Buried Alive With My Fake Husband
I woke up in total darkness, the air smelling of stale chemicals and dying flowers. When I tried to sit up, my forehead slammed into solid wood just three inches from my face.
I was trapped in a coffin, buried alive next to the cold, stiff body of my fake husband, Cedric. My stepmother, Hermina, had poisoned our champagne at the gala to seize my trust fund, and now she was hosting a lavish memorial service for us right outside the lid.
I found a faint, erratic pulse in Cedric's neck, but I couldn't just scream for help. If Hermina realized the dose wasn't lethal, she'd finish the job with a lethal injection under the guise of medical assistance. To survive, I bit my tongue until I tasted blood and tore my hair into a tangled mess. When I finally kicked the lid open and spilled onto the marble floor, I didn't act like a rescued heiress; I crawled like a broken doll, shrieking about poisoned bubbles and "the bad man" while Manhattan's elite watched in absolute horror.
The betrayal was suffocating. My own family watched as Hermina tried to sedate me back into silence, playing the role of a grieving saint while her eyes remained cold as ice. Even more shocking was Cedric, who rose from the casket like a predator, commanding the room with a terrifying authority that proved our entire marriage had been a lie.
I couldn't understand how many secrets were buried in that house, or why my "boring" husband was suddenly acting like a man who owned the city.
After kneeing Cedric in the stomach to break his iron grip, I bolted out into the torrential rain. I didn't care that I was barefoot or that the world thought I was insane. I had the key to my father's secret safe in my hand, and I was going to make sure Hermina paid for every second of darkness she forced me to endure.
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Chapter 5
The sprinklers sputtered and died. The fire alarm cut off, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
All they could hear was the drip, drip, drip of water falling from the chandeliers.
"He..." Beatrice's voice trembled. "He is warm."
Hermina struggled to her feet, cradling her dangling wrist. "It's the chemicals!" she hissed through gritted teeth. "Heat reaction! Don't touch him!"
Dr. Sterling, the family physician who had signed the death certificates, pushed through the crowd. He looked terrified.
"Dame Beatrice, please," he said, reaching for her. "This is disturbing the remains."
Delphine jumped up. She placed herself between the doctor and the old woman.
She tilted her head. She smiled a goofy, lopsided smile.
"Doctor bad man," she said. "Gave Cedric sleepy juice."
Sterling paled. "She's delusional."
He tried to shove past Delphine.
She grabbed the stethoscope hanging around his neck. She yanked it hard, pulling his head down, then ripped it from his ears.
She shoved the earpieces into Beatrice's hands.
"Listen to the butterflies!" she giggled. "Listen to the butterflies in his chest!"
Beatrice looked at Delphine, confusion warring with hope. She put the stethoscope in her ears.
"Let her check!" someone shouted from the back.
Sterling froze. He couldn't stop her without looking guilty.
Beatrice leaned over the coffin. She pressed the cold metal disc to Cedric's chest, right over his heart.
They waited.
One second. Five seconds. Ten.
Beatrice's shoulders slumped. The light went out of her eyes. She pulled the stethoscope away.
"Nothing," she whispered. "It's silent."
Delphine's stomach dropped.
No. She felt it. She felt the pulse. It was faint, but it was there.
"I told you," Hermina spat. "He is gone. Delphine is mad."
"We must close the casket," Sterling said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "The body is degrading."
Two guards moved toward Delphine with a straitjacket.
She backed up until her legs hit the wood of the coffin. She reached behind her. Her hand found Cedric's hand.
She squeezed. She dug her nails into the soft web of skin between his thumb and index finger. Hard. Cruel.
Wake up, you bastard.
The guards reached for Delphine.
Then she felt it.
A twitch. A distinct, sharp jerk of his thumb against her palm.
It was electric.
Delphine looked up. Her eyes locked with Hermina's. She dropped the smile.
"He pinched me!" she shouted. "The prince is awake!"
The guards grabbed Delphine's arms. They started to drag her away.
"No! He's alive! Check him again!"
They didn't listen. They dragged her across the wet floor.
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9.3
Halie woke up to a sharp pain and a terrifying reality. She was in a new body, her face covered in a hideous web of scars, and her spiritual power reduced to a pathetic D-Class.
Before she could even process the memories of being framed, her bedroom doors were violently kicked open.
Her sister Seraphina sauntered in with a venomous sneer, followed closely by Halie's S-Class fiancé, Jett.
"Look at the disgrace of the Avila family. What a waste," Seraphina mocked, throwing a mirror at her bed.
"I can't be tied to a cripple. As an S-Class, I have to break our engagement," Jett added, his gaze full of disgust.
The nightmare didn't stop there. Her father called, screaming about how she had shamed the family name. He officially stripped her of her inheritance, froze all her accounts, and exiled her to the decaying Southern District to rot.
To make matters worse, a cold, mechanical voice suddenly echoed in her skull, warning her of an impending genetic collapse. Without an immediate energy infusion, she would face total organ failure in thirty days.
A ruined face, a treacherous family, a world that wanted her dead, and a literal death clock ticking in her brain. The original owner had died in absolute despair, a tragic victim of sheer cruelty.
But if they thought she would just sit there and die, they were severely mistaken.
Armed with a mysterious system and her brilliant scientist mind from her past life, Halie packed her bags. She chose the craziest survival quest: head to the slums, find the exiled, sterile S-Class "madman" Coleman, and cure him to harvest his life energy. It was time to start her counterattack.
