Make Him Pay: My Ultimate Revenge
After growing up in an orphanage, Corrine thought marrying billionaire Cristofer Clarke would finally give her a loving family.
But her husband didn't care about her; he was busy hosting a late-night pool party with a Hollywood actress while she went into agonizing premature labor.
During her emergency C-section, Corrine nearly bled to death alone, and her newborn daughter was sent to the NICU fighting for her tiny life.
But nobody told Cristofer the truth about her suffering. A corrupt nanny easily framed Corrine as an unstable mother who starved his unborn heirs.
So he ruthlessly ordered his team to lock her in a psychiatric ward, while his aristocratic mother and sister stormed her ICU room, throwing a relinquishment contract onto her bleeding surgical wounds.
"We're actually doing you a favor, sweetie. Because honestly? Who knows who the father of those premature freaks really is."
After surviving hemorrhagic shock and watching her husband walk in to look at her with pure disgust, her last shred of hope completely shattered.
Sitting up with fresh blood soaking her torn stitches, Corrine ripped the contract to shreds and stared dead into his eyes.
"That's right. I'm just in it for the money. Get your checkbook ready, Cristofer. I'll see you in court."
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Chapter 2
Sharon stared at the bloody phone on the floor.
She knelt down and picked it up. The screen was still unlocked, displaying the call log. Dozens of red missed calls to 'Cristofer' filled the screen. Sharon looked at the closed doors of the OR. She thought about the pale, bleeding woman who had to fight for her own right to surgery because her billionaire husband wouldn't pick up the phone. A tight knot of anger formed in Sharon's chest.
She wiped the blood off the screen with her thumb. She swiped out of the call log and opened the text messages. She tapped on the first name pinned at the top of Corrine's emergency contact list: Eleanor. Sharon rapidly typed out a message with shaking fingers, detailing the absolute nightmare unfolding in the surgical wing, and pressed send.
Ten miles away, on the Upper East Side, the bass from the nightclub speakers vibrated through the leather VIP booths.
Eleanor Fletcher sat back against the cushions. She swirled the martini in her glass, completely bored.
Suddenly, the phone inside her limited-edition Birkin bag started vibrating frantically against the leather.
She groaned in annoyance. She set the glass down on the glass coffee table and pulled out her phone.
The moment her eyes focused on the screen, the breath left her lungs.
Hospital... bleeding... save her babies.
The broken words stabbed into Eleanor's eyes. The blood drained from her face. Her skin turned ice cold.
She shot up from the sofa. Her knee slammed into the edge of the glass table. A tower of champagne flutes tipped over. Glass shattered everywhere. Champagne soaked into the expensive rug.
A Wall Street trust-fund kid sitting next to her reached out to grab her arm. "Whoa, babe, what's the rush-"
"Get the fuck off me!" Eleanor roared.
The guy flinched, pulling his hand back as if he'd been burned.
Eleanor didn't look back. She sprinted out of the club in her five-inch Louboutin heels. She shoved past the bouncers and burst into the freezing rain.
She unlocked her phone and dialed Cristofer's number while running toward her Aston Martin.
The mechanical Verizon voice answered. The subscriber you have dialed is not available.
"You piece of shit," Eleanor hissed. She threw her phone onto the passenger seat.
She ripped the car door open, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed her foot on the brake. She twisted the key. The V12 engine roared like a wild animal. The sports car shot out into the wet Manhattan streets.
At a red light on Fifth Avenue, Eleanor's hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her knuckles ached.
She glanced at the digital dashboard screen. A Twitter notification popped up. It was the top trending topic. A bright red siren emoji sat next to the hashtag: CristoferClarke & ArielleOrozco Late Night Pool Party.
Eleanor's heart stopped. She leaned forward and tapped the screen.
A set of high-definition paparazzi photos from TMZ loaded instantly.
There was Cristofer. His dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Hollywood's top actress, Arielle Orozco, had her arms wrapped intimately around his bicep. They were standing by a glowing blue pool at a private villa in the Hamptons.
She swiped to the next image. It was a GIF. Arielle laughed, tilting her head back to rest on Cristofer's shoulder. They walked together into the dark house.
Eleanor's entire body started to shake. Her perfectly manicured acrylic nails dug so deep into the steering wheel they left permanent scratches in the leather.
"Corrine is bleeding out," Eleanor screamed at the empty car, her throat burning. "And you are fucking that manipulative bitch!"
The light turned green. Eleanor slammed the gas pedal to the floor.
The Aston Martin ignored the speed limit, tearing through the rain. She put in her Bluetooth earpiece. She dialed the head of PR for the Clarke family.
A man answered on the second ring.
"Put Cristofer on the phone right now," Eleanor demanded.
"Ms. Fletcher," the PR director said, his tone dripping with corporate arrogance. "Mr. Clarke is currently handling private matters. I have no information for you."
The cold, calculated old-money response made Eleanor's blood boil.
"Listen to me, you corporate lapdog," Eleanor spat. "If you don't patch me through-"
He hung up.
