3 Book(s) Related to minions memes

When I took my last breath, my boyfriend of five years was busy pulling strings to get his new model fling a runway spot.
Nobody knew he used to be a desperate stray I bought out of a dark alley. It started as a three-year contract. I burned millions to pave his way into the fashion elite, handing him top-tier campaigns until he became a global supermodel.
I stayed his dirty little secret so nothing would ruin his shot at "Model of the Year." He swore going public would kill his career, yet he had no problem parading around with young starlets—and letting them humiliate me behind closed doors.
His newest fling even smugly played a recording of him mocking me: "She’s just an ATM for brand deals. How could an uptight, older control freak ever compete with you?"
That was when I finally accepted it: love bought with money is just a transaction.
So, holding my terminal diagnosis, I signed over the last of my assets and quietly bowed out of his glamorous life forever.
I just don't understand one thing: if he was so sick of me, why did he completely lose his mind when he saw my death certificate? Why did he throw away everything he'd built, tearing the world apart to find me like a feral, abandoned dog?

During the senior executive meeting, an intern slapped a 15-yuan McDonald's receipt right in my face.
"Vice President Xu has been embezzling company funds for personal meals! A parasite like her, who’s been fleecing the company, must be fired!"
My boyfriend of eight years looked at me with a feigned, agonized expression. "This incident has caused an abysmally bad impact. You will be suspended pending an internal investigation."
I stared at his hand wrapped around the intern's waist, then calmly removed my employee ID badge.
I turned to my assistant and ordered, "Freeze the five million yuan in the company's account. That's just the pocket money I casually deposited there last week."

They called him the Ashborn, not just a title, but a mockery.

In the divine order of the Aurealis Academy, where angels trained, ranked, and rose according to the purity of their light, Elias Vorne was the standing joke. No wings fully formed at sixteen. No light is strong enough to pass a standard test. The weakest initiative in three centuries of recorded history, they said, which was not the kind of record anyone wanted to hold.

He had heard it so many times, he had stopped flinching.

"Nothing. Again."

The Seraph Commander's voice was flat as a blade laid on a table. Around the testing hall, two hundred initiates watched Elias pull his hand back from the sacred flame that had burned bright gold for every student before him and produced, for him, nothing at all. Not a flicker, nor a glow, nor even the faint warmth that the weakest angels managed.

His palm had come back cold.

"Perhaps Ashborn needs another year."

The laughter was not unkind, exactly. It was the laughter of people who had stopped taking something seriously. Elias stood in front of two hundred divine initiates and let it wash over him the way he had learned to, like water over stone. You cannot erode stone with laughter. You cannot break what has been decided; it will not break.

What none of them knew, what Elias himself did not know, was why the flame went cold when he touched it.

Not because he had no power, but because what lived inside him was not light.

Somewhere in the city beyond the Academy walls, a woman with ink-dark eyes and the patient stillness of someone who had been waiting a very long time looked up from her work and felt the moment the seal shifted.