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During routine rounds, I never gave Linus Crewe a second thought. Nineteen years old, diagnosed with persistent hallucinatory disorder, just another trust fund kid tossed into the psych ward like garbage by his own family.
But that day, he locked eyes with me and claimed that the moment his skin touched someone else's, he could see their deepest, darkest secrets.
I scoffed. As a female doctor who married into money, harbored a thirst for revenge, and kept a secret lover on the side, someone seeing through my facade was my ultimate nightmare.
I thought he was just playing mind games.
Until he recounted, word for word, things even my husband didn't know. He just smiled and said: Then tell me, Dr. Hollister... why is your heart racing when you look at me?

Dorian, my boyfriend of three years, was a partner at a top-tier Boston law firm. He was gentle, refined, and absolutely flawless.
A week ago, he buried his face in my neck late at night, whispering that the city was suffocating him. He wanted to take me back to his hometown to meet Octavia, the grandmother who had single-handedly raised him.
I agreed without hesitation.
But on Crane Island, every night Dorian would slip out of our bed, using Octavia's gout as an excuse.
Until that night. I crept barefoot to Octavia’s door and pressed my ear against the wood.
What I heard wasn’t a sick old woman. It was Dorian’s heavy panting, mixed with the shameless, breathy moans of a young woman...

In bed, he gripped my hips, whispering, "Principessa." In public, he was Cosimo—the ruthless mafia don who dismissed me with an icy, "Piccola."
For three years after he bought me, he never touched me. But a year ago, when Caterina returned, everything changed. He became a man possessed, tearing my dresses to shreds in the dead of night, claiming me with wild fury. He even promised to marry me in seven days.
On a storm-drenched afternoon, clutching my positive pregnancy test, I rushed to his private club to surprise him.
But as my hand touched the doorknob, Cosimo’s cold warning drifted through the door.
"Marcellino, know your place as a double. My things—especially Serenella—are strictly off-limits."
My blood ran cold. I peeked through the gap.
Cosimo sat on the sofa, completely indifferent. And by the pool table stood a man with a face identical to his.

I got off work two hours early, hoping to surprise my boyfriend whom I had just bailed out for $30,000.
I pushed the bedroom door open. The surprise was on me—my stepsister Chloe was straddling Dorian. The same man who, just three days ago, sat crying on the police station floor swearing "I only have you," now slowly lit a cigarette and asked if I wanted to join them.
I thought that was the worst moment of my life.
I was wrong.
When the hand that had just been caressing Chloe gripped my throat and hoisted me into the air, I finally saw the truth. Dorian Vane, the guy who humiliated me at our high school prom ten years ago, hadn't changed at all.

In my first life, blinded by greed, I claimed to be that mysterious woman. Silas glanced at my left shoulder and said coldly, "No butterfly tattoo." His bodyguards dragged me to the backyard and shattered my ribs with a baseball bat.
In my second life, Cleo learned from my mistake. She got the butterfly tattoo at an underground parlor. But Silas lifted her skirt and sneered, "No birthmark on her inner thigh." We were thrown into the frozen lake behind the mountain.
"Find her. She's in the West Wing." Silas Brennan's cold command echoed through the Brennan Estate again. Cleo and I locked eyes, terror gripping us.
We were the only maids in the West Wing.

I had the gift of beast-speech, and beasts never lied to me.
When my sister, Valora, brought me a wild berry tart, a forest finch shrieked, "Poison!" In my past life, I believed it. I flipped the tray, cursed her, and was thrown into the dungeon like a madwoman. In this life, I did the opposite. I ate it. I vomited blood, and my spirit wolf died instantly.
When it was time to marry, a raven warned me that my Alpha fiancé was a "disfigured madman." In my past life, I broke the engagement and married a Beta, only to be tortured to death by him and his mistress. In this life, I insisted on marrying the Alpha. But on my wedding night, a blood-soaked, disfigured monster was waiting for me.
When my mother-in-law, Liora, coughed up blood in front of everyone, a nightingale cried, "Give her White Dittany for the poison!" In my past life, I force-fed her the herb, and she bled from her eyes and died. In this life, I stopped anyone from giving her the herb. But that night, she died anyway.
Listen to them, and I die. Ignore them, and I still die.
Then, I opened my eyes. I had been reborn, back to the exact moment everything went wrong...

