The Abandoned Wife's Cold Revenge
I was bleeding out on the cold ER table, my body failing, while the hospital’s blood bank sat empty.
My husband, Clayton, stood just outside the glass doors, watching me die with the terrifying indifference of a man deciding on dinner.
When the doctor begged him to sign the transfusion consent form to save my life, he didn't hesitate. He took the pen, slashed his signature across the Refusal of Treatment form, and turned his back on me to answer a call from the woman he truly loved.
As my heart monitor flatlined into a long, piercing scream, I watched him walk away to comfort his mistress over a thunderstorm, leaving his legal wife to rot in a body bag.
I was nothing to him—a vicious, disposable obstacle in his perfect world—and he ensured I left with absolutely nothing, freezing my accounts and cutting off my life.
But he made one fatal mistake: he left me alive.
I survived, and as I lay in the dark, the pathetic flame of my love for him snapped and died, replaced by a cold, broken promise.
If I survived this night, I would make sure he bled for every second of the hell he put me through.
I ripped the IV from my arm, stood up on my prosthetic leg, and walked out to start my war.
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Chapter 3
Emaline's body plummeted toward the floor.
Just as her knees were about to slam into the hard linoleum, a pair of thick, muscular arms wrapped securely around her waist from behind. The sudden halt jerked her spine, but the grip was incredibly steady.
She gasped, her eyes flying open. Her nose brushed against a black leather jacket. The sharp, masculine scent of cedarwood mixed with dark tobacco filled her lungs. It was a scent that definitely did not belong in a sterile hospital.
Emaline tilted her head back. She met a pair of deep, piercing blue eyes.
Daxton Phillips.
He wore a faded black baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, casting a shadow over his sharp jawline. A cynical, lazy smirk played on his lips, but his eyes were entirely alert.
Without asking for permission, Daxton bent his knees, scooped one arm under her thighs, and lifted her completely off the ground.
As her body went airborne, the loose titanium prosthetic shifted violently inside her wide hospital pants.
A dull, mechanical shifting of metal and loose silicone vibrated against his arm, distinct and unnatural.
Emaline's breath hitched. Panic seized her chest. She instinctively grabbed a fistful of Daxton's leather jacket, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Daxton's smirk vanished for a fraction of a second. A dark, twisted flash of sick satisfaction flickered deep within his blue eyes. He felt the unnatural, rigid weight of her left leg resting against his forearm, a brutal secret he had personally orchestrated behind the scenes. It was the physical proof of his control over her.
But he didn't look down. He didn't ask. He simply shifted his grip, pulling her left side tighter against his solid chest, completely hiding her lower body from view.
"Put me down," Emaline hissed, her voice weak but frantic. "If the paparazzi catch you holding me, they'll tear me apart."
Daxton let out a low, mocking scoff. He leaned his head down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.
"Your ice-cold husband just left you to die on an operating table, Emaline," Daxton murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Do you really give a damn about your reputation right now?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Daxton carried her down the hallway with long, silent strides. He moved with the fluid, calculated grace of a predator, easily dodging a nurse who stepped out of a nearby room.
He kicked open the door to her VIP suite, carried her inside, and used his heel to slam the door shut, locking the chaotic world outside.
Daxton walked to the bed and lowered her onto the mattress with surprising gentleness. He reached over, grabbed a thick pillow, and carefully slid it under her left leg, elevating the limb so the loose socket wouldn't grind against her skin.
Emaline immediately clamped both hands over her left thigh. She pulled the hospital blanket up to her waist, her eyes wide and defensive, tracking his every move.
Daxton acted like he didn't notice her panic. He turned his back to her, walked over to the water dispenser in the corner of the room, and filled a paper cup with warm water.
He walked back to the bed. As he handed her the cup, his blue eyes dropped to her neck.
The dark, purple bruises from Clayton's fingers were already blooming across her pale skin, forming a violent necklace of abuse.
A flash of pure, unadulterated murder darkened Daxton's eyes. The easygoing playboy facade cracked, revealing something deeply dangerous underneath. But just as quickly as it appeared, he blinked, and the lazy smirk returned.
Emaline reached for the cup. Her hands were shaking so violently that the warm water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the white blanket. Her body was completely failing her.
Daxton sighed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, took the cup from her trembling fingers, and brought it to her lips. He tilted it slowly, forcing her to drink. The gesture was so intimate, so natural, it felt like they had been doing this for years.
Emaline swallowed the water, soothing her raw throat. She leaned back against the pillows, her chest heaving.
"Why are you here?" she rasped, staring at him. "The AB-negative blood... the sudden reversal of the hospital board. That was you, wasn't it?"
Daxton crossed his long legs, leaning back in the chair beside her bed. He didn't bother denying it.
"I bought out the hospital board. Had them unlock the restricted donor reserves while I held a financial gun to their heads," he said smoothly, as if discussing the weather.
