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In a world where humans are considered inferior and slaves to werewolves, Emilia, a human orphan, falls in love with Alpha Alexander, after finding out that she is his fated mate, and has been married to him for four years via contract. But her marriage to him has been kept a secret and no one knows or acknowledges her as his wife. When Emilia finds out she's pregnant, she also discovers that Alpha Alexander has reunited with his first love and even announced their union on the news. As she asks for divorce, she finds out that she is actually the lost Lycan Princess and her father and two brothers have been looking for her for years. What would happen when Alexander finds out she isn't just werewolf but royalty? Will he really let her go or realise just how much he truly loves her?

"You took my kidney for your mistress. Now I’m taking your empire." Harper Vance loved Gabriel Stone so much she donated her kidney to save his dying lover, Chloe. She thought this sacrifice would finally make him love her. She was wrong. Waking up in agony, Harper isn't greeted with gratitude, but with divorce papers. Gabriel throws her out of the hospital, penniless and bleeding, to make room for Chloe in their marital bed. Left to die in the rain, Harper is rescued by Enzo De Luca, a ruthless mafia kingpin who knows her true identity. Harper isn't just a discarded wife. She is "V," the world’s most elusive and legendary jewelry designer, and the heiress to a fortune that makes Gabriel’s look like pocket change. Three years later, Gabriel is desperate. His company is failing, and Chloe’s health is "mysteriously" declining again. He needs V’s help. When the mysterious designer finally reveals her face, Gabriel falls to his knees. But Harper didn't come back to save him. She came back to watch him bleed.

The elevator's soft chime echoed through the executive floor as I stepped out, my heels clicking against the polished marble with their usual confident rhythm. The quarterly reports tucked under my arm felt heavier than usual—not from their weight, but from the anticipation of another productive discussion with Tyler about Pinnacle Media's impressive growth numbers. The executive floor hummed with its typical late-afternoon energy. Staff members moved purposefully between offices, their voices creating a familiar backdrop of success and ambition. I nodded to Sarah at the reception desk, her smile bright as always when she saw me approaching Tyler's corner office. "Mrs. Reynolds, he's in his private office reviewing the Henderson account," she said, gesturing toward the frosted glass doors that separated Tyler's inner sanctum from the main workspace. I pushed through the outer office, past Lea's empty desk—she must be in the break room again, I thought absently. The girl had been working late more frequently lately, showing the kind of dedication I'd hoped to see when I'd recommended her promotion from assistant to junior account manager six months ago. The door to Tyler's private office stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the gap.

I twisted my grandmother's silver ring around my pinky finger as I studied the performance reports spread across my desk. The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan office, casting a soft glow over the sleek, minimalist furniture I'd chosen for my undercover role as HR Director. Six months of intern evaluations lay before me, each folder representing someone's hopes, ambitions, and future at my company—though none of them knew it was actually mine. Madison Wright's file sat open before me. Her metrics were impressive—consistently first to arrive, last to leave, with project deliverables that exceeded expectations. I made a note in the margin: "Shows exceptional promise." Olivia Bennett's file told a different story. Her work was adequate but uninspired, her attendance spotty, with a concerning pattern of arriving late to morning meetings. Yet somehow, she'd managed to ingratiate herself with several senior staff members, particularly in the last month. A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see Olivia herself standing in my doorway, her posture a practiced blend of confidence and deference.

I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, and the girl looking back at me is a stranger. The white gown they've given me is simple—too simple for a Luna Ceremony, really. No intricate beading, no family heirloom lace like the other she-wolves wear when they mark their mates. Just plain silk that hangs off my shoulders like it's apologizing for being there at all. But I smooth my hands over the fabric anyway, telling myself it doesn't matter. After tonight, everything will change. After tonight, I'll be Luna. Alpha Marcel's mate. Protected. The word tastes like honey and ash on my tongue.

I, once a renowned belly - dance master, was the unwitting victim of a diabolical plot. My own sister, Sarah, and my supposed mate, Frank, conspired to have me violated. Their heinous plan was to ensure that the adopted daughter, Jenny, could perform belly dance in the blood - moon ceremony without any competition. I was savagely assaulted, my body and spirit broken, and then callously framed, left to die in a pool of my own despair. But fate had a different turn for me. Against all odds, I clawed my way back from the brink of death and transformed into a special agent, staging a false death to escape the nightmare that had been my life. Frank, only after the damage was irreparably done, finally opened his eyes to the magnitude of his mistakes. Consumed by a guilt so profound that it seemed to eat away at his very soul, he was left adrift in a sea of remorse. However, it was far, far too late...

