Taming The Sinner: The Doctor’s Cold Game

I stood before the double doors of the master suite, my hand hovering inches from the polished brass. As a surgeon, I was trained to steady my heart before a cut, but the silence in the Alexander estate felt like the heavy, oppressive pause that always preceded a scream. I pushed the mahogany door open to find my fiancé, Authur, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets with a woman named Jasmine. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and a floral perfume that wasn't mine—a brutal reality check just twenty-four hours before the merger meant to save my family from total ruin. Authur didn't look guilty; he looked amused, coldly telling me to close the door because I was letting in a draft. When his parents unexpectedly arrived, I was forced to hide his mistress and pretend our "intensity" had ruined the room, donning his discarded shirt to look disheveled just to protect the Lawrence family stock price. The humiliation only deepened on our wedding morning when Authur issued a sadistic ultimatum over the phone. "Wear your scrubs to the altar—the ones covered in blood—or I'll watch your father's company go belly up by lunch." He wanted to turn our wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral into a public execution of my dignity. I walked down the aisle in shapeless navy cotton and crimson stains, enduring the horrified gasps of the elite who labeled me an "insane gold digger." Authur stood at the altar, reeking of whiskey and malice, certain he had finally broken me and turned my professional oath into a circus act. But as the priest began the vows, I looked at the man who thought he owned me and realized I wasn't his victim—I was his surgeon. I had the footage of his debauchery ready to play for the world, and as we shared a punishing, hateful kiss for the cameras, I knew the real war had only just begun.

Chapters

Chapter 2

Mrs. Alexander didn't back away. Instead, she leaned in, her nostrils flaring slightly as if she could smell the deception in the air. She was a woman who had survived forty years in New York high society; she could spot a lie from across Central Park. She tried to push the door wider, her manicured hand pressing against the wood.

"Intense?" she repeated, the word dripping with skepticism.

Helena didn't budge. She kept her shoulder wedged against the doorframe, using her body weight to create a barrier. Behind Mrs. Alexander, at the top of the stairs, stood the patriarch, Grandfather Alexander. He leaned heavily on an ebony cane, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and ruthlessness. Beside him stood Charles, the butler, his face an impassive mask, though his eyes darted momentarily to the wet hem of the shirt Helena was wearing.

"There is water on the floor, Helena," Mrs. Alexander said, pointing a sharp finger at a puddle that had seeped out from under the door. "Is there a leak?"

Helena's heart slammed against her ribs. She glanced down. The water from the ice bucket had traveled further than she thought.

"Authur... knocked over the champagne bucket," Helena lied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "He was... enthusiastic."

Mrs. Alexander turned her head sharply toward Charles. "Charles? Did you send up champagne?"

The silence stretched. One second. Two. It felt like an hour. If Charles told the truth-that Authur had ordered whiskey and ice, not champagne-the lie would crumble. Helena's grip on the door handle tightened until her knuckles turned white. She met Charles's gaze. There was no pleading in her eyes, only a silent, desperate command. Protect the family name.

Charles straightened his waistcoat. He bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Madam. The young master requested a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a bucket of ice immediately upon arrival."

Helena exhaled, a microscopic release of tension.

Grandfather Alexander grunted, tapping his cane impatiently on the floorboards. "Young people. No discipline. Tell him not to be late for the rehearsal dinner. And fix your hair, girl. You look like you've been dragged through a hedge."

"Yes, Grandfather," Helena whispered, lowering her head in mock submission.

The elders turned. Mrs. Alexander gave the door one last suspicious glare before following the old man toward the stairs. Helena watched them go, waiting until their shadows disappeared around the corner.

She closed the door and leaned her back against it, her legs suddenly feeling like jelly. She squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the shower running in the bathroom.

Suddenly, the bathroom door flew open. Steam billowed out, thick and hot.

Authur stepped out. He was wearing only a towel wrapped low around his hips. His hair was wet, dripping water onto his broad shoulders. His skin was scrubbed red, but his eyes were cold, dark pits of fury. He didn't look like a man who had just been saved; he looked like a man who had been cornered.

He marched toward her. The predatory grace was back.

