He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him
The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her.
Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead.
A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living.
Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body.
Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.
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Chapter 3
No.3
The Grand Ballroom was stifling. The scent of lilies and expensive cologne hung heavy in the air. Skye sat alone at Table 8. The other seats were empty; the socialites who were assigned to sit with her had mysteriously drifted to other tables, likely not wanting to be caught in the crossfire between her and Liam.
Liam and Seraphina were at Table 1, the prime spot, surrounded by sycophants laughing too hard at Liam's jokes. Every few minutes, Liam would whisper something to Seraphina, and she would giggle, touching his arm. It was a performance. A clumsy one.
Skye sipped her champagne. It was warm.
Ladies and gentlemen, the auctioneer boomed from the stage. "We now move to Lot 9. The West Harbor Industrial Zone."
A murmur of laughter rippled through the room.
The screen behind the stage lit up, displaying a drone shot of a desolate wasteland. Rusted shipping containers, patches of oil-slicked dirt, and a general aura of decay. It was the armpit of Sea City.
A unique investment opportunity, the auctioneer tried to sell it, though even he sounded skeptical. "Starting bid: 50 million dollars."
Silence. Dead silence.
Someone at a nearby table snorted. "I wouldn't buy that for a dollar. It's a toxic waste dump."
Skye set the glass down. Her fingers brushed the plastic paddle. Number 88.
In her past life, this land sat unsold for another six months. Then, the government announced the "Future Tech Park" initiative. The land values skyrocketed overnight, increasing by two thousand percent. The Sterling family missed out. The Kensingtons missed out. A foreign investor bought it and made billions.
Not this time.
Skye raised her paddle.
100 million, she said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the murmurs.
The room gasped. Heads snapped toward Table 8.
Liam turned around in his chair, his face twisting in disbelief. He stood up and marched over to her table, ignoring the stares.
Put it down, he hissed, leaning over her. "Are you drunk? That land is worthless. You're embarrassing the family."
Skye didn't look at him. She looked at the auctioneer.
100 million to the lady in red, the auctioneer stammered, shocked.
It's my trust fund, Liam, Skye said calmly. "I can burn it if I want to."
You are insane, Liam spat. "I won't let you ruin our finances with this... garbage."
Our finances? Skye raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said my money was 'cute' pocket change."
From the VIP booth above, Felix Carter was laughing so hard he was choking on his drink. "Boss, she's actually bidding on the dump. She's crazy."
Alistair Thorne was not laughing. He was staring at Skye with narrowed eyes. He tapped his finger against his chin. He had heard whispers—rumors from his contacts in the planning commission—that the zoning laws might change. But it was deep intel. How did a socialite know?
Or was she just reckless?
Bid, Alistair said.
Felix stopped laughing. "What?"
Bid against her.
But boss, it's trash!
Do it.
Felix sighed and spoke into the microphone connected to the floor. "300 million."
The announcement boomed over the speakers. "The VIP booth bids 300 million!"
The room erupted into chaos. Alistair Thorne was bidding? If Thorne was interested, maybe it wasn't trash.
Skye's heart skipped a beat. She looked up at the booth. The dark glass hid him, but she knew he was there. Why was he interfering? This was not in the script.
She couldn't lose this. This land was her exit strategy. It was her war chest.
She raised her paddle again. Her hand was steady, but her palms were sweating.
500 million, Skye declared.
Liam looked like he was going to have a stroke. "Skye! Stop! That is half of your inheritance!"
Going once... the auctioneer yelled, sweating.
Skye stared at the black glass of the VIP booth. She willed him to stop. Please. Don't fight me on this.
Alistair watched her. He saw the desperation hidden behind her stoic mask. He saw the way her knuckles were white around the paddle. She wanted this. She needed this.
He smiled. "Let her have it."
Sold! the gavel banged. "To Mrs. Kensington for 500 million dollars!"
The room collapsed into noise. People were shaking their heads, whispering about the "mad Kensington wife."
Liam slammed his hand on her table, rattling the silverware. "You have ruined us. When the board hears about this..."
Skye stood up. She was the same height as him in her heels.
If you're so worried about finances, Liam, she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear, "maybe we should separate our assets."
She leaned in closer, smelling the faint trace of Seraphina's perfume on his lapel.
I want a divorce.
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than the 500 million dollars.
Liam froze. He blinked, his mouth opening and closing. He had threatened her with divorce a thousand times. She had always begged him to stay.
You... what?
You heard me, Skye said. She picked up her clutch. "Enjoy the rest of the night with your charity case. I have paperwork to do."
She turned and walked away, leaving the gala, leaving the husband, leaving the life she had died in.
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7.5
Celine loves her lover Zack very much. It was so deep that he was willing to introduce her to his father. All he got was a wound. Zack suddenly turned cold, walked away for no reason, then had the heart to return his longing with a rude attitude.
When a status on social media reveals Zack's dark side, which is hungry for women and money, Celine's heart is broken.
What's more surprising is that none of this is a coincidence. Zack wanted to destroy it. But in the midst of the destruction, there was one person who stood silently behind Celine, Arlend. The man who had been harboring feelings, was not willing to see Celine fall too deep.
