Surviving My Deadly Contract Beast Husbands
I died in the apocalypse, only to wake up as Kenzie Banks, a bankrupt high-society monster in an interstellar beast-world.
But before I could even process my new reality, a cold AI voice informed me of my impending death.
"Your contract beast-husbands possess the legal right to execute you at the end of the two-month trial period."
I rushed to the basement and saw the horrific truth. The original Kenzie had starved them, whipped them with thermal blades, sent their brothers to die as cannon fodder, and framed the youngest to rot in a maximum-security prison.
Now, these lethal, broken men were methodically planning to rip my organs out the second the contract dissolved. To make matters worse, she had squandered her fortune on a man who despised her, leaving me two million credits in debt and facing imminent exile to the deadly wastelands.
I had survived rotting zombies on Earth, only to be trapped in a weak, universally hated body, doomed to be butchered by the very people I was supposed to call family. Why did I have to pay the ultimate price for a psychotic woman's deadly sins?
I refused to just sit around and wait for my execution.
Tapping into my apocalyptic subspace inventory, I hauled out military-grade rations, healed their bleeding wounds, and slammed a legally binding divorce contract on the table.
If I wanted to survive this sixty-day countdown, I had to turn my executioners into my loyal allies—starting with breaking the husband she framed out of prison.
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Chapter 3
She took a step back toward the safety of the hallway, but a massive, bone-rattling thud echoed from the basement. The floorboards beneath her feet vibrated.
She froze. She crept back to the railing and peered down through the narrow gap in the metal spindles.
Josue was on the floor. His body was contorted in an unnatural angle. His muscles spasmed violently, bulging under his skin as if something was trying to claw its way out of him.
His green eyes were gone. They were entirely, terrifyingly red.
"Warning," Sev's voice chimed in her head. "Target is experiencing an ability rampage. This is a fatal backlash caused by severe lack of female spiritual soothing."
Alfie dropped to his knees. Panic shattered his cold exterior. He shoved both hands against Josue's chest, a massive surge of blue water energy erupting from his palms.
Josue roared. It wasn't a human sound. It was the raw, deafening roar of a wild beast.
A shockwave of kinetic energy blasted out from Josue's body. Alfie was thrown backward, slamming hard into the concrete wall. He coughed, sliding to the floor.
Josue's fingernails elongated into thick, black claws. He dragged them across the metal floor, tearing deep grooves into the steel. He was losing his mind. He was looking up toward the stairs. Toward her.
He knew she was up there. The beast inside him wanted to tear her apart to stop the pain.
But Josue didn't lunge for the stairs.
Instead, his eyes locked onto a rusted metal cart left near the cell bars—a tray the original Kenzie had used for her twisted interrogations. He lunged, stretching his arm to the absolute limit, and snatched a serrated thermal-blade from the pile. Without a second of hesitation, he drove the six-inch blade straight into his own leg.
Blood sprayed across the floor, splattering against Alfie's pale face.
She clamped both hands over her mouth, biting down on her own finger to keep from screaming. Her stomach violently heaved.
Josue ripped the blade out. He gasped, his chest heaving as he sucked in oxygen. The extreme physical agony forced the red out of his eyes. The green slowly returned.
He dropped the knife. It clattered loudly against the floor.
Alfie scrambled forward. He grabbed the hem of his own shirt, ripped it off, and tied it tightly around Josue's bleeding thigh.
"Why do you keep doing this to yourself?" Alfie's voice broke. His hands were shaking as he pulled the knot tight.
Josue leaned his head back against the wall, his face completely drained of color. "Because if I don't, I'll go up there and beg that bitch to touch me. I'd rather bleed to death."
Alfie's jaw clenched. Tears of pure frustration pooled in his eyes. "Look what she's done to us. The Douglas brothers sent to the front lines as cannon fodder. Dallin rotting in a maximum-security prison because she framed him. And now this."
Josue grabbed Alfie's wrist. His grip was weak, but his eyes were lethal. "Two months, Alfie. Just survive two months."
Alfie wiped the blood off his face. His expression turned ice-cold. "I already contacted the cleaner in the black market. The second the contract dissolves, she disappears. No traces."
Her blood ran cold. The temperature in the hallway felt like it had dropped twenty degrees.
These men were broken, desperate, and completely lethal.
Josue's head suddenly snapped up. His wolf ears twitched. He stared directly at the spot on the second floor where she was hiding.
She threw herself backward, pressing her body flat against the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped breathing. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would crack her ribs.
"What is it?" Alfie asked.
A heavy silence stretched.
"Nothing," Josue muttered. "Lost too much blood. Hearing things."
She waited until she heard the heavy iron door of the basement creak open and shut.
She let out a shaky breath, her lungs burning for air. She pushed herself off the wall and sprinted silently down the hall.
She shoved open the door to the master suite's walk-in closet and locked it behind her.
The motion sensors activated. Brilliant, warm light flooded the room.
She slumped against the door, sliding down until she hit the floor.
She looked up. The closet was the size of a small apartment. Floor-to-ceiling glass display cases lined the walls. Hundreds of designer bags, diamond-encrusted heels, and haute couture dresses stared back at her.
It was a sickening display of wealth built on the suffering of the men downstairs.
She wiped the cold sweat from her forehead. She chewed hard on the inside of her cheek.