Eleanor let out a scream of pure rage. She swerved into the next lane, the tires hydroplaning on the wet asphalt. She barely missed the back of a FedEx truck. She jerked the wheel hard, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She forced herself to take a deep breath. She couldn't crash. She was the only person Corrine had right now.
The glowing red cross of the private hospital appeared through the rain. Eleanor slammed on the brakes. The sports car fishtailed and skidded to a halt directly in the emergency ambulance bay.
She didn't even shut the door. She grabbed her bag and ran inside. Her heels clicked sharply against the tiles.
A security guard stepped in front of her. "Ma'am, you can't park there-"
Eleanor shoved him hard in the chest. "Where is Corrine Ratcliff?!"
Nurse Sharon heard the yelling. She rushed out from behind the desk. She instantly recognized the socialite who frequently graced the pages of Vogue.
Sharon grabbed Eleanor's arm and pulled her into a quiet corner of the waiting area.
"Are you Eleanor?" Sharon asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Yes. Where is she?"
"She's in surgery," Sharon said, her eyes filled with pity. "It's bad. She had a massive hemorrhage. They might have to remove her uterus to stop the bleeding."
The words hit Eleanor like a physical punch to the gut. Her knees buckled. She grabbed the collar of Sharon's scrubs to keep herself standing.
Her eyes filled with hot tears.
"Bring me the paperwork," Eleanor growled, her voice trembling with absolute fury. "Bring me every liability waiver you have. I will sign them all."
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8.8
The Offering of the Blood Moon
In the savage and intoxicating kingdom of the Legion, the Blood Moon does not simply rise it awakens a hunger that demands to be satisfied... by flesh, by fire, by fate.
Kiana was raised to hate the beasts and fear the shadows, to believe that being taken meant losing everything. But when she is torn from her village and delivered into the arms of Silas, the Alpha King, she discovers the truth is far more dangerous
Her greatest threat is not death.
It's the way her body betrays her in his presence.
Silas is dominance carved into living form iron muscle, quiet authority, and a darkness that wraps around her like a slow, suffocating promise. He is a king who does not ask, He takes,He commands, He owns, Yet the one woman who should fall at his feet dares to meet his gaze, challenge his control, and ignite something wild beneath his carefully restrained power.
And Silas... does not walk away from what tempts him.
Their connection is immediate. Violent. Addictive.
Every clash of words burns hotter than the last. Every step closer feels like crossing a line neither of them can uncross. The tension between them coils tight, thick with heat and unspoken hunger, until even the air feels too heavy to breathe.
In the quiet shadows of the royal chambers, where the moonlight spills like liquid silver across bare skin, resistance begins to crack. The scent of cedar and rain clings to him as he closes in, his presence overwhelming, his touch slow and deliberate-like he already knows exactly how she'll respond.
And she does.
Every time.
His hands don't just touch they linger. Claim. Promise.
Every brush of his lips is not gentle... it's consuming.
And when his mouth finds the sensitive curve of her neck, Kiana's defiance falters, her breath catching as something deeper, darker, and far more dangerous rises to the surface an aching, restless need she cannot fight, no matter how hard she tries.
Because this is not just desire.
It is a bond that burns.
A pull that tightens.
A hunger that refuses to be denied.
Yet the closer they get, the more dangerous the line becomes.
Between control... and surrender.
Between hatred... and craving.
Between captor... and something far more consuming.
Because under the Blood Moon, nothing is ever halfway.
And once you're claimed...
There is no escape.
7.5
For five years, I was locked away in the freezing royal dungeon, starved and used as a bloody plaything by the kingdom's sadistic Cabinet Minister, Brandt Fischer.
He tortured me daily for one twisted reason: I simply looked like someone else.
When he visited my cell to casually announce my father's execution and drag a silver dagger across my neck, he expected me to beg.
Instead, I laughed, sank my teeth directly into his carotid artery, and was violently thrown against a jagged stone wall to my death.
As my skull cracked and my blood stained the moss, I thought about my so-called family. The moment Brandt had demanded me, my father, the Duke, handed me over without a single hesitation to save his own political career.
I was nothing but a disposable pawn, left to rot in the dark while the monsters who ruined my life thrived.
I died suffocating on my own blood and absolute, destructive vengeance.
Then, I opened my eyes.
I was lying in my silk-sheeted bed, reborn as my fifteen-year-old self.
Today was the exact day Lord Daryl Langley, the God of War, would be ambushed and crippled—the event that allowed Brandt to seize ultimate power.
I immediately stole a horse, rode to the palace gates, and threw myself directly in front of Daryl's moving carriage.
"I just didn't want to see a hero die like a slaughtered pig."
I didn't care if I had to shatter my own ankle to hijack his convoy. This time, I was going to save the general, and he would become the blade I use to slaughter them all.
9.7
I was an intern nurse working exhausting shifts, yet my mother constantly forced me into blind dates with wealthy, arrogant men to secure our family's social standing.
During a terrifying hospital lockdown, an assassin disguised as a doctor held a scalpel to my throat. I was almost killed, but a high-ranking military colonel threw his own body down a flight of concrete stairs to shield me.