Helena straightened, pushing herself off the door, trying to regain her composure. "They're gone."

Authur didn't stop until he was inches from her. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw with bruising force. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"You think you're clever?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low. "You think lying to my mother makes you part of this family?"

"I'm saving your inheritance," Helena said, her voice clipped. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away, though his touch burned her skin. "If they saw her"-she gestured toward the closet-"you'd be out of the will before the ink dried."

Authur stared at her, searching for fear. When he didn't find it, a flicker of something else-annoyance, perhaps respect-crossed his face. He released her chin with a rough shove.

"You're doing it for yourself," he sneered. "For your father's failing company. Don't pretend this is about me."

"It's about the stock," Helena corrected, smoothing the front of the oversized shirt. "Now, get her out of here."

Authur laughed, a cruel, harsh sound. He grabbed Helena's wrist, his grip like a manacle. "Oh no, darling. You're the wife. You handle the domestic issues."

He dragged her across the room. Helena stumbled, her heels catching on the wet carpet. He pulled her toward the closet door and kicked it open.

Jasmine was huddled in the corner, wrapped in a fur coat she had pulled from a hanger, looking terrified. The smell of cedar and mothballs was overwhelming in the small space.

Authur shoved Helena forward. She nearly fell onto Jasmine.

"Since you want to be Mrs. Alexander so badly," Authur said, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "Show some hospitality. Help her get dressed. Put her shoes on. And then escort her out the back servants' entrance."

Jasmine looked up, seeing Authur's support, and her confidence snapped back into place. She sneered at Helena, extending a bare foot.

"You heard him," Jasmine said, wiggling her toes. "My shoes are over there. Put them on me."

Helena looked at the foot. Then she looked at Authur. He was watching her with a cruel smirk, waiting for her to break, waiting for her to cry or run or beg. He wanted to humiliate her until she quit.

Helena didn't move toward the shoes. She stared at Jasmine's foot. Her eyes narrowed, shifting focus. She wasn't looking at the pedicure. She was looking at the skin.