She needed food. She needed medicine. She needed money.
She pushed herself off the floor. She walked over to a shelf holding a row of exotic leather bags.
In the apocalypse, a diamond ring couldn't buy a sip of dirty water. But here? This was her ticket out of hell.
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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.
9.7
Eighteen months ago, the man I loved shattered my heart, claiming everything between us was a mistake. Now, he's back, a ghost of his former self, a rookie tryout in my pro esports team. And I will make him regret crawling back.
Clifton, captain of a legendary esports team, was secretly battling a severe wrist injury that threatened his career, every match a fight against his own body. He pushed through the pain, ignoring doctors' warnings, desperate to maintain his god-like status.
His world was already on the edge, but nothing prepared him for seeing Justice Terry again in the team basement. Justice, pale and trembling, his eyes wide with naked terror, was now a rookie tryout.
Clifton had spent a year and a half trying to forget that rainy Chicago alley, the raw revulsion in Justice's eyes, the whispered "it wasn't real" that had left him heartbroken. Justice had vanished, and Clifton had erased every trace. Now, the boy who once looked at him like he was the sun was back, flinching at his touch, displaying a deep, primal fear. Amidst sponsor pressure and whispers of being "washed," Clifton saw Justice's return as a chance for vengeance. He publicly humiliated Justice on a live stream, forcing him into a suicide mission, then coldly benched him.
Yet, the satisfaction never came. Instead, a hollow emptiness and a torrent of questions: What had truly happened in the past? Why was Justice here, and what trauma had carved such fear into his bones?
Clifton, unwilling to be fooled again, swore to uncover every secret and every lie. He would force Justice to explain why he had returned, even if it meant tearing down everything they both had left.
7.6
I pulled the perfectly baked Beef Wellington from the oven, its rich scent filling our Manhattan penthouse. For five years, I’d crafted this perfect life, but tonight, I’d discover my entire existence was a cruel, silent lie. The man I loved had built it all on betrayal.
Preparing our anniversary dinner, I reflected on five years of building a flawless home for Blake, a dream I’d never known.
Searching for a pen, I found a hidden compartment in Blake’s desk containing a cheap black USB drive—a significant secret for a man who despised anything less than perfect.
His MacBook unlocked with his birthday, not ours. The USB, after a near-data-wipe, revealed "The Archives": hundreds of photos of Blake with his college girlfriend, Isabelle, passionate love letters, and a wardrobe chosen to mirror hers. My name yielded "0 results found," while millions were wired to Isabelle.
I was a meticulously funded stand-in, a ghost he dressed up to play house. My non-existence in his world and his financial betrayal ignited a cold, burning rage.
Blake returned, dismissive, offering a delayed anniversary gift. I confronted him; he ripped the USB, snapped it, and stated, "Nothing changes, as long as you know your place." My obedience shattered: "I want a divorce," I declared, then destroyed dinner and packed my own bag.
9.3
She thought their love could survive anything. She was wrong.
For five years, Amara Hayes was the perfect wife - loyal, gentle, and endlessly forgiving. She believed her husband, Ethan Blackwell, when he said his late nights were for business. She trusted him when he swore his heart was hers.
Until the night she walked into his office and saw him making love to another woman.
Humiliated, heartbroken, and betrayed, Amara left without a word - leaving behind her wedding ring, her identity, and the man who destroyed her faith in love.
Three years later, she returns to New York as a powerful businesswoman with a new name and a cold smile. She's no longer the naive wife he controlled - she's his rival, his downfall, and his punishment.
But Ethan isn't the same man either. He's haunted by the woman he lost and desperate for redemption. And when fate throws them together again, old flames reignite amid a storm of revenge, pain, and forbidden desire.
He once broke her heart. Now, she'll make him wish he never did.
7.4
The house was a living inferno, the heat devouring the air in my lungs as I clutched my five-year-old daughter to my chest. Emily was dead weight, her skin already cooling even as the room turned into a furnace of orange and black.
Through the stinging smoke, I saw my husband, Kenney, crawling toward the door with a wet handkerchief pressed to his face. He didn't look back at the crib, and he didn't call my name; he was simply leaving us to burn.
I lunged forward and grabbed his ankle, my nightgown catching fire, but he didn't reach down to save me. He recoiled in horror at the sight of my burning hair and our dead child, kicking me back with a panicked shriek.
"Let go!" he shrieked.
I died as a massive, flaming timber snapped from the ceiling and crushed us both into silence. I couldn't believe that the man I loved would leave his family to die just to save his own skin, but the rage I felt was colder than the death that followed.
But then the burning stopped instantly, replaced by a cold so sharp it made my teeth ache. I gasped, jerking upright in my bed to find the velvet duvet cool under my palms and the nursery quiet, with Emily still breathing softly in her crib.
I had returned to the winter morning two years before the fire, the exact day Kenney finalized the deal to sell me to the King for a promotion. As Kenney stepped into the room with a practiced mask of concern, I realized I was no longer the victim of this story.
"A nightmare, my love?" he asked, reaching out to touch my shoulder.
I flinched away, my eyes burning with a hatred he couldn't yet understand. Tonight was the Winter Masquerade, the night he planned to offer me to the King as a prize, but this time, I was going to turn his social ladder into a gallows.
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.