Brenda’s Second Life

I died during the winter of my fiftieth wedding anniversary. In the ICU, the monitors screamed a relentless, piercing alarm. Through the glass, I saw the man I’d spent half a century with—Gabriel. Once hailed as the most promising engineer at the machinery plant, he now had hair gone stark white. Beside him stood our son, Joseph. A doctor was speaking to them. I read the man’s lips: “…there’s no point anymore.” Gabriel nodded without hesitation. In that moment, I felt no pain, no cold—just a vast, hollow absurdity. I watched him pick up a pen to sign the DNR form. He paused, brow furrowed, as if wrestling with some monumental problem. Finally, with a look of impatience and utter confusion, he turned to our son. “What… what was your mother’s name again?” … What was my name? My name was Brenda. A name he’d never carried in his heart, a name he’d replaced for fifty years with “hey” or “the boy’s mother.” As my soul finally tore free, I saw him—prompted by our son—tremble as he finally wrote those three characters. And beside him, Sophia—the “girl next door” he’d spent a lifetime tending to—gently patted his back in silent comfort. How utterly pathetic. My whole life, I’d kept his house and cooked his meals. I’d abandoned my family’s legacy for him, endured the sneers for marrying beneath my station, borne his children, and kept his home for half a century. And in the end, in his heart, I was nobody. A nameless ghost. If there is a next life… no. I don’t want a next life. Let it all end. Let it be swallowed by this endless dark. The sharp scent of disinfectant flooded my nostrils. I jolted, eyes flying open. Above me hung a mottled, yellowing ceiling; an ancient ceiling fan squeaked in persistent rhythm. This wasn’t the ICU. I sat up sharply. A dull ache radiated from my lower abdomen—a raw reminder of the birth I’d just endured. Looking down at my own body, weak yet vibrantly alive, my mind went blank. “You’re awake? Good. Get up. Gabriel’s been waiting outside forever. Need to go register the baby.” That sharp, familiar voice cut through the silence. My mother-in-law. The woman who’d never offered me a kind look or word. Gabriel… Gabriel. I turned my head stiffly, eyes finding the calendar by the bed. July 12, 1981. I was back. I had come back to the third day after giving birth to my son, Joseph—back to another pivotal moment in my tragic life. My heart hammered against my ribs, not with joy, but with a tidal wave of hatred and dread. The scene from my deathbed—my husband’s voice asking, *What was your mother’s name again?*—remained, a poisoned blade twisted in my soul.

Chapters

Chapter 3

“What did you say?”

Gabriel stared at me, eyes wide with disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe his own ears.

Beside him, Sophia gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Her wide, watery eyes were filled with shock.

The shared office space bustled with activity, but my voice, though not loud, landed like a thunderclap, silencing the room. Every curious eye instantly locked onto us.

Gabriel’s face mottled into furious crimson.

He thought I was making an unreasonable scene—deliberately humiliating him in public. His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with a force that felt bone-crushing. He leaned in, teeth gritted, and hissed, “Brenda! Have you lost your mind?!”

It was the first time he’d ever said my full name so clearly.

Not on his deathbed, delirious and confused, but here, now—as I demanded a divorce and shattered his pride.

The irony was almost funny.

I wrenched my hand free. Around my wrist bloomed a vivid red ring.

“I’m not crazy. I’ve never been more clear-headed.”

My voice turned to ice as I met his gaze. “Gabriel, I’m done. We’re getting a divorce.”

“You…” He trembled with rage, chest heaving.

In his eyes, I was the undesirable element—the spoiled rich girl fortunate he’d stooped to marry. I was supposed to be grateful. Obedient. How dare I ask for a divorce?

“Brenda, maybe… maybe there’s been some misunderstanding?” Sophia chose that moment to step forward, slipping smoothly into her role as the sweet, misunderstood peacemaker. “You’ve just had a baby. You’re not yourself. Don’t say things you’ll regret. Gabriel does care for you. He’s just… he’s not good with words.”

“Oh? Is that so?” I turned to her, a mocking smile touching my lips. “Not good with words, so he forgets my name? Not good with words, so the night I was in labor, he ran off to take care of you and your ‘sudden illness’? Not good with words, so when there’s trouble, his first instinct is to defend *you*?”

With every sentence, Sophia’s face grew paler.

She hadn’t expected me to lay it all out like this.

“I… I didn’t mean to… I was really sick that night…” The tears came on cue. Her body swayed slightly, as if bearing the weight of some immense, unjust suffering.

The whispers around us swelled.

“Well, well… so that’s how it is.”

“Isn’t that Sophia? Michael the Section Chief’s widow? Always seemed so quiet.”

“Just goes to show. A widow, calling a married man to her side in the middle of the night? Shameless.”

Gabriel listened, his expression darkening further. He wasn’t hurt for me—he was furious his reputation was being tarnished.

He pulled Sophia behind him, shielding her, and glared at me. “Brenda! That’s enough! Must you make such a spectacle? Sophia is like a sister to me! Looking after her is the right thing to do! Your mind is filthy!”

“A sister?” I laughed, a sound so bitter it threatened to turn into tears. “The kind of sister you need to care for in bed in the middle of the night? Gabriel, don’t treat everyone else like fools. You want to look after her? Fine. That’s your business. But don’t drag me into it. This wife? Let someone else play the part.”