As the heiress to the Sinclair family, I inherited billions, yet a car crash left my legs completely paralyzed, confining me to a cold wheelchair for the rest of my life.
My husband, Dashiell, spent three years meticulously caring for me—pushing my chair, feeding me my meds, and holding me as I slept.
That evening, while I was soaking in a warm bath, he pushed the door open. His handsome face carried that familiar smile: "Honey, can I... have you in the tub?"
"I'm a bit tired today," I rubbed my temples and softly declined. "Carry me out."
The moment the words left my lips, his smile twisted hideously. With a vicious sneer, he grabbed my neck and shoved my head brutally underwater...

I was taking six-year-old Arabella to fit her dress for the theater's grand opening.
As we crossed the intersection, a truck suddenly lost control and T-boned our car.
When I opened my eyes again, an agonizing pain ripped through me. I opened my mouth to call out Everett's name, only to hear his hushed voice seeping through the crack in the door—
"Staging an unavoidable accident was the only way to use the emergency room as a cover for the drug trial."
"Now that Ophelia's treatment is a success, there's naturally no need for that little bastard to live."
My Arabella. She was secretly wheeled into the operating room by him, used as a human guinea pig for his mistress Delilah's daughter, who had bone cancer. Her sweet, bell-like vocal cords were cruelly carved out and transplanted into another child's throat.
In that defining moment, I realized he had never loved my daughter.
But what he didn't know—the child he just murdered with his own hands was his one and only flesh and blood.

Eight years of marriage. Fluent in seven languages. Yet I never dared speak a word in front of my husband.

He claimed to be allergic to my voice—hearing me talk gave him headaches, ringing ears, made his whole body ache.

To change my voice, I underwent four vocal cord surgeries. My voice became hoarse, rough as sandpaper scraping concrete. But no matter how hard I tried, he still clutched his ears in pain.

For eight years, I blamed myself. I thought I was the one dragging him down.

Until our anniversary, when our daughter casually yanked off his "hearing aid" and tossed it on the couch.

I picked it up and put it in my ear. What I heard was my cousin Freya's flirtatious voice, and his tender response.

That moment, I finally understood—

No matter what I did, all this man ever wanted from me was silence.

I thought Auden was the most devoted husband in the world—until the day I regained my sight and recognized him on the front page: a serial killer who had murdered eight blonde women.
I had to play blind. I swallowed the liquid the maid brought me—a brew soaked in dead people's eyeballs. I chewed on a human molar in my dinner. I sat perfectly still as I watched him fuck our maid right in front of me, not daring to let a single expression slip.
Because the exact second my vision returned, an anonymous text had popped up on my phone: Don't let Auden know you can see.

Siren's Reef only breeds women.
On this isolated island, Henrietta's orphanage takes in all fatherless girls. She raises us until our eighteenth birthday—the night of the "Coral Crowning," an annual coming-of-age ritual that supposedly earns the Sea God's blessing.
My sister Saffron and I are identical twins, raised wearing the exact same face.
But on this island, the same face doesn't spell the same fate. She was the one Henrietta spoiled from birth; I was the one allowed to trail behind her.
I thought it would always be this way. Until she died. Henrietta claimed Saffron broke the rules and was flayed alive by the serrated edges of the reef. But that day, I saw it with my own eyes: Saffron's signature dimple had appeared on Henrietta's cheek—where none had been before.

In my past life, I died in a freezing, damp basement.
The person who destroyed me was Evelina, the daughter of my father’s mistress. She set a trap at a charity gala, dragged my reputation through the mud, and forced me into a hellish marriage—all so she could strip away everything that rightfully belonged to me.
When I opened my eyes again, I was twenty-two. The gala that sealed my fate was happening tonight.
Before the banquet officially began, I seamlessly swapped two champagne flutes, handing her meticulously woven trap right back to her. When the scandal detonated, sending shockwaves through the ballroom, my eyes landed on Killian—the Vance family's notoriously cold-blooded illegitimate son.
The trust fund my mother left me was still firmly under my control. I walked straight up to him and laid my chips on the table.
My enemies had retreated to the shadows, waiting to strike back. But I was going to use their own conspiracies as stepping stones, clawing back everything I owned, one piece at a time.