From Brookville High to college, the rules are the same: He's the boy who has everything. The only thing missing is her. She's the girl who wants for nothing, and she wants everything with him. Falling for him seemed impossible. Loving him was dangerous. Getting hurt was inevitable. But revenge is far sweeter than heartbreak. She takes up with his archnemesis, as if calculating how best to make him appreciate what he's lost. What begins as retribution quickly turns clumsy, messy and confusing in ways she never expected. By the time college rolls around, the stakes are higher, secrets are exposed, and the boy who once broke her heart may be the only one who can put the pieces back together. Everyone thought their story ended in High school. But some love burns too hot to fade even across the years.

I spent twenty-one years trying to be the perfect Mafia Princess, treating my illegitimate sister, Mia, with nothing but grace. That kindness is exactly what got me killed. My husband, Luca, didn't take me on a honeymoon. He dragged me into the soundproof basement of our estate. Mia was there, too. Not to help me, but to gloat. She laughed as she admitted to poisoning our mother with arsenic, watching with glee as Luca brought a serrated knife to my chest. "You were always too soft, Sera," he sneered, carving through my skin while I begged for mercy. I died in that cold, dark room, choking on my own blood and the bitter taste of betrayal. But I didn't stay dead. I woke up gasping for air, clutching a chest that was smooth and unscarred. The calendar on my nightstand read May 12, 2018. It was five years ago. The very morning I was scheduled to sign the marriage contract that would seal my fate. I looked at the paper on the vanity. In my last life, I signed it with a trembling hand. This time, I flicked open my silver Zippo and watched the flames eat Luca's name. I didn't pack a dress. I packed a pistol and a stack of cash. I was going to Las Vegas. There was only one man dangerous enough to help me destroy the New York families. I walked into the underground fight club, locked eyes with the deadliest man in the room, and smiled. "Dante Cavallaro," I said. "I'm here to make you a King."

For three years, I served as Abraham Crane’s "Surgeon"—the secret fixer who managed his agonizing spinal injury and the even messier fallout of his billionaire empire. I thought the intimacy we shared behind closed doors meant I was the exception to his coldness, but I was just another line item in his ledger. The morning after a frantic night together, Abraham didn't offer a confession of love. Instead, he handed me a manila envelope containing a deed to a penthouse and a blank check. It was a severance package, a cold transaction to buy my silence and end our three-year arrangement. When I walked away and refused his money, the retaliation was swift and brutal. He sent his men to dump my meager belongings in a grimy hotel hallway, intentionally crushing the only photo of my dying mother under an expensive leather shoe. Even after I saved his life during a near-fatal medical crisis that very night, he mocked me, slurring that I had only returned to scavenge for the check. The nightmare escalated when he realized I was truly trying to leave. To force me back, he revoked the funding for my mother’s nursing home, leaving her facing immediate eviction. He wasn't just obsessed; he was desperate. He needed a scapegoat for a federal investigation into his illegal drug supply, and he wanted me to be the one to hold the bag. I stood in his study, looking at a marriage contract that was actually a legal death sentence. His original fiancée had fled in horror after realizing the "wife" would assume all criminal liability for his crimes. Abraham sat in his wheelchair, looking at me like a predator who had finally caught its prey, using my mother’s life as the ultimate leverage. He thinks he’s bought himself a shield. He thinks I’m signing my life away just to keep my mother safe. He doesn't realize that by making me his wife, he’s giving me full access to the encrypted records and offshore accounts that can incinerate his entire legacy. I reached for the pen, my heart turning into cold, hard stone. This wasn't a wedding; it was a declaration of war. I looked him dead in the eye and asked, "Where do I sign?"