I turned to leave, ignoring his livid expression and Sophia’s bloodless face.

“Stop!” Gabriel roared after me. “The baby! You’re just going to abandon our son?!”

My steps faltered. I didn’t turn back.

The baby… Joseph.

Continue to next part

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of loving Oliver Peterson. Of being his mate, his Luna, even if only in the shadows. I woke before dawn, my heart fluttering with anticipation. Today would change everything. Today, I would finally reveal the truth—all of it. "Happy anniversary, my love," I whispered to the empty space beside me. Oliver had left early for pack business, but I knew he'd return. Today was special. I slipped from our bed and padded to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors.

Fantasy Romance Werewolf

8.8

After My Mate Chose His Assistant Over Me

8.8

The storm hit Ironclaw just after nine. I was in the upstairs study, sorting through the pack's quarterly reports, when the first crack of thunder rattled the windows. I didn't flinch. Twelve years as Luna of the Ironclaw Pack had taught me how to keep my hands steady through louder things than weather. Then the lights died. Not a flicker. Not a hum. Just — gone. The whole pack house dropped into black so thick I could feel it pressing on my eyes. My lungs locked.

Fantasy Romance Werewolf

8.5

Dance With Me

8.5

Like dancers on a silk thread... That's how you and I were... And that's how our lives together were... Every step I took brought me closer to you, even if it was against my will... Everything about you led me towards the abyss of your love. Starting with the emerald glow in your eyes that made me lose my will... And the forest of your hair inhabited by the night and blowing wild perfume storms, and ending with my captive heart with you since eternity. My magical, mythical queen, your dance pushed me to the edge... to the point of no return... So come with me, you emerald glow. But I must first admit that I love you... and if I had power over my heart, I would have made it stop beating in your name... but he is the greatest traitor. Yes, everything betrayed me for you... My eyes betrayed me when I looked at you against my will... My mind betrayed me when it thought of you, even though I forbade it from it repeatedly... And the toughest is that heart that loved you and turned its pocket into whispers in your name until it lost its regularity Its beats...so I ask you to drench my heart with the fragrance of your love, to bring life back to its dead passion...and to return to it the escaping pulse.. And as I started with you a dance... And as the forces of tension and attraction dominated our relationship as an eternal tango... We had one passion... one love... and the most, one life... Will you permit me to dance, madam?

Fantasy Modern Romance

9.7

My Alpha Raised a Secret Son with His Mistress

9.7

The conference room smelled like cedar polish and three different Alpha colognes, and I had spent the last forty minutes proving — quietly, in clean black ink — that I was the only person at the table who had actually read all sixty-two pages of the treaty. Aaron sat to my right, one hand resting on the back of my chair like a prop. He laughed at the Blackridge Alpha's joke a beat too late. I clocked it and let it pass. "Clause nine," I said, sliding the page across. "Hunting rights revert if either party defaults on the quarterly tithe. That's non-negotiable." Alpha Doran of Stonewater squinted at the paragraph. "You drafted this, Luna?" "I drafted all of it." Aaron's hand drifted from my chair to my shoulder. Warm. Familiar.

Fantasy Romance Werewolf

7.8

My Alpha Tried to Drown Me

7.8

I can feel the weight of the tray cutting into my palms before I even enter the banquet hall. The ceremonial glassware—crystal goblets etched with the pack's crescent moon sigil—clinks softly with each step, a delicate sound that feels obscene against the low hum of anticipation threading through the Moonveil Pack house. My Omega uniform, rough-spun linen that itches against my collarbone, marks me as clearly as a brand. I'm Briana Gilbert, wolfless Omega, and tonight I'm invisible labor in a room full of wolves waiting to bare their throats to someone new. The hall is already half-full when I push through the service entrance. Strings of white lights crisscross the vaulted ceiling, casting everything in a soft, deceitful glow that makes the room look warmer than it is. The air smells like pine boughs and roasted meat, undercut by the sharp, electric scent of too many wolves packed into one space. I keep my head down and my movements efficient, setting goblets at each place setting with the mechanical precision I've perfected over the past year. Don't be seen. Don't be noticed.

Fantasy Romance Werewolf

9.2

No Bride for My Alpha Mate

9.2

Scrolling mindlessly through the pack's social media platform, I was on the brink of shutting it off when a single post caught my attention. My blood ran cold as my thumb hovered over the screen. The picture was harmless enough—a baby onesie laid out on a bed, surrounded by neatly folded blankets. But it was the caption that hit me like a silver bullet to the chest. "Thank you to my one and only for this incredible gift. I can’t wait to meet our pup." The post was signed with hearts, and Araceli’s name was tagged right underneath. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I read the words again and again, praying I was mistaken. The Delta, the smug, attention-seeking she wolf who had always hovered too close to my mate, was thanking him for the unborn child growing inside her. My mate—Luciano, the Alpha of this pack—was the only one it could possibly be. The air seemed to grow heavier as realization settled in. This wasn’t just a mistake. This wasn’t paranoia. This was betrayal, glaring at me from the screen. I pushed myself to my feet, the phone slipping from my trembling hand and hitting the floor with a dull thud. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing the same thought over and over: He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But he could. And he did.

Fantasy Romance Werewolf

Brenda’s Second Life

Chapter 3

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