My Faked Death, His Endless Torment

I was dying from a mysterious illness, but my family, including my fiancé King, dismissed me as a drama queen. At my adopted sister Isabel' s promotion party, my body finally gave out and I collapsed, coughing up blood. Instead of helping, King accused me of ruining Isabel's big night. He tore up my terminal diagnosis report right in front of me, sneering that I'd do anything for attention. Completely broken, I annulled our engagement and fled to a rundown motel to die alone. But Isabel found me. With a triumphant smile, she confessed everything-she had been slowly poisoning me for years, a plot to steal my health, my family's love, and King himself. She had no idea her entire monstrous confession was being recorded by a device left in the room. I sent that audio file to everyone and, with the help of a kind stranger, faked my own death. Years later, I had a new life, a new name, and a quiet peace I never thought possible. Then one day, a broken, haunted man walked into my seaside café, clutching a faded photo of me. It was King.

Chapters

Chapter 4

Ela Campbell POV:

Isabel glided into the room, her eyes still red-rimmed from her "hysterics," but a subtle smirk played on her lips. She moved with an almost ethereal grace, her presence immediately commanding the attention of my parents. She saw me, of course, sprawled on the bed, my body aching, and a flicker of pure malice crossed her features before she smoothed it away, replacing it with a look of manufactured sorrow.

"Ela," she whispered, her voice laced with false concern. "I'm so sorry, truly. I didn't mean to upset you. Can we… can we just forget all this? Let's be sisters again. I know what will make you feel better." She took a step closer, holding up a small, intricately woven basket. "I brought you some more of that special chamomile tea you like. And I even started knitting us matching scarves, just like we used to do."

My parents' faces softened instantly. "That's so thoughtful, darling," Clarissa cooed. "Ela, isn't that sweet? You should try to be more like your sister."

I lay perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the basket, specifically on the knitting needles protruding from it. A cold dread seeped into my bones. Knitted scarves. Chamomile tea. The memories flooded back, sharp and painful.

Years ago, when Isabel first came to live with us, she' d insisted we knit matching scarves. She claimed it was a "sister bonding" activity. I, eager for her affection, had thrown myself into it, despite my clumsy fingers and the persistent cough that had just begun to plague me. The wool, a deep, vibrant crimson, irritated my skin, leaving tiny red welts on my wrists. I ignored it, focused on making the perfect scarf for my new sister.

The cough worsened, becoming a deep, hacking sound that rattled my chest. My hands, already weak, grew clumsier. One afternoon, as I struggled with a particularly intricate stitch, I felt a sharp prick. One of the knitting needles, thin and sharp, had pierced my palm. A tiny bead of blood welled up. I cried out, more from frustration than pain.

Isabel, who had been watching me with an unnervingly intense gaze, immediately dropped her own scarf and rushed over. "Oh, Ela! Are you alright? You're so pale!" She had fussed over my hand, then insisted I drink a special "herbal blend" she' d made, claiming it would "calm my nerves" and "boost my immunity." A few hours later, my throat constricted, my skin broke out in itchy hives, and I collapsed, gasping for air.

The doctors declared it a severe allergic reaction to the wool – a rare, life-threatening sensitivity. My parents were horrified, blaming themselves for not noticing my "frail constitution." Isabel, meanwhile, cried hysterically, blaming herself for suggesting the knitting, while secretly whispering to King that I was always "so delicate, so prone to melodrama."

King, then still just my boyfriend, had looked at me with a bewildered pity that slowly curdled into resentment when Isabel, through her tears, confessed to him, "I just wanted to make her happy. I never meant to hurt her. I guess I just don't understand how someone can be so… sensitive." He had gone from visiting me daily in the hospital to distant, infrequent calls. My forced confinement, labeled a "sensitive health issue," had kept me away from him, leaving a void Isabel was only too happy to fill. When I finally emerged, pale and frail, from my isolation, King' s eyes held a new, colder light. A look of ingrained suspicion.

"Still allergic to knitting wool, Isabel?" I asked, my voice flat, pulling myself up to a sitting position. The room suddenly felt charged, the air heavy with unspoken accusations.

Just then, the door opened again. King stood there, his eyes scanning the room, his gaze resting on me, then on Isabel. He must have heard my question. He had always been a master of timing, appearing just when a situation reached its boiling point. I wondered if he had been listening outside the door. He used to do that sometimes, in the early days of our engagement, when he still pretended to care, checking on my "meltdowns." Now, I knew his presence was not for comfort, but for control. He was here to ensure I didn't ruin Isabel's carefully constructed narrative.

Isabel' s sweet smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered. "Oh, King! You're back! Ela and I were just… catching up." She turned to me, her voice falsely bright. "Ela, darling, you know I overcame that silly allergy years ago. Remember how I made myself wear wool every day until my body adjusted? I'm much stronger now." She reached out, her hand hovering over my arm, then gently brushed my sleeve.

A sharp, stinging sensation immediately spread across my skin where she touched me. I flinched, pulling my arm back.

Isabel gasped, her eyes widening in feigned alarm. She stumbled backward, clutching her stomach, then collapsed to the floor with a soft cry. "Oh! My head… the dizziness… I feel so faint…"

A perfect performance. I saw her hand flash, a quick, almost imperceptible movement, as she scratched her arm before collapsing. The air in the room grew thick with tension.

"Isabel!" Clarissa screamed, rushing to her side. "What happened? Are you alright?"

My father, Johnie, glared at me, his face contorted with rage. "What did you do, Ela? Are you trying to hurt her again?"

Suddenly, red blotches began to appear on Isabel's exposed arm, spreading rapidly, angry and inflamed.