I survived with cuts and bruises, but when I went home, my mother didn't care about my near-death experience. She was only furious that I had rushed out on my blind date with Preston, a rich financial analyst.
She forced me to meet him to apologize. When Preston grabbed my arm, bruised me, and mocked my attack as a pathetic lie, my mother still took his side.
"Men get angry," she told me coldly. "It's your job not to provoke them. You will beg for his forgiveness, or you are no longer welcome in this house."
I had narrowly escaped an assassin, yet my own family was willing to feed me to a monster just for a fat paycheck and neighborhood gossip.
My heart went completely dead.
So, when the intimidating Colonel appeared, offering me maximum military protection through a sudden marriage, I didn't hesitate.
I walked back into my parents' house and calmly slapped a crisp marriage certificate onto the coffee table.
"I won't be apologizing to Preston. I got married today."
7.5
Kaitlyn Barton POV:
After three years building my family's hotel empire abroad, I came home to New York, expecting a warm embrace from my childhood fiancé, Edwin.
Instead, he greeted me with a warning. He told me to be gentle with his new girlfriend, Kacy, painting me as a villain before I even knew her name.
At my own welcome-home party, he let her stage a dramatic fall and then publicly blamed me for it, his eyes burning with a hatred I'd never seen.
He cradled her in his arms as if she were a fragile doll I had broken.
"Happy now, Kaitlyn?" he snarled, shattering twenty years of our shared history in front of everyone we knew.
In his eyes, I was no longer his love, but a monster he needed to protect his new flame from.
As he stormed out, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Everett Rowe, the man who had quietly loved me for five years.
"If you are truly ready, I will marry you. Right now. Just say the word."
My fingers moved on their own.
"Yes," I typed. "I'll marry you."
The moment I stepped back onto New York soil, a city I had once shared completely with Edwin, he greeted me not with a hug, but with a warning about his new girlfriend, painting me as the villain before I even knew her name. Three years abroad, cultivating my family's hotel empire, had prepared me for many business battles, but nothing for the cold, calculated betrayal that awaited me at home. He had replaced me, and then twisted our shared history, turning me into the aggressor he now needed protection from. This was not the reunion I had envisioned, nor the Edwin I remembered. My heart, which had swelled with anticipation, now froze into a solid block of ice.
8.9
I lay on a mildewed mattress in a run-down motel, my body trembling from withdrawal. Once the most feared "Gossip Queen" in Hollywood, I was now a forty-three-year-old ghost staring at a cracked mirror, waiting for the end.
The door clicked open, and Brittany Potts stepped in, looking immaculate in a beige trench coat that cost more than my life. She didn't come to help; she tossed a waiver of marital assets onto my bed and handed me a cup of coffee laced with something that smelled like bitter almonds.
She laughed, telling me my husband, Bennet, was already in the Bahamas celebrating my death. I froze when I saw the sapphire pendant around her neck—my mother’s necklace, which had vanished the day she died. As the poison began to burn through my chest, Brittany leaned in and whispered her final secret: she was the one who cut the brake lines on the car that killed my father when we were teenagers.
My entire life had been a lie. The pills, the scandal, the bankruptcy—it was all a masterpiece of betrayal orchestrated by the two people I trusted most. I died on that filthy floor, suffocating on my own rage and the taste of chemicals, praying for a single chance to make them pay.
But when I opened my eyes, the pain was gone. I was sitting in my old bedroom, the morning sun shining on a calendar that read September 15, 2024. My mother’s voice, warm and alive, called me for breakfast from downstairs. I was eighteen again, back in my senior year at Crestview Academy, and the monsters who destroyed me were still pretending to be my friends. This time, I’m the one who holds the shears.
7.2
Aldan Anabelle was destined to be a luna, beautiful, talented and heir of the great Kam kingdom. Everything was perfect, until one faithful night, her parents died in a fatal accident. Planned by an unknown clan, set up by her uncle Raven. After the death of her parents, life turned into a nightmare, uncle molested and maltreated her.
To protect her father's legacy, she's sent to leave with her fated mate for 5yrs, the only way to get her legacy was if she could break his stone heart. Alpha Roman, a cold-hearted heir of Fangspire pack, vowed never to love because of his stepmother's maltreatment. Within 5 years, he fell in love with her.... after a long time of tormenting her. Their worlds merge, their hearts ignite and their bond becomes unbreakable.
Not until she was kidnapped, did everything go sour. Her fashion show trips became a trap for taking her blood. To prevent the prophecy from coming through, her uncle planned her death. But unknown to them, nobody was found. Anabelle never died that day. She rises from the ashes under a new name. A powerful businesswoman whose internal desire was filled with revenge.
When fate pushes them together again, they stand on opposite sides of destiny.
Driven by misunderstanding and anger toward each other.
Love. Betrayal. Revenge
A Luna who returns from ashes to regain her throne, legacy.
And a mate, who would destroy the kingdom to earn her forgiveness.
"Would she be able to defeat her uncle plots?" and win the heart of the cold hearted Alpha.