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‎ ‎ ‎Sophia Hayes has perfected the art of control. In the high-pressure world of The Metropolitan, she's the youngest senior journalist ever hired-an achievement built on ruthless discipline, flawless execution, and a reputation that makes even seasoned reporters double-check their facts before speaking to her. She is sharp. Unshakeable. Precise to the bone. Her life runs on deadlines, color-coded calendars, and emotional walls tall enough to withstand anything. ‎ ‎Dean Mercer is everything she isn't-and everything she doesn't have time for. A wildly successful illustrator whose comic series Love Is a Mess has a cult following online, Dean lives in a world where structure is optional and inspiration is everything. His apartment is chaos. His sleep schedule is chaos. His heart is chaos. He creates brilliance in messy strokes but hides his deepest truths behind humor, charm, and a smile that masks more wounds than he lets on. ‎ ‎So when the magazine pairs them for a high-stakes project-a revolutionary feature blending investigative journalism with illustrated storytelling-everyone expects disaster. Sophia expects worse. ‎ ‎Their assignment: explore modern love through real stories across the city. Raw, unfiltered, unpredictable love. ‎ ‎Exactly the kind of assignment that makes Sophia want to run. ‎ ‎Dean arrives late to their first meeting with coffee stains and excuses. Sophia arrives with a binder thick enough to double as a weapon. Dean studies her timeline like it's written in a foreign language. Sophia studies Dean like he's a problem she needs to solve before he derails everything she's built. ‎ ‎Their partnership begins in sparks-sharp, heated, dangerous sparks. ‎Arguments disguised as discussions. ‎Discussions disguised as power struggles. ‎Power struggles disguised as creative differences. ‎ ‎But tension has a habit of twisting into something else when the nights grow long. ‎ ‎As they dive into the city-interviewing strangers whose love stories survived decades, storms, heartbreaks, second chances-something shifts between them. Slowly. Quietly. Against both of their wills. ‎ ‎Sophia begins to see past Dean's easy humor to the man underneath-the one who fears failing the people he cares about, who draws comics because it's the only way he knows how to tell the truth. And Dean sees the cracks in Sophia's armor-the vulnerability she protects like a secret, the softness she doesn't show, the fire in her that the world misunderstands as coldness. ‎ ‎Their conversations deepen. Their arguments soften. Their laughter blends. ‎And the chemistry-the kind they both pretend not to notice-tightens around them like an invisible thread. ‎ ‎But the closer they get, the heavier the air becomes. Because both of them are hiding something. ‎ ‎Sophia hides her fear of losing control. ‎Dean hides his fear of being the reason someone gets hurt. ‎ ‎And the feature they're creating-meant to uncover the truth about modern love-begins exposing truths they never meant to reveal. About each other. About themselves. ‎ ‎Their late-night work sessions grow intimate, electric. Their stories blur with the stories they're collecting. Dean sketches Sophia without meaning to-capturing expressions she never lets the world see. Sophia writes notes about him she can't bring herself to delete. Something real starts forming in the space between them, fragile but undeniable. ‎ ‎Until the past they both buried finds them. ‎ ‎A mistake from Dean's life-one he thought he'd left behind-reaches the editorial floor at the worst possible time. A detail with enough weight to derail the feature, shatter their progress, and wound the one person who finally saw him clearly. ‎ ‎Sophia's instinct is survival. Run before she gets hurt. Seal her heart before it cracks open. Dean's instinct is retreat. Protect her from the version of himself he fears is still true. ‎ ‎Deadlines tighten. Trust fractures. ‎Their work stalls, their communication splinters, and the connection they've been dancing around threatens to snap under the strain. ‎ ‎But desire doesn't listen to logic. ‎And hearts don't obey deadlines. ‎ ‎Even as they pull away, they keep orbiting each other-drawn back together by an ache neither can extinguish. Their arguments deepen into something rawer, heavier. Their silence holds more meaning than their words. ‎ ‎They must choose: ‎fight for the story that could define their careers... ‎or fight for the connection that could rewrite their futures. ‎ ‎And when an unexpected message, a truth revealed too late, and one irreversible decision collide, they're forced to confront the question their feature was meant to answer: ‎ ‎What does love look like today- ‎and can two people living at opposite rhythms find it before it slips through their fingers? ‎ ‎On the edge of losing their partnership... ‎their second chance... ‎and each other... ‎ ‎

Action Modern Romance

8.0

"Bound By The Wrong Brother"

8.0

My father gave me an ultimatum: marry a man I despise or lose my entire inheritance. I chose to run, boarding a private jet with no intention of looking back. But his reach is absolute. The phone buzzed before we even left New York airspace. "Send me a picture with Sterling now," his voice barked, "or I'm calling your pilot to turn that jet around." I faked the photo and fled to Las Vegas, my last resort. My mission was simple: find my father's illegitimate son, the one secret that could break his hold over me. My only lead was a grainy picture of a ruthless fixer, a man who cleaned up my father's messes. I found him in a desolate diner, a giant of a man surrounded by a wall of guards. I gambled everything on a single coin toss for the information I needed. He saw right through my desperate bluff. He leaned in close, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "In my city, the house always wins." I was left standing there, humiliated and defeated. But as he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder. "But you're lucky. Today, I'm just curious what Howard Bright's daughter is doing so far from home." He had seen me not as a threat, but as a curiosity. I had lost the battle, but I wasn't done yet. I was no longer running. I was hunting.

Action Billionaire Modern

8.7

Escaping The Ruthless Don's Golden Cage

8.7

I stood at the gala, draped in diamonds worth millions, playing the role of the perfect Mafia wife. But the illusion shattered when his mistress walked in wearing a necklace identical to mine—a cattle brand dipped in gold. When I confronted them, Liam didn't defend me. He shoved me aside to protect her. I hit the floor, and as my blood soaked into the white stage, I realized he had killed our unborn child. But the nightmare didn't end there. I woke up to find that Liam had ordered me sedated to "manage my hysteria." The complications from his control and the trauma had forced an emergency hysterectomy. He hadn't just killed his heir; he had stolen my future. Yet, he still tried to lock me in his estate, convinced he could force me to love him again if he just kept me hidden long enough. He thought I was broken. He thought I was his property. He was wrong. With the help of a doctor who had loved me from the shadows for years, I faked my death and vanished. Six months later, the great Don found me in a small-town bookstore, falling to his knees to beg for a second chance. I looked at the man who destroyed me and handed him a single dollar bill. "Loyalty is the only currency, Liam," I said, quoting his own vow back to him. "And you are bankrupt."