"Look!" Clarissa shrieked, pointing at Isabel's arm. "She's breaking out in hives! Just like before! Ela, you deliberately provoked her, didn't you, you evil girl?"

I stared at the spreading rash, a horrifying mosaic of red and white, rising quickly on Isabel's pale skin. It was impossibly fast, impossibly severe. Much faster than any natural allergic reaction I had ever witnessed. My mind raced, connecting the dots. The "chamomile tea," the "knitting wool," the sudden onset of symptoms. It was all a lie. A carefully crafted, long-term deception.

"No," I whispered, barely audible. "I didn't…"

Just then, King was beside Isabel, his face grim. He knelt, his strong hands gently supporting her head. His eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a cold, murderous fury. "What did you do to her, Ela?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You hateful, jealous witch, always trying to destroy her."

Isabel whimpered, burying her face in King's chest. "It's okay, King. I told her I was fine. I just wanted us to be sisters again. I should have known she'd never change." She lifted her head, her eyes, swimming with tears, met mine. It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph, a silent challenge. I win.

Continue to next part

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.

Adventure Fantasy Horror LitRPG

7.6

Sold To A Cursed Alpha

7.6

"I will never carry your child," I spat. The Alpha's grip on my jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with a hunger that wasn't just gold-it was primal. "I don't need you to carry it, Aria. I need you to pretend it's yours. One year as my Luna, or one lifetime in the pens. Choose." One night, while returning from the clinic where she tended to the sick, Aria sensed she was being followed. Before she could react, three men ambushed her in the shadowed forest, claiming her father had gambled her away. Her desperate pleas went unanswered as she was struck unconscious, only to awaken in the heart of a notorious slave camp. There, she learned she was destined to serve as the breeder for the Alpha of the Hellbound Pack, Draven Darkmoon, a man feared for his cursed bloodline. But when Draven is thrust into Aria's world, her wolf recognizes him as her mate, igniting a dangerous collision of passion, power, and desire that neither can resist.

Fantasy Horror Werewolf

8.9

The Betrayed Widow's Unexpected Genius Comeback

8.9

When Christina woke up in the hospital after a severe car crash, her brain didn't just recover—it mutated. She was suddenly cursed with an agonizing, high-speed hyper-memory. The first thing her new mind processed was the pristine Army uniform of her fiancé, Major Burke, and the hand of her stepsister, Corrina, casually stroking his shoulder. Every lie, every gaslighting sigh, and every secret glance between them over the past three years flashed before her eyes with merciless clarity. Christina immediately called off the engagement, demanding only one thing back: her late mother's old silver pendant. "A broken pendant? Are you really making a scene over that piece of trash?" Corrina scoffed. Burke refused to return it, letting his spoiled sister Brielle steal it to wear as a trophy. When Christina finally forced them to hand it over under the threat of a military scandal, the metal was covered in deep, ugly scratches. The arrogant Clark family treated her like a pathetic, hallucinating widow clinging to a worthless dollar-store trinket. They had no idea what they had actually been holding. Alone in her apartment, Christina pressed a drop of her blood into the pendant's scratched grooves. A blue light flared, syncing instantly with her neural implant to unlock the "Ghost Protocol"—a top-secret military archive that also held a hidden clue about her supposedly dead husband. Looking at the unimaginable power now downloaded directly into her brain, Christina knew the Clarks hadn't just thrown her away. They had handed her the world.

Horror Modern Romance Sci-Fi

9.6

The Coldhearted Billionaire's Violent Possession

9.6

I snuck into the Long Island estate’s private study, desperate to find my boyfriend, Channing, and beg him for the money to save my mother’s life. But when I wrapped my arms around the man standing in the dark, I felt a body of cold, hard muscle that didn't belong to Channing. The lights flickered on, and I found myself pinned against the window by Constantine Warner, the ruthless head of the empire who despised me more than anyone on earth. He didn't pull away; he held me there, his gray eyes burning with a mix of razor-sharp disgust and a dark, violent hunger that terrified me to my core. Outside the room, my boyfriend Channing walked in, but instead of defending me, he laughed at my humiliation just to please his powerful brother. I was left with nothing—no money for my mother’s surgery, no dignity, and the haunting realization that the man who hated me most was the only one who truly saw me. Why did Constantine look at me like I was his prey, and what happens when the parasite finally decides to bite back?

Billionaire Horror Modern

8.2

The Commander's Obsession for His Heiress

8.2

After years away, I returned to the Whitley Manor for one thing: my dead mother’s ruby necklace. I found it clasped around the pale, undeserving neck of my father’s new, pregnant wife. But when I put a knife to her throat to take it back, my own family turned on me. My father and grandfather didn't see a daughter defending her mother's memory; they saw a street thug threatening their precious new heir. They accused me of shaming their name and threatened to cut me off completely. To break my will, my father let my younger brother get arrested, hoping I’d come crawling back. Then, they summoned me to the hospital for my grandmother's "heart attack," where my father raised his hand to strike me for simply speaking the truth. He screamed that I was a monster, a cold-blooded killer. The raw hatred in his eyes told me everything. I wasn't his daughter anymore; I was just an obstacle to his new, happy family, a ghost he desperately wanted to erase. After their final pathetic performance, I turned my back on them forever. The Whitley name and its blood-soaked money meant nothing to me. I thought I was walking away alone, but as the hospital elevator doors closed, my brother Julian forced his way in. He had finally seen their masks, and he chose to follow the monster.

Billionaire Horror Modern

7.4

The Don's Dangerous Addiction

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.

Horror Mafia Romance

My Faked Death, His Endless Torment

Chapter 4

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