately, it was my pampered sister, cherished by the entire family, who had set fire to gasoline with the intent to burn me alive.

Fifteen years ago, a sorcerer had proclaimed that my sister was the 'blessing' of the Winslow family, while I, through my very existence, was deemed a 'curse' that needed to be eradicated.

Due to this absurd prophecy, I became the target of my family's ambition to be rid of me.

They wished for my demise, yet I am determined to survive — to witness them pay the price for their choices today.

Last lifetime, my mate, Kael, had faked his own death just to openly sleep with his sister-in-law without judgment.

I screamed until my throat bled, pointing at the man pretending to be his dead twin brother.

For telling the truth, he dragged me to the sacred altar and burned my mark off my skin, while our four-year-old son was thrown into a pitch-black cell for crying out for her father.

We were banished, torn apart by rogues.

But the Moon Goddess is fair. She woke me up on the exact day of the funeral.

As the pack howls in mourning for their "dead" Alpha, I look at the man hiding in his brother's skin.

I won't expose him this time.

If Kael wants to play a dead man just to play house with his whore, I'll make sure he stays dead forever.

On our fifth anniversary, my Mafia Don husband kissed my cheek, then switched to Corsican to tell our adopted daughter how much he enjoyed getting her pregnant piece by piece.

He didn't know I spoke seven languages. Corsican included.

He didn't know that in three days, I would vanish — no body, no trail, no goodbye.

When I disappeared, he lost his mind.

Now it was my turn to teach him what losing someone really meant.

The child I brought into this world through sheer determination now calls my husband's mistress "mother"; the youth who slew my father for my sake and was imprisoned, now confines me beyond the threshold, forcing me to hear his carnal symphony with his stepmother. Only then did I comprehend: the sixteen-year-old boy who committed patricide for me had long perished within the prison walls.

I knelt on the ground as my husband forcefully pried my fingers from his clothing, coldly uttering the words: "Get rid of this child."

This was my third child, a flesh and blood connection to him, yet for the sake of the white moonlight in a wheelchair, he plunged me into the depths of hell.

My in-laws remained indifferent, my husband betrayed me, and even my own parents cried out, “This child cannot be kept.”

I could not comprehend why a stranger confined to a wheelchair could dictate the fate of my child with a single phrase. Why did she, each time she entered that church, seal my child's fate?

It was not until the day she perished in a self-immolation within the church that I stepped inside and truly understood. Her confession, my loss, our collective suffering—all were intricately woven into a carefully orchestrated scheme spanning over a decade.

I thought I had the perfect life.

A mansion in Westport, a successful husband, a beautiful daughter. Sixteen years of marriage that seemed unbreakable.

Until I found another woman's watch band in my husband's car.

Until I discovered that woman was my daughter's soccer coach.

Until I realized my nine-year-old daughter was helping her father lie to me.

Some betrayals strike like lightning. Others seep in like slow poison, until you discover your entire world is a lie.

When I stood on the platform at our annual community barbecue, armed with evidence and burning with rage, I understood a truth that would have destroyed the woman I used to be:

Sometimes the only way to save your family is to destroy it first.

When my husband pushed the divorce papers in front of me for the hundredth time, demanding I sacrifice myself for my sister, I didn't cry or make a scene. I simply signed my name, willingly giving up the man I'd loved for eight years to Ivy.

A few days later, Ivy got drunk and drove into a state senator's only son during a street race, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. Once again, I stepped forward to take the blame and bear all the consequences.
When they later suggested I donate my kidney to Ivy, I readily agreed.

Mom and Dad said I'd finally grown into a mature and responsible sister.

Even my cold husband stood by my hospital bed and, for the first time in so long, gently stroked my cheek. He whispered, "Don't be afraid. The surgery will be a success. When you recover, we'll go traveling."

But he didn't know that whether the surgery succeeded or not, I wouldn't be going anywhere with him.

Because I was already terminally ill, with little time left.

I was the most revered pureblood Light heir.

In my past life, I married the Supreme Holy Knight, Arthur, only to give birth to an Ash-blood cub—the lowest of all.

In a rage, he incinerated my baby alive. He then dragged my bleeding, postpartum body into a saltwater dungeon to drain my magic, leaving me to be devoured by venomous insects.