After four years of marriage, my wealthy husband Brad handed me a $50,000 severance check outside the Manhattan Family Court. He linked arms with his mistress, Jenna, who flaunted the diamond ring that used to be mine. "Just take it, Hayley. Take the money and get out of our lives," he sneered, looking at me with absolute disgust. I tore the check into pieces, but my nightmare was just beginning. To access my grandfather's trust fund, I had exactly seventy-two hours to get legally married, so I desperately proposed a one-year contract marriage to a poor insurance salesman I met in a dive bar. When Brad found out, he and his arrogant family cornered me at their estate. Brad mocked my new husband for being a penniless, money-grubbing parasite, while my former mother-in-law slapped me hard across the face, knocking me to the ground. "You are trash, just like your mother," she spat, watching my knee bleed onto the sharp gravel. Jenna gleefully kicked my phone away, shattering the screen and cutting off my only lifeline. Lying there in the dirt, I stared at the broken glass in absolute despair. I didn't understand why four years of quiet devotion had earned me nothing but cruel betrayal and endless humiliation from the people I once called family. Just as I thought I had completely lost, a black Lincoln Navigator slammed to a halt at the gates. My "penniless" new husband stepped out, radiating a terrifying, righteous fury that made the entire Patton family freeze in horror.

The champagne flute slipped from my fingers, crystal shattering against the marble floor of our penthouse living room. The sound echoed through the silence, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from my phone screen. There it was. Posted just twenty minutes ago on Giselle Marshall's Instagram account—a photograph that made my blood turn to ice. A marriage certificate. Spencer Tucker and Giselle Marshall. Dated exactly five years ago. The same date as my wedding. My hands trembled as I zoomed in on the image, desperate to find some sign it was fake, some indication this was another one of Giselle's cruel games. But the seal looked authentic.

I checked my reflection in the airport bathroom mirror one last time, smoothing down the pale blue dress I'd chosen specifically for today. Marcus once mentioned—in passing, almost absently—that he liked how this shade complemented my complexion. I'd clung to that rare compliment like a precious gem, filing it away with the handful of other moments when he'd shown even the slightest hint of affection. The arrivals board showed his flight from New York had landed twenty minutes ago. My heart fluttered with anticipation as I gathered my handmade welcome sign, adorned with watercolor flowers I'd spent hours perfecting last night. Three weeks without him had felt like an eternity. This time would be different, I promised myself. This time, I'd find the key to unlocking the warmth I knew existed beneath his cool exterior. "He'll be surprised," I whispered to myself, a small smile playing on my lips. Marcus wasn't one for surprises—he preferred structure, predictability, control—but surely even he couldn't resist the gesture of a devoted wife waiting at the airport after his longest business trip yet.

The scent of burning sage and crushed pine needles hung thick in the evening air. I stood before the ancient stone altar, the heavy white silk of my traditional Luna ceremonial dress pooling around my bare feet. My hands trembled as I gripped the silver chalice. Today wasn't about my title as the Luna of the Shadowcrest Pack. Today, I was just Aviana—an orphaned daughter mourning the two greatest warriors the Silvermoon Pack had ever known. My parents. Tears hot and fast tracked down my cheeks as I looked out at the sea of faces in the twilight. The Shadowcrest elders stood in the front row, their heads bowed in deep respect. Beside them was Beta Ryan Cross, his expression tight with shared sorrow. And lingering near the back, an imposing shadow among the visiting dignitaries, was Lycan Prince Maximus Hamilton.

I wore my favorite emerald silk dress to Per Se, thinking our third anniversary would finally be the night Darius came back to me. My heart was pounding with hope, but the moment he covered the rim of my champagne glass with a cold, marble-like hand, that hope died. He didn't bring a gift; he brought a personal assistant and a medical consent form. His ex-girlfriend, Hazel, was dying of liver failure, and I was the only compatible match they had found in the world. The realization hit me like a physical blow: he hadn’t married me for love, but for a "harvest." When I screamed that I wasn't a spare part, he didn't even flinch. Instead, he threatened to pull the funding for my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s care, holding the only family I had left hostage to save his "one who got away." He locked me in our penthouse under a high-tech security protocol, guarded by private contractors like a prisoner in a gilded cage. While I was trapped, he was at the hospital holding Hazel’s hand, wearing the Patek Philippe watch I’d bought him for his birthday. I watched their updates on social media, Hazel tagging him as her "hero" and "true love," while I was left alone in the dark. Darius told his lawyers I was just being "dramatic" and that I’d get over it once the settlement check cleared. Every memory of our three years together felt like a long-term investment in an organ transplant. How could I have been so blind? How could the man who promised to cherish me turn into a monster who only saw me as a regenerating asset? I stopped fighting and started calculating. I agreed to the surgery on one condition: a signed divorce decree and an ironclad trust for my grandmother that he could never touch. I refused his millions, took back my maiden name, and walked into that hospital with my head held high. I was giving them the piece of me they wanted, but it was the last thing they would ever take. As the elevator doors closed on Darius's desperate face, I knew that when I woke up, I would finally be free.