Emaline's stomach twisted. "Extorting a hospital board is a federal felony in New York. If the feds trace that coercion back to you, you'll go to prison."
Daxton shrugged, completely unbothered. "What's a little felony for my favorite scandal-ridden girlfriend?"
Emaline closed her eyes, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. "Stop playing games, Daxton. I don't have the energy for your flirtations today."
The smirk finally dropped from Daxton's face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression turned deadly serious.
"I'm not playing," Daxton said, his voice dropping an octave. "Clayton just froze every single credit card attached to your name. Your checking accounts, your emergency funds. Everything is locked. You have exactly zero dollars to your name."
Emaline's eyes snapped open. Her heart gave a violent lurch. Clayton wasn't just trying to divorce her; he was trying to starve her into submission. He was cutting off her oxygen financially.
Daxton pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen and held it up for her to see.
It was a push notification from Page Six. The headline screamed in bold black letters: CALDWELL CEO RUSHES TO BEDSIDE OF INJURED SOCIALITE CRISTA GARRETT AMIDST WIFE'S HOSPITALIZATION.
Below the headline was a high-resolution photo. Clayton was standing outside the Upper East Side penthouse, using his own suit jacket to shield Crista from the rain as he guided her into a waiting Maybach. His face was a picture of absolute, protective devotion.
Emaline stared at the photo. The bile rose in her throat. The phantom pain in her amputated leg flared into a blinding, white-hot agony.
Her body began to shake. It started in her hands and quickly violently consumed her entire frame. Her teeth chattered. The PTSD from the asylum, combined with the fever from the blood loss, hit her nervous system like a freight train.
Daxton cursed under his breath. He dropped the phone and grabbed her shoulders, his large hands gripping her tight.
"Emaline. Look at me. Breathe," he commanded, his voice tight with real fear.
But Emaline couldn't hear him. Her eyes rolled back, the room spinning into a dark, suffocating vortex.
Her fingers reached out blindly, her nails digging into Daxton's wrist like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline. Then, her grip went slack, and she plunged into the dark.
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9.2
Druscilla Hayes thought heartbreak had a limit.
She was wrong.
On the night of her bachelorette party, she survives a shootout - and is rescued by a dangerously irresistible stranger with mismatched eyes and a criminal smile.
Ivanov Rodriguez is everything she shouldn't want.
Everything her perfect fiance is not.
But when Druscilla discovers her fiancé's betrayal, she runs straight into Ivanov's arms - only to learn too late that she was never more than a pawn in his revenge.
Years later, she's rebuilt her life, her heart, and her future.
Until fate drags her back into the orbit of the man who once ruined her.
This time, she has nothing left to lose.
Except the truth that could destroy them both
⚠️ WARNING:
This book contains immorality, forbidden desire, dangerous attraction, and morally questionable characters.
If you believe love should always be pure and choices should always be right...
This story is not for you.
Proceed only if you enjoy chaos, passion, and bad decisions.
7.4
"You can't escape me, Aurora. You are mine!"
The Alpha King's roar echoed through the palace walls.
But Aurora just tightened her grip on the blade hidden beneath her cloak.
She would never-never-give herself to the monster who murdered her father.
Even if the Moon Goddess cursed her to be his mate.
***
Aurora Regalia once had everything-a loving father, a prosperous pack, and a future that glittered with promise. Her father, the king, even chose her a mate: Logan Charming. Powerful. Charismatic. Cursed.
She thought he was her destiny.
Then she watched him tear her father's head from his shoulders.
One night. One betrayal. Her entire family, slaughtered. Her pack, reduced to ashes.
Aurora jumped off a cliff that night-not to die, but to survive. To become something her enemies would never see coming.
An assassin. A ghost. A blade wrapped in silk.
For years, she trained in the shadows, fueled by one single purpose: revenge. Blood for blood. She would make Logan Charming suffer the way she had suffered. She would carve his heart out and feel nothing.
But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
The Moon Goddess looked down at her shattered daughter and laughed.
Because the man who destroyed her life?
The monster who wore her father's blood on his hands?
He was her fated mate.
Now Aurora stands at a crossroads she never asked for. Every instinct screams for vengeance. Every fiber of her being recoils at the bond pulling her toward him.
But Logan? He doesn't care about her hatred. He doesn't care about her blade.
"You can run, little mate," he whispers, crimson eyes gleaming in the dark. "But I will always find you."
And when he does?
He won't just cage her body.
He'll claim her soul.
9.0
For Her Sake
9.0
Kelvin held her wrist and pulled her into a room in the hotel. "What are you doing?" Amelia asked, trying to tug at him.
"Don't pretend you don't want this too." He said, rubbing his thumb at her hard nipples threatening to tear out of her dress, his eyes watching as her body responded to him. He held her neck in the most