My world began to crumble the day my adopted sister, Opal, forced her way back into my life with a fatherless daughter in her arms.
My eldest son, Finn, was strapped to an operating table and used for live experiments until he was tortured to death. His remains were tossed into Death Valley.
For her, my husband struck me, costing me my second unborn child.
For her, my own brother locked me in a freezing dungeon. And my late father? He had been a slave to her charms long before he died.
While they threw a lavish birthday party for Opal’s daughter in the brightly lit banquet hall, I was pinned down by dungeon guards, my clothes being ripped off, inch by inch...

My billionaire lover brought out a bespoke mermaid gown, declaring he would marry whoever could fit into it.
But in my past four lives, every woman who tried it on—whether an ambitious imposter or me, his true love—was brutally tortured and murdered by him.
In my fifth rebirth, the butler knocked on our door with a polite smile, "Mr. Voss says his true love is among you."
Since we four women would die no matter who wore it...
We exchanged a look in the dead silence, turned our heads in perfect unison, and locked our eyes onto the only man in the room.

Seven years ago, I was Velmoor City’s youngest surgeon. A bloodied nursing assistant knelt at my feet, weeping that her thug boyfriend was going to beat her to death. I gave her my guest room.
On her chemo bed, my mother gripped my hand, begging me to kick that woman out. I said she had nowhere else to go.
Later, I caught her wearing my pajamas in my own home. Then, I caught her and my husband naked in his office. Immediately after, a fatal medical error was pinned on me, and my medical license was revoked.
My husband looked at me arrogantly and said: I can liquidate everything I own to settle this for you. On one condition—divorce.
What he didn’t know was that I was pregnant. On the day of the divorce, the judge read out the division of assets: $26.30.
Seven years later, I took a catering gig at a billionaire’s mansion. Less than half an hour into the banquet, his seven-year-old daughter pointed at my seven-year-old daughter. “She stole my ten-million-dollar diamond necklace!”
I looked up and finally recognized him. The billionaire was my "bankrupt" ex-husband. And the woman clinging to his arm, dripping in diamonds, was the nursing assistant who had once knelt at my feet.

This year was our sixth wedding anniversary. For the first time in six years, Kaelen finally agreed to go with me to Veyra City to visit my parents.
Six years. I thought he was finally swallow his pride and making peace with my family.
But late that night, as I stood outside our daughter’s bedroom holding a warm glass of milk, I heard them speaking inside.
"Daddy, Lorie said you're going to marry her mommy soon. What about Mommy?" Lisette’s voice was timid and small.
"It’s just a fake marriage, sweetie. Just to help Rosalind out," Kaelen chuckled softly. "Keep it our little secret, okay? Don't tell Mommy. If you promise, Daddy will buy you that Barbie Dreamhouse tomorrow."
I stood frozen in the hallway, the glass of milk cold against my fingertips.
Since he still clung so desperately to his past, it was time for me to take back the life I had thrown away.

Our clan worships the Spider Goddess.
To keep this face, every girl in our bloodline must sacrifice a truly evil man every ten years.
Just two weeks before my twentieth birthday, my mom asked me again over the phone:
"Sweetie, is it really that hard to find a sufficiently bad guy in a place like Ashfield?"
Right now, I’m looking at my boyfriend, who just handcuffed me to a bed. He’s laughing, negotiating a price with a buyer, thinking I’m tonight’s merchandise.
I think to myself—
Mom, I can answer your question now. This guy’s wickedness easily rivals your husband's—my father.

Three years of marriage. Three pregnancies.

Every time I confirmed I was pregnant, my sister-in-law Ophelia would walk into the chapel behind the manor.

Then my in-laws would drag me to the hospital and force me to abort the healthy baby.