I was balancing four pitchers of watery beer when my phone buzzed with a photo of my cousin flaunting a massive pink diamond on the hand of my ex-fiancé. Jennings Bowen didn't just break our engagement; his family stripped away my medical scholarship and branded me a "reputational liability," leaving me to scrub grease in a Queens dive bar. When Jennings walked into my bar with the arrogance of old money, my alcohol-fueled rage took over, and I ended up vomiting all over his handmade Italian leather shoes. He didn't just have me arrested; he baited my younger brother, Leo, into a fight and had him charged with felony assault. "He’s nineteen, Bronwyn. We’ll bury him," Jennings whispered at the precinct, while his mother ensured no lawyer in the city would touch our case. With a fifty-thousand-dollar bail I couldn't pay and an eviction notice on my door, I was backed into a corner with absolutely nothing left to lose. I couldn't understand why these people were so obsessed with crushing someone who was already down, or how they could sleep at night while destroying a teenager's life. I realized then that playing by their rules wouldn't save Leo, so I dug out the set of black ceramic scalpels I had hidden under my bed for five years. I wasn't just a waitress or a failed student; I was "The Ghost," a surgeon who operated in the shadows where the law couldn't follow. I marched to the gates of the Phelps estate, the home of the billionaire father who abandoned me, ready to trade his life for my brother's freedom. "I'm here to save you," I told the dying man as his family watched in horror. "But the price is my brother’s life, and you’re going to pay it."

To save on the outrageous wages of hired movers, I, Jade Lawson, bought a werewolf who had been returned three times from a secondhand trading site. The seller warned me he was vicious, wild, and prone to biting. What caught my eye wasn't his temperament. It was his build. Six foot three, solid muscle, the kind of body that looked like it could haul six hundred pounds of packages without breaking a sweat. When he arrived, he was indeed vicious. He kept sneaking into my room at night, pressing his scorching body against mine and grinding his teeth against the back of my neck. I thought he was teething. Or worse, developing rabies. I contacted the seller immediately to request a return. After hearing my description, the seller went quiet for a long time. "We don't recommend returning him." "He's not teething. Werewolves only feel the urge to bite the back of their mate's neck during their rut phase. It's a mate-marking instinct." "He wants you. He's trying to get you to bear his pups."

I, Alpha Killian Nightshade, reject you, Elara Vance, as my mate and future Luna. With those cold words, Elara's world shattered. Framed for a crime she didn't commit by a jealous rival and publicly humiliated by the man she loved, Elara is cast out as a rogue. But she carries a secret that will shake the foundation of the werewolf kingdoms: she is pregnant with twin Alphas.​Left for dead in the Forbidden Forest, Elara doesn't die. She transforms.​Five years later, the "weak" girl is gone. In her place stands the Silver Shadow, a lethal mercenary with ancient power and a cold heart. She returns to her former pack not for love but for reckoning. When Killian sees the two young boys with his golden eyes, he realizes his mistake. But Elara isn't looking for an apology she's rather looking for a throne.

On our wedding night, celebrating a billion-dollar family merger, my new husband Coleton stepped out of the shower. Suddenly, his phone rang. It was his dead brother's widow, Hana, crying that her five-year-old had a fever. Without hesitation, Coleton shoved me hard into the wall to get out the door. "Are you seriously jealous of a sick five-year-old kid?" he spat. He abandoned me in the bridal suite. I immediately filed for divorce and leaked it to the press. To save the merger and their stock prices, both our families rushed in to force me to back down. My own father raised his hand to slap me for my "petty female jealousy." Coleton's grandfather brutally beat him with a heavy wooden cane right in front of me, trying to use a twisted debt of honor to guilt-trip me into staying. Through a hidden dumbwaiter shaft, I overheard their secret meeting. They were plotting to use Coleton's bloody photos to paint me as a cold-hearted villain to the media, trapping me in the marriage through public shame. My own brother nodded along to this plot just to secure his CEO bonus. Coleton only begged for my forgiveness because he was terrified of losing his trust fund to an illegitimate heir. In their eyes, my dignity was just a cheap commodity with a price tag. But I am a Pennington, raised in a world where trust is a liability. I calmly saved the audio recording of their plot, packed my Hermes suitcase, and emailed the most ruthless divorce litigator in Manhattan.