Just as Celine is about to end her life on the city bridge, Arlend arrives. He saved Celine's body and possibly her soul. From that day on, Arlend vowed never to leave Celine alone again.
But Celine's wound was not finished. When Adiwangsa was threatened with bankruptcy, his position as leader was shaken. And when he chooses to secretly marry Arlend, Zack's shadow hasn't really gone from Celine's side.
How can Celine deal with all this? Between the past, and the man who is now with her.
7.6
I was the black sheep of the wealthy Jenkins family, the villain in my adopted sister Jami's perfect story. Everyone adored her, the sweet, innocent heroine. I was just the difficult one.
Then, a system uploaded itself into my brain, showing me the script of my life. It wasn't just a story where I was the bad guy-it was a detailed blueprint for my entire family's destruction, all orchestrated by Jami.
The script showed how she would drive one brother to suicide, frame another for a crime he didn't commit, and leave me for a gruesome "accidental" death, making her the sole heir to their fortune.
My family saw her as an angel. They were completely blind, worshiping the very monster who was plotting to bury them all.
But the system that showed me this horrifying future also gave me a weapon. It let me hear their thoughts.
And then, at the family gala, I realized something even better.
They could hear mine.
9.7
After four empty years, Willa finally spent a night with her husband, only to discover she was pregnant.
Ready to share her joy, she found Bryan already with another woman-who was expecting his child, too.
Willa endured his coldness and nights alone, but when he let his ex move in and exclaimed, "Caylee carries my only heir," her heart broke for good.
She signed the divorce papers with a bold note about their sexless marriage and walked away.
Devoting herself to art and science, Willa thrived.
When an old flame returned, Bryan grew jealous. "Have you forgotten who your husband really is?"
She chuckled, "I'm single now. Stay out of my way!"
9.7
Five years ago, I took ten million dollars from my fiancé's grandmother and abandoned him to save my father from dying in federal prison.
Today, working three jobs just to survive, I ran into him while substituting as a music therapist at a VIP clinic.
He is now a powerful Wall Street billionaire, standing beside his beautiful fiancée and their little girl.
He trapped me, threw a stack of hundred-dollar bills at my face, and mocked me for being a pathetic gold digger who blew through his family's money.
Bound by a strict non-disclosure agreement, I couldn't defend myself and fled in absolute humiliation.
But fate wasn't done torturing me. That same afternoon, my four-year-old daughter—his secret child—was suspected of having severe leukemia.
At the hospital, exhausted and terrified, I briefly leaned on a kind doctor friend's shoulder to cry.
I had no idea my ex-fiancé was inspecting the new medical wing and watching us from the shadows.
Seeing the child's bouncy curls, he mistakenly thought I had jumped into another man's bed and built a perfect family using the money I stole from him.
Driven by insane jealousy and blind rage, he ordered his assistant to completely destroy the innocent doctor.
"I want him to know what happens when you take what belongs to me."
Watching my daughter's pale face, I knew my peaceful life was over. To save her life, I had to walk right back into the devil's den.
7.5
, I am Colleen Hoover, and I am ready to write. This story will be an emotional surgery, raw and direct, for the American woman who craves that gut-wrenching, heart-healing journey. Let's begin.
I married a man haunted by the ghost of his dead son. I gave him a new son, Leo, and foolishly believed our love could heal his shattered past. But then the ghost came back to life.
His ex-wife, Georgia, returned with wide, innocent eyes and a diagnosis of trauma-induced amnesia. Suddenly, my husband was walking on eggshells around the woman who broke him, while our son and I became background noise in her twisted play.
The day he chose her was the day he destroyed us. After Georgia framed our five-year-old for desecrating his dead brother's memorial, my husband, Calvin, snapped. He grabbed Leo's arm and twisted it until I heard a sickening pop.
As I lay on the floor bleeding, I watched him cradle Georgia, whispering comforts while our son screamed in agony. Over his shoulder, her eyes met mine, filled not with confusion, but with pure, triumphant malice.
He had made his choice. Now, I would make mine. My fingers, sticky with my own blood, dialed 911. "I need an ambulance," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "And I need the police."
9.8
My fiancé, Jameson Blair, married my twin sister today. For five years, I was a placeholder, a substitute for the woman he truly wanted, and I pretended not to know.
Today, she came back with a story of terminal cancer and a dying wish to marry him. It was a perfect lie, and he chose to believe it, shattering my world with three simple words: "She's Haleigh."
They left me on the sidewalk, an outcast from my own blood. My brothers, who once promised to protect me, celebrated the woman who broke me. They moved my things to a guest room, making space for their prodigal sister. That night, Haleigh gave me a "welcome home" gift—a box with a brown recluse spider inside.
As the venom coursed through me, my family rushed to her side, calling my agony "a little spider bite." They left me convulsing on the floor. Later, they whipped me for a crime I didn't commit, hung me off a cliff, and left me for dead.
My body is a roadmap of their love. Each scar, each broken bone, is a testament to their betrayal. They believed her lies, but their real crime was never truly seeing me.
As I clung to that cliff, bleeding and broken, a single thought consumed me: Isabella Douglas died here tonight. Now, Isabella Hale would be born from the ashes.