The night after my third miscarriage, I dragged my weakened body to follow her into the chapel.

The moment I pushed open that door, my blood ran cold.

In that instant, I finally understood why my three children had to die.

By day, I was the ruthless Director of Finance working under mafia heir Silvan. By night, I was the secret lover he kept locked away in a guest room.
He gave me luxury cars, a mansion, and endless money, but never a title. I thought he was protecting me—until he packaged both the title of his official wife and my position as CFO, handing them over to Aurea Moretti, a prominent mafia heiress.
And that arrogant man? He casually tossed me a diamond ring like a handout to pacify me. "Titles are just an illusion. Even if I marry someone else, you’ll always be the woman I care about most."
He even had the audacity to offer me a seaside villa, thinking he could keep me forever as his underground mistress in another city.
Looking at his cold, entitled eyes, I finally smiled.
On the day of his engagement to the mafia heiress, I took off the ring and vanished from this city completely.

My best friend, Elaina, had been a runaway bride eight times in three years. But that day, with flushed cheeks, she told me she had finally met her true love and actually wanted to get married.
On that exact same day, my 22nd proposal to Kieran was rejected—again. Over the past eight years, I handed over my paychecks to him, gave him all my jewelry patents, and turned down overseas job offers, all to get a wedding in return. Yet, all I ever got was his usual, "Just wait a little longer."
That night, I found out the man Elaina was going to marry was Kieran.

Trapped in a lifelong obsession with my flawed face, I found solace only behind beauty filters.
Seraphine, the undisputed beauty of our town, had not only stolen Cillian—the boy I liked—but made a habit of publicly humiliating me.
When I signed up for the Magnolia Queen pageant, I knew I didn't stand a chance. But one foggy morning, while fetching the paper, I found a mysterious silver compact mirror inside my mailbox.
With just a light dab of the powder, my lifelong acne scars vanished entirely. But engraved inside the lid was a list of previous owners, and Seraphine's name was glaringly present.
The faceless shadow that briefly flashed in the mirror was a grim reminder: this perfect skin didn't belong to me.
Who secretly delivered this curse to my doorstep?

I used to be so sick of the mafia's endless bloodshed. So, when I met Cassian, I hid my real name and willingly played the role of his sweet, obedient girl.
But three years of devotion only bought me a gut-wrenching betrayal.
When I was eight months pregnant, he tossed me into the dungeon like trash, all so he could marry a mafia heiress. To ensure his new fiancé’s child inherited the empire, he ordered his men to inject me with labor-delaying drugs.
They suffocated my baby inside me.

"You're just an orphan, only fit to be a mistress," he mocked, looking down at me. That single sneer shattered my last shred of hope for a normal life.
Lying in a pool of my own blood, I stopped fighting and let out a cold laugh.
Cassian, you stepped on my baby's life to climb to the power you crave. I hope to God you don't regret this. Because the woman you just pushed back into the abyss will become your worst, unreachable nightmare.

When the dismissal bell rings, the night resets.
I'm Zoe, a high school sophomore living on campus, isolated by my entire family and the whole school. My "crime"? I reported my own little brother for campus violence.
The first time, I died in the dark by the track. The second time, shut inside the equipment room. But every time I opened my eyes, I was dragged back to the exact same starting point. Only the number on my arm—the countdown of how many lives I had left—dropped by one.
The man in the black mask always seemed to know exactly where I’d run and where I’d hide. But what truly sent shivers down my spine was this: every single time, my mother stood just a few steps away, quietly watching me take my last breath.
Once the number hits zero, there is no coming back. What do I have to do to survive this night?