8.1
When Amara Nwosu, a broken Nigerian photographer, lands in the vibrant heart of Lumeria, all she wants is silence-
a place to heal, a city to disappear in, and a project to keep her hands busy while her heart stays numb.
But Lumeria has its own plans.
The city hums with color and chaos, music and memory, and somewhere between the rain-soaked markets and golden riverbanks, she crosses paths with Kairo Mbeki - an architect with a past as heavy as hers and eyes that see far too much.
Their worlds collide under the weight of coincidence, and something unspoken sparks between them:
a pull neither of them wants to name, a connection that feels both familiar and forbidden.
As Amara's camera begins to capture the soul of Lumeria, Kairo becomes the part of it she cannot frame - the one thing she can't walk away from. But love in Lumeria isn't simple. Between family expectations, personal scars, and the ghosts of everything they've lost, both must decide whether healing means holding on... or finally letting go.
In a story of second chances, cultural beauty, and quiet resilience, Call Me by Your Name reminds us that sometimes, love doesn't ask for grand gestures -
it just asks to be seen.
8.9
CURSED FOR LOVE
8.9
"We can't be together," he whispered, voice breaking.
"You are my destruction."
Tears burned her eyes as she shook her head, stepping closer even though it felt like standing at the edge of a blade.
"And you... are my ruin too."
The words tasted like a goodbye neither of them could accept.
They were bound by something that had been waiting before either of them had names - stitched into the marrow of their bloodline, fed on every grief their ancestors had swallowed in silence. A curse that needed only one thing to wake.
Them, together.
They were never meant to love safely.
And if they ever surrendered to it -
One would die.
The other would be hollowed out by loving them.
The curse had learned patience from centuries of waiting.
And already, without permission, without mercy, the distance between them was shrinking.
7.5
She was dead. Or at least, that's what they thought. Now, five years later, Ivy Richardson stood at her own grave, ready to face the man who put her there.
Ivy, in a custom coat, stood at her cold, black marble gravestone. "Beloved daughter and fiancée," the inscription read—a cruel joke mirroring her heart's wasteland.
A gravedigger dropped his shovel, face ashen. Trembling, he pointed, gasping, "Oh my God... you look exactly like her." He saw a ghost; Ivy was alive.
She paid for silence. Then, Clayton, her former fiancé, appeared, shaking: "Ivy? Where have you been?" She crushed his cheap lilies, her lethal gaze replacing the girl he'd abandoned.
He snarled, blaming her, justifying her "Do Not Resuscitate" order for his mistress, Ainsley. Ivy's cold laugh mocked his pathetic lies.
"Fiancé?" she echoed, revealing her new wedding ring. "That title expired when you signed the DNR... and Ainsley was watching, wasn't she?" With an icy "Go to hell," Ivy left him slipping in the mud.
9.2
I woke up suffocating in the dark, only to find my mind trapped inside a tiny, plump, and entirely uncoordinated body.
A cold, mechanical voice echoed in my brain, announcing that I was dead in my original world and had transmigrated into a corporate revenge novel as the six-month-old illegitimate daughter of Edward McClure, the story's ruthless villain.
The system mercilessly outlined my doomed fate. Tonight, my cold-blooded father would abandon me to a state orphanage. By age two, he would officially sign my rights away, leaving me to die miserably at the hands of human traffickers. Outside my nursery, I could hear his terrifying footsteps approaching, his voice devoid of any human warmth as he debated throwing me out like garbage. I was completely helpless, trapped in a baby's body, staring up at a man who looked at me with pure, visceral disgust.
Why did I have to be reborn as the tragic cannon fodder of a tyrant destined to put a bullet in his own head? How was I supposed to win over a severe germaphobe when my unequipped infant reflexes made me literally pee and vomit all over his pristine Tom Ford suits?
"Your ultimate mission is to prevent Edward McClure's self-destruction. Step one: Survive tonight's abandonment crisis."
Hearing the system's terrifying ultimatum, I swallowed my adult panic, forced a pool of pitiful tears into my large eyes, and reached my chubby little hands toward the monster.
7.4
"Take them off yourself, or I will do it for you."
Ten sessions. Two hundred thousand dollars. Her brother's life for her body.
Dr. Avery St. Clair signed a contract in blood. To save her family, she has to fix the mind of Obsidian City's most feared monster, Dominic Kessler. He's a Mafia Don rotting from the inside out. A bullet gave him C-PTSD and a touch so sensitive he can't stand being touched. Avery is the only antidote who can calm him down. So he locked her in his villa.
But Dominic is playing a game he's already lost.
He doesn't know Avery is the woman from seven years ago. The stranger who saved him on that dark gambling ship and disappeared before sunrise.
He doesn't know the scar on his wrist is burned into her memory.
And most of all, he doesn't know the autistic little girl hiding in her clinic is his own daughter.
While Avery hides the truth behind her professional mask, their little girl feels his every nightmare. Every flashback. Every crack in his monster mask.
When the secrets finally come out, his empire will fall. He'll lose his sight. His throne. The only woman who ever made him feel human.
To win her back, he'll have to destroy the monster he became. And help her burn down the man who murdered her parents.
She won't make it easy.
This is not a love story. It's a monster learning to beg.
Why read this?
Obsessive Mafia Hero
Secret Baby with an Autistic and Gifted Daughter
Identity Reveal
"Touch Her And You Die" Energy
Massive Groveling and Revenge
A Heroine Who Fights Back
No Cheating. Happy Ending Guaranteed.