Meanwhile, my lowly Ash-blood sister miraculously birthed a Light-blood cub. Stepping on my corpse, she became the realm's new ruler.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back at our Mate-Selection Ceremony. Arthur publicly rejected me and chose my sister.

Seeing his smug, calculating smirk, I knew immediately: he had been reborn, too.

But how could a parasitic knight, who survived entirely by draining his wife's magic to fake a holy bloodline, ever father a supreme dragon?

I died on my birthday.

While kidnappers shattered my limbs and violated me to death, my family was throwing a grand party for my sister Chloe—yes, we shared the same birthday, but only hers was worth celebrating.

I called my father for help. He sneered and hung up: "Stop using this pathetic kidnapping stunt to ruin Chloe's birthday."

I called my fiancé Mark. He said with disgust: "If you're going to die, do it somewhere far away."

In the final second before the flames consumed me, I finally understood—

I was never loved in this family.

And now that I'm truly dead, now that they've discovered Chloe hired those men to kill me, now that the truth has been exposed to the world...

Will they regret it?

Or will they, as always, continue to favor Chloe and blame everything on me—the dead one?

I was the reincarnation of the Ancient Star God and the fated mate of the Obsidian Dragon King, Ignis.

For seven years, I nearly bled my divine blood dry to break his curses. Everyone knew I loved him unconditionally.

Until his cold sneer shattered it all.

"Seraphina has laid my egg. After the Hunting Festival, I'll crown her as my queen. Keep Elara around to placate the Alliance. She's so madly in love with me, she'll gladly be a shield for them."

Something snapped deep within my chest. My empathy veins—the very magic that bound my emotions to him—shattered.

No heartbreak. No hysteria. That suffocating love was erased in an instant. Looking at Ignis now was like looking at a worthless stone.

I calmly returned to the temple and activated the marriage decree sent by the Elven High King, Aurelius.

The realm portal was charging. Departure: three days.

I severed our Mate Bond with my own hands.

In that moment, I lay unconscious, bleeding under the silvery moonlight, while he knelt some distance away, clutching his chest as if he had been hollowed out.

Once, he shielded me from nine silver stakes, only to crown another woman; he placed my protective pendant around her neck, then cast me into a water prison. He professed, “I love only you,” yet stood outside my hospital room, nursing her child as if it were his own.

I loathed him, resolved to leave.

I believed this was the end.

Little did I know, as I thought I had finally gained my freedom, he would chase after the debts of blood and regret, intruding upon the new life I was rebuilding—

To redeem a love that no longer sought redemption.

When the armored car had room for only one passenger, Damian Russo chose me.

I was saved, but Lilia Brown didn't make it. She bled out in the crossfire, her body left in the rubble. Damian pretended he didn't care and married me as planned.

For three years, he made me pay for her death—beating me, starving me, blaming me for the fact that she was gone.

In the end, he drove us both off a cliff instead.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the docks on the night of the ambush. This time, I stepped aside and let him save the woman he truly loved.

That day, I stood in the rain, donned in a rented wedding gown.

He texted, "I’m sorry, Elena, I won’t be coming."

Five years later, he gazed at me and said, "Come work as a maid at my home, in light of the service you once rendered me."

He believed I remained the wretched creature he had trampled upon.

Little did he know that my current husband, Dante Vancetti, is the man who instills fear across all of San Valero.

And I am his Donna—his queen, his entire universe.

Marco Ricci, welcome to hell.

In order to raise the surgical fees for my "blind" boyfriend, I dedicated three entire years to scrubbing toilets.

I believed I was his eyes, the sole beacon of light in his world of darkness.

Until his birthday arrived, I was confronted with the sight of that "incapable" man—who required my assistance even to drink water—coddling his ex-girlfriend while flirting.

"That fool is still busy cleaning toilets," he chuckled with a patronizing grin, brandishing my late mother's memento to charm that woman. "After all, she outshone you at Parsons. Let her serve me like a dog for three years—that'll be her punishment."

It dawned on me that my sacrifices were but fodder for their idle amusement.

Drying my tears, I turned and dialed the number I had blocked for three years—the one belonging to the fiancé who controlled an entire business empire.

"Sebastian, about that arranged marriage... I accept."

My father chose two vampires as marriage prospects for my sister and me.