My husband, Caspian, faked his company’s bankruptcy. We had to sell our luxury cars and our mansion, squeezing into a leaky, moldy basement.
By day, I worked back-to-back shifts in the ER saving lives. By night, I slipped into revealing dresses to sling drinks at a bar, all to shoulder a massive debt that never even existed.
Until I bumped into him in a VIP room. The man who was supposedly drowning in stress was lounging on a sofa with his suit unbuttoned, swirling a glass of whiskey, a secretary in his arms. His mistress leaned in and smirked, telling me Caspian had found me boring for a long time.
She also bragged that while he claimed to be working until 3 AM, he was actually going back to our old house at 10 PM, sleeping in our master bedroom.
Caspian showed zero remorse. Instead, he demanded I roll over and accept the woman, tossing me a meager payoff and threatening to ruin my medical career.
I threw away my wedding ring. I swallowed my tears. I finally saw it all for what it was.
From today on, I am only doing one thing: taking back what belongs to me, piece by piece.

"Who would want a woman like Hazel?"
On the night before our wedding, my fiancé Randy said this in front of everyone.
I stood outside, listening silently before walking away.
Sure enough, at the wedding, he abandoned me to save my sister who was jumping from a building.
"The wedding continues!"
I said with a smile, turning to embrace my disabled husband.
Afterward, I did exactly as they wished, ensuring they would never be apart.
Half a month later, I looked at my ex-fiancé with contempt.
"Compared to my husband, are you even worth mentioning?"

Three years. He worshipped me by day and bedded her by night.
I saw everything. I felt everything—she made sure of that.
So on the night of his coronation, I severed our bond and walked away.
He bled. He knelt. He begged.
Too late.
When I wore white again, it wasn't for him.

In a suburban election season lit by police strobes and viral outrage, assistant district attorney Karen Hale is cast as the perfect villain when a little girl is found dead beside a swing set. As edited videos, staged grief, and buried secrets close in, Karen uncovers a chilling web of paternity, manipulation, and murder—where playgrounds, rain-slick streets, surveillance logs, and a child’s empty swing become the battleground of a dark domestic thriller.

In my past life, I replaced my runaway sister Beatrice and was forced to marry mob enforcer Rowan Sinclair.
She thought he was poor with no future, so she ran. My parents didn't even tell me before sending me in her place.
Rowan knew the truth. He carried it like shame, never truly seeing me—only cold stares and silent contempt. I spent years beside him like an unwanted ghost, carefully managing his world while he rose from despised smuggler to feared godfather.
Then his attitude began to change.
Just when I thought we might have a real future, Beatrice returned with tears and lies, claiming I'd stolen her place. Rowan believed her. My parents betrayed me. Everyone chose her.
When a rival family captured us both, guns to our heads, only one could survive.
Rowan pulled Beatrice into his arms and abandoned me without a glance.
They tortured me for three days. The baby in my womb died first. Its father never knew it existed.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back to that afternoon before it all began.

In a secluded modern villa, painter Iris Vale begins to suspect the pills hidden in her meals are stealing more than her sleep. As fragments of a buried night resurface—bleached kitchens, a locked basement, shattered glass on a staircase, and the shadow of her dead sister Nora—family protection curdles into psychological captivity. Dark, tense, and intimate, this is a memory-thriller of guilt, control, and the terror of facing what was done in the name of love.

In a modern city of flights, glass hotels, and surveillance footage, Nora—an artist still recovering from surgery—watches her marriage rot behind polished excuses. As she traces her husband’s affair through airport selfies, joint-account charges, voice recordings, and a staged fall on the stairs, humiliation hardens into precision. Cold, sharp, and deeply satisfying, this is a divorce reckoning lit by rain, evidence files, airport confrontations, and the moment a woman stops begging to be chosen.

In a decaying city apartment building, law-clerk Maya Carter is drawn to the sealed door of 5B—an address that should not exist, yet keeps receiving late-night deliveries and whispering back from the dark. Behind the rumors of a haunted unit lies a battered woman in hiding, and a chilling hunt led by men who weaponize authority, gaslight women living alone, and turn silence into a trap. Tense, claustrophobic, and razor-sharp, the story moves through dim hallways, yellow light under a door, bruised wrists, broken locks, and the fierce urgency of survival.

"I want to break off this engagement!" I stormed into his office, slamming the letter on his desk, my heart pounding with fury after being humiliated by his family's staff. Little did I know, the devastatingly handsome man staring back at me wasn't my fiancé at all—he was his uncle, Rex Sterling, who'd lied about being my betrothed to win me over.