Action Mafia Romance

7.2

Reborn Heiress: Revenge On My Ruthless Ex

7.2

I was dying in a rusted warehouse, paralyzed in a wheelchair while the man I loved and my own stepsister watched with smiles on their faces. The air smelled of old oil and damp concrete, and my vision was fading into a milky haze. Dillon, the man I’d sacrificed everything for, smoothed his custom suit and pulled out a syringe filled with a clear, lethal neurotoxin. Beside him, my stepsister Bianca toyed with my mother’s sapphire ring—the one they’d just pried off my hand while I was too weak to even make a fist. She leaned in and whispered that my father’s trust fund was already offshore and that they’d sent my husband, Kade, to the wrong coordinates to ensure he’d only find my corpse. Dillon slid the needle into my vein with the chilling efficiency of a man who had done this before. "This will stop your heart in thirty seconds," he said, sounding as bored as if he were explaining a tax form. Ice flooded my chest, and my lungs seized, fighting for oxygen that wasn't there. As the warehouse lights blurred into white streaks, an explosion echoed in the distance. Kade had come for me, but he was too late. I died staring at the ceiling, my heart giving one last violent kick of pure, unadulterated hatred. I had been such a fool, believing Dillon’s lies and running away from the only man who actually cared for me. I died with a single thought: if I ever get another chance, I will drag you both to hell with me. Then, there was nothing. And then, there was air. I sat up gasping, my silk pajamas drenched in cold sweat. The rusted beams were gone, replaced by a vaulted ceiling and the glittering Manhattan skyline. I grabbed the digital clock on the nightstand—it was five years ago, the exact night I first tried to run away with Dillon. The bedroom door slammed against the wall, and Kade Mullen stood in the doorway, looking dangerous, furious, and very much alive. I looked at my shaking hands, then at the man I had once hated. This time, I wasn't going to run. I was going to make sure Dillon and Bianca lost everything.

Action Billionaire Fantasy

8.6

The Celebrity playboy

8.6

Tessa Cristin, nineteen, had grown up on the rough side of town with dreams too big for her small world. Her escape? Rock Girls-the fierce, unstoppable idol group she adored Their music was her lifeline, their confidence something she longed to wear like armor. She attended the same elite college as them, yet had never seen them up close. Just whispers in hallways and the hope that one day, maybe, she would. Then there was Hardin White-campus heartbreaker, tabloid favorite, and member of the hottest boy group, Crimson Kiss. Handsome, arrogant, and untouchable, Hardin treated girls like passing toys. Rumor had it, he was tangled up with Cathryn from Rock Girls-Tessa's idol. Their worlds clashed one rainy afternoon. Tessa, on a quick run to the convenience store, ended up with a splash of mud across her clothes-courtesy of Hardin's expensive sports car. His smirk made her blood boil. Her slap wiped the smirk away. From that moment, they were sworn enemies. But life had other plans. When her mother took a job as a maid in the lavish White Mansion, Tessa had no choice but to move in. Now, she would be living under the same roof as the boy she couldn't stand-and the playboy who, for some reason, couldn't seem to stay out of her way.

Action Modern Young Adult

7.7

The Marked Mate of the Lycan King.

7.7

The King claimed his mate. The King planned her death. Rejected and scarred, Esmeralda Lopez holds the secret King Demetrius needs to win his war. To gain her obedience, the ruthless Lycan monarch crowns the powerless omega his True Luna, a title that forces her into his gilded cage. But Demetrius's deception is lethal. Esmeralda carries the Silver-Eyed blood of his prophesied killer. Now, their fated bond is a countdown. Will the King conquer the enemy in his own bed, or will the Luna awaken the power destined to end him?

Action Romance Werewolf

Taming The Sinner: The Doctor’s Cold Game

Chapter 2

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