One was an immensely powerful pureblood aristocrat.

The other was Cassian, crippled by a silver curse. Confined to a wheelchair, he was a laughingstock—wracked by phantom pains and constantly on the verge of madness.

In my past life, I chose Cassian.

I drained my own blood to ease his agonizing curse. I shielded him from the relentless mockery of the Vampire Court. I even gambled my life in werewolf territory to beg for his cure.

But he never seemed to get better.

I didn't care. I remember holding his hand and telling him, "It doesn't matter. No matter what happens to you, I will always stay by your side."

Until the accident. A pack of rogue werewolves ambushed us.

Cassian shoved me precisely into the path of their claws.

Just to shield my sister, Serena, from the fatal blow.

Silver claws completely shredded my throat.

Through my fading vision, I watched Cassian stand up from his wheelchair.

The terrifying aura of a Vampire Lord erupted from him, crushing the werewolves instantly. Countless night-thralls emerged from the shadows, dropping to their knees at his feet.

That was when I understood. He was never paralyzed, and he was never mad.

Because Serena hadn't chosen him, and because he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me, he faked the illness to disgust me for years.

Then, he used my life to save his true love.

"I'm sorry for deceiving you. But I couldn't just watch Serena die."

"Elara... whatever I owe you, I'll repay in the next life."

In the bone-piercing cold, I took my last breath.

When I opened my eyes, I was back on the exact day my father forced us to make our choice.

On the day of the Bonding Pact, my sister and I stood in the grand hall to choose our husbands.

She snatched Malik of the Water Snakes, throwing Raven—the last heir of the Leviathans—to me.

In our past life, we married on the same day, but our grooms were reversed.

She married Raven and birthed a patricidal monster. I married Malik, using my healing magic to cleanse the madness from his blood, and gave birth to a divine heir worshiped by all.

In the end, driven mad by jealousy over her ruin, she murdered me.

In this life, pointing at Malik's token, she declared she would marry Malik .

I lowered my head, hiding my eyes. "Then I wish you exactly what you desire, Sister."

On our third wedding anniversary, a catastrophic car accident plunged me into a state of life-threatening hemorrhage. Yet, before the medical staff, my husband roared: "Draw my wife's blood first; save Serena."

Serena—his first love.

It became apparent that he had never married me out of love; I was but a living blood bank, intended solely to sustain his cherished first love. It was only when I discovered I was pregnant that I realized he would not even spare the life within me.

That incarceration, cloaked in the guise of love, had nearly claimed my life. When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer the Clara who could be so easily sacrificed. This time, I shall ensure he pays for his blood debt, with no chance of redemption.

They say the dead go where they belong.

But I didn't.

I drift through the cold winds, watching my husband—the detective who once swore to protect me with his life—diligently investigating a dismemberment case.

He doesn't know that the broken body lying in the morgue is his wife.

He doesn't know that the gentle, caring "psychologist" who brings him lunch every day is the one who killed me.

He doesn't know that when I called him in my final moments, begging for help, he hung up on me. I am dead. Yet, that is not the cruelest part— the most harrowing aspect is having to witness the truth gradually emerge, watching as that man collapses completely upon uncovering it all.

Ninety-nine pearl necklaces correspond to ninety-nine fractures in my heart.

He was accustomed to using extravagant pearls to atone for his transgressions, yet on the day of my mother’s funeral, he chose to vacation with his mistress while plotting to take from me the ancestral home my mother left behind.

When the hundredth pearl arrived, I presented him with the divorce papers. The pain of my miscarriage still lingered, as he offered me a rare black pearl to "atone"; moments later, he was liking his mistress's posts.

He believed pearls could purchase my love, unaware that each bead counted down the moments of our marriage.

In the end, what does it matter if he risked everything to protect me?

I shall never turn back.

I loved Julian for ten years, carving every sweat-stained day into my love for him.
He once said I shined brighter than any gold medal.
Yet in five short minutes, he handed my dream, my glory, and my whole world to a scheming transfer girl.
Betrayed, discarded, and broken on the fencing strip, I lost my first love and everything I fought for.
Until the retired cold Olympic champion stepped out of the dark midnight shadows.
He offered me hellish training and a sharp blade of revenge.
I buried my soft heart, handed over my soul, and vowed to make every traitor pay.