What started as a forced arrangement exploded into a whirlwind of passion: lavish gifts, stolen kisses, and a secret wedding that made me Mrs. Sterling. But when the truth shattered our fairy tale at a family gathering—complete with a punch-throwing nephew and scandalized elite—I had to confront the beautiful lie that built our love.

After being reborn, the first thing my sister and I did was swap our grooms.
In our past life, my gentle sister Elara married Felix Hawthorne, the mafia godfather of Marconi City. Surrounded by a domineering sister-in-law and a scheming, manipulative other woman, she was slowly driven into a corner and died of a broken heart.
Meanwhile, I married the polite, illegitimate son of the Graves family. He was a perfect gentleman, but he just didn't love me. Our marriage lasted three years, and we were separated for two and a half of them.
Then one day, Elara and I woke up at the exact same moment—we had been reborn, back to the very morning we were supposed to sign our marriage agreements...

My six-year-old daughter Emily blurted, "I'm getting a new mommy!" while my son Jacob smirked.

"Oh my God, Nate—your sister? Pregnant with your kid? You sick bastard!" I screamed across the restaurant, my voice cracking like thunder as heads snapped around.

For eight years, I'd slaved like a nanny in our home—cooking, cleaning, raising Jacob and Emily—while he dismissed me as worthless. My own kids sneered, calling me lazy and saying I'd never measure up to their Aunt Chloe. Even his venomous mother Barbara spat insults, grinding me under her heel like dirt. Betrayed by them all, I finally snapped.

Little did they know, my mom's $100 million inheritance unlocked the second I divorced that cheat. From doormat wife to billionaire, I rose—exposing their lies, reclaiming my life.

Game over, asshole. Time to watch you beg.

I tricked my billionaire husband into signing divorce papers—he had no idea.

"Exam documents," I lied.

His ex-wife laughed. "Boring paperwork. Don't bother reading it."

He signed without even looking.

Three years of marriage. I thought he'd learn to love me. Ever since she came back, my dinners grew cold while I reheated them alone. I waited in our bed, night after night. I watched him drop everything and run to her with every phone call.

Then I found out I was pregnant.

That same day, I saw him at the hospital—holding her hand, asking about her baby.

I finally stopped waiting.

I left the estate at dawn. Left behind the jewelry, the designer clothes, the empty promises.

Then he showed up at my door.

"I know about the baby," his voice was raw. "I know about the accident. I know everything."

He looked at me like I was his entire world.

Three years too late? Or just in time?

Everyone says I’m crazy.
My husband, Adrien, is Ashmont College’s most esteemed professor—suave, composed, and highly logical. I, on the other hand, am an investigative journalist whose nerves are fried by looming deadlines and too much caffeine. Yet, I insist there’s a woman who shares my exact face, who crawls out of our bedroom mirror every night and slips into my husband’s bed.
Our security cameras always "happen" to glitch at the crucial moments. My son avoids me like I’m a monster, and my neighbors claim they cheerfully greeted "me" in the driveway a few days ago—even though I don't even own a vintage pink dress.
Adrien has started dropping phrases like "psych evaluation" and "sole custody." If I let this drag on any longer, he’s going to personally commit me to a psych ward.
So tonight, I lied about flying to Chicago. Instead, I’m hiding in my own study—waiting for that identical face to crawl out of the mirror one more time.

The day he proposed, Atticus knelt before me, holding the Hale family's heirloom necklace.
I thought I had finally survived the ordeal.
After eight years of unrequited love, being humiliated by his sister, nitpicked by his mother, and mocked by the city's socialites for being unworthy of the Hales... Until this very moment, when he personally fastened the heirloom around my neck. Everyone saw it. I, Clara, was finally accepted by the Hale family.
Tears in my eyes, I said yes, thinking it was the happiest moment of my life.
But just days after putting on that necklace, bizarre red rashes crawled up my neck. My pale skin rotted away piece by piece, and my internal organs went into irreversible failure.
The most absurd part? The exact same day I started rotting, his dying mother miraculously cured her terminal illness, and his sister's half-destroyed face was restored to flawless perfection.
Disfigured and barely looking human, I threw myself off the Harbour Bridge—
I opened my eyes, and I was back on the day of the proposal.