The paramedics didn't rush. That was the first thing I noticed. They moved through the master suite with the unhurried efficiency of people who already knew the outcome, and one of them — young, with tired eyes — glanced at me in the hallway and gave a small, apologetic shake of his head. I nodded. Pressed my thumbnail into my palm. Matthias Carroll was dead. I stood there in my silk robe, the one he'd picked out, and waited for something to move inside me. Grief. Relief. Anything with a name.

"I want you to die. Die, Ian! Fucking die!!” Ian had only ever wanted peace, baking bread and doughnuts, and minding his business. But just one event turned his life upside down. He was accused. He retaliated. And he paid the unjust price with his life - a swift, cruel, horrendous death. Yet fate had something far greater than an ordinary life for him. Resurrected by the moon goddess, Ian awakens in a strange, perilous universe. Not as the human he once was, but as a werewolf in Torguyl - a savage realm ruled by mystifying werewolves and ancient magic. And with his gift of resurrection, comes a divine mission: "Save him. Save Thorne. That is your mission." Alpha Thorne teeters on the edge of becoming a creature of ruin - a Dark Terror. And only Ian can redeem him. But in a world of brutal alphas, soul-binding secrets, and forbidden hunger, saving Thorne may demand more than just Ian’s courage and strategies. It may demand his heart. "Love him hard enough to save him.”

I smelled her before I even opened the front door. That's the thing about being a werewolf. You can't lie to the nose. You can lie to your eyes, lie to your ears, tell yourself a story that makes everything make sense. But scent doesn't negotiate. It just tells you what's true. I'd come back a day early from the Silverfang Pack. The diplomatic visit had wrapped faster than expected — their Beta was efficient, I'll give him that — and I'd thought about surprising Caleb. Maybe cooking dinner. Something small and ordinary.

Elara is not a fighter. She is a healer. Her power is the rarest in the werewolf world. It was meant to protect her Pack and secure her place next to Alpha Kael, her destined mate. However, on the night of their claimed bond, Kael rejected her. He labeled her power a deadly threat. With a brutal and calculated act, he wounded himself with wolfsbane and publicly turned Elara away. She had to choose between saving the man who humiliated her or proving his belief that she was too dangerous to love. She saved him, but that night, the healer inside her died. Banished and broken, Elara sheds the blood-soaked title of healer and retreats into the shadows. She finds an ancient master who teaches her not patience, but poison. Instead of comfort, he shows her retribution. She learns to harness her past pain, using the volatile wolfsbane as her weapon. Five years later, the once-strong Lunar Pack is suffering from a mysterious illness that even their best doctors can't cure. They must look beyond their borders for help. Elara returns with a new name and a clever disguise. She is armed with charm and a dark plan. She is the Pack's only hope, and she will bring about the Alpha's downfall. Her revenge has a careful strategy. The closer she gets to healing his body, the closer she gets to ending his reign. But to destroy the Alpha, she must risk reigniting the very mate bond she vowed to forget.

On the night of their fifth wedding anniversary, Jolie Knight cooked an entire dinner herself. But it wasn't until nearly ten o'clock that Kaden Knight finally came home-and the first thing he did was head straight for the shower. The food on the table had already gone cold. Jolie dumped everything into the trash without hesitation. When she picked up the jacket Kaden had tossed onto the couch, planning to throw it in the wash, her fingers pulled out a lace T-back thong from the pocket. It wasn't the first time she had received that girl's little provocations. Including this one, it was the ninety-ninth. The bathroom door swung open, and Kaden stepped out. He was shirtless, with a white towel loosely hanging around his waist. He glanced at the pink lace thong in her hand and barely reacted, only lifting a lazy eyebrow. "Larry can be childish. You don't need to get worked up over her," he said. Jolie's eyes traveled over the face she used to adore-still handsome, still familiar. How had things fallen apart in less than five years? But it didn't matter; she had promised herself that after forgiving him 99 times, she would divorce him. The 99th time had arrived, and their marriage was over. "I've decided to join the three-year closed research project you mentioned last time."