In a sleek design world split between polished appearances and buried cruelty, Mara Ellison has spent years trapped behind a voice no one wanted to hear. While her family rewrites her illness and her fiancé speaks over her in the name of love, stolen records, public humiliation, and old betrayals force her to reclaim her life. Quiet but cutting, this is a story of emotional abuse, identity theft, and hard-won selfhood—framed by rain-soaked streets, hospital corridors, cold glass conference rooms, and a woman finally stepping into the light with her own voice.

That night, I was dragged into a parking lot and beaten until my hands could never hold a scalpel again.

I thought it was random. Until I heard my own brother and fiancé talking—

"Those thugs went too far, but the result works out, doesn't it? This time, the award will go to Charlotte."

Charlotte. The "poor orphan" my family adopted.

For twelve years, she stole my papers, my opportunities, my glory. And the two men I trusted most handed her everything on a silver platter.

They called me spoiled. Selfish. Difficult.

They even believed I started the fire that killed our parents twelve years ago.

But here's the truth: Charlotte started that fire. I was the one who dragged them out.

They thanked the wrong sister. For twelve years.

Now they want me dead.

Fine. Let Penelope Ashworth die.

I died on the day I was supposed to marry Grayson.
Because my sister Delilah had her heart "broken," my family decided to bring her to our farm in Ashwood to heal through horseback riding. The wedding was postponed.
I lay in the stable at the Clarke family farm, dialing my mother's number with blood-covered fingers.
All she said was: "What kind of game are you playing now? You think if you act pitiful we'll come running? Vivienne, enough!"
My fiancé Grayson was even more brutal: "It's just a postponement, not a cancellation. If you can't handle that, then let's just call the whole thing off—I'll marry Delilah instead."
This was the last time they would disappoint me.
And the last time I would call for help.
I lay in my own pool of blood, already without breath. They thought I was just throwing a tantrum, hiding somewhere to sulk. They thought if they ignored me long enough, I'd come crawling back to apologize.
But they didn't know.
I was already dead.

The rain glistened over the harbor asphalt the night I meant to tell him I was pregnant — to lay out all my quiet hopes for our wedding and our future. That was the night I was stolen away.
I screamed for help from a city stitched with police tape and hollow warehouses, where every thread of trust had already frayed. The man who should have trusted me brushed my pleas aside.
As answers began to surface, what we once called love soured into guilt, consuming obsession, and cold, calculated cruelty. Blue gemstones glint amid burned‑away proof, storm‑lashed docks bear witness. And I am the voice they will never manage to bury.

They pulled my husband Beckett’s car out of the Avery River at four in the morning.
I was sitting in the reception area of the Ardenvale police station, having waited all night. Everyone thought I was just the pathetic wife—the one who had been humiliated at her mother-in-law’s birthday banquet, went home early, and panicked when her husband never returned.
No one knew that from the moment I dialed 911, this was exactly the news I had been waiting for.
He was dead. And I was the one who made it happen.

Everyone says I married the perfect husband—considerate, devoted, loving.
I thought I had happiness too, until my neighbor told me she'd seen "me" having sex with Declan multiple times over the summer, even against the floor-to-ceiling windows. But during those two months, I'd been with my son out of town the entire time.
I rushed home and heard 8-year-old Beckett on the phone, bragging to his father: "Dad, I got Mom out of the way for two whole months. Did you make up with your sweetheart? Where's my allowance?"
I pulled up the security footage and saw a woman wearing my nightgown, with my husband, in every corner of our home... I spent eight years building this family, and they betrayed me together.

My adopted sister, Cordelia, conspired with her biological mother to harvest my organs alive, yet she had the audacity to claim I paid thugs to rape her.
My biological parents didn't bother to ask for the truth. They cursed me, calling me a vicious bastard, and threatened to break my legs.
My fiancé, Caspian, coldly announced the cancellation of our engagement, declaring he would marry the very murderer who killed me.
I had been dead for exactly three days. No one cared. My body was rotting back in a moldy storage room.
Through it all, my soul was trapped in the manor, forced to witness this absurd farce.
But what they didn't expect was that when they finally learned of my death—
Everyone went completely insane.

For as long as I could remember, I had lived under the protection of Casper, Julian, and Rowan.
I took their affection for granted, never expecting that their deep devotion would suddenly curdle into something unrecognizable.
When Elara, a new intern, crashed into our lives, they defended and favored her at every turn. They handed over my hard work on a silver platter, painting me as nothing more than a spoiled, unreasonable princess.
On a night of torrential rain, stranded on the highway and enduring excruciating pain, I begged them for help time and time again. All I received were scoldings and dismissals.
It turned out that their so-called "doing what's best for me" was just a cold war, a calculated cruelty designed to force my head down.
I stopped crying and begging. I signed my resignation letter, returned everything they had ever given me, and agreed to an arranged marriage far away in Italy.
This absurd farce, started by them, would be ended by my own hands.

My five-year-old son, Emrys, was poisoned by the deadly "Silver Eclipse." The only cure, Moonbloom Serum, had been seized entirely by my husband, Corvin, to save it for his nine-month-pregnant mistress, Melisande.
He froze all my bank accounts, forcing me to pawn the ring that symbolized my status as Luna and brave the dangerous black market just to secure the antidote.
But by the time I rushed back to the hospital, covered in blood, my child’s organs had already failed. He was gone.
When I threw the death certificate and divorce papers in Corvin’s face in despair, he just looked at me with mockery, accusing me of using our own flesh and blood to put on an act for his attention.
At that moment, all my love for him died completely. I took my son’s ashes, left the Ashmere pack, and decisively severed a mate bond that had tied us together for years...

My mother had no medical license, yet wealthy socialites lined up to hand her fat checks.
I often saw her lead those women into the treatment room, where agonizing screams would pierce through the locked door.
But strangely, those same women emerged radiant, as if they'd shed twenty or thirty years overnight, pressing stacks of cash into her hands with tearful gratitude.
What baffled me more was how she doted on the hired girls like her own daughters.
Yet toward me, her actual daughter, she was nothing but cold—always quick to criticize or strike.
Finally one day, curiosity won. I mustered the courage to peek through that door crack and saw what really happened inside...

I've been to four weddings. I never made it through a single one.
Not because I didn't love enough. Not because they weren't good enough. It was because every time — right at the moment I was supposed to say I do — my parents would appear on cue, fall apart on cue, and burn everything to the ground on cue.
For years I thought they hated me. Thought they'd given all their love to my dead sister, Claudia, and had nothing left. Then my brother-in-law said something that cracked me open: Any one of those three men — if you'd married him, you wouldn't be alive today.
So which is it? Were they protecting me, or destroying me?

To end two years of a long-distance marriage with my husband, Sutton Brennan, I quit my job and moved halfway across the state to join his top-tier medical center.
But from the moment I clocked in on day one, a nightmare awaited me.
IV pain pumps violently popped open in my hands, medication cabinets rejected my fingerprints, coffee machines sprayed me with boiling water, microwaves exploded in public, and the employee lockers locked me out entirely.
My colleagues laughed at me, calling me a walking disaster. The head nurse publicly berated me for being incompetent. And my husband, the man I trusted most, simply smiled his gentle smile and said, "You're just tense. Give it a few more days."
In my past life, I believed him. I gritted my teeth and held on until the bitter end—and ultimately died inside this very hospital.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on my first day of work.

I was murdered. My body was dumped on the riverbank.
The detective leading the case is Brennan Carter — my husband. He has sworn to find the killer of this "unidentified female." He doesn't know the victim is me.
I've been missing for seven days. My colleagues and supervisors keep calling Brennan to ask where I am. Dismissing it as a tantrum, he's spent the week doing one thing: celebrating his mistress Tessa's birthday.
It wasn't until my phone turned up at the crime scene that it finally hit him — the wife he'd wished would disappear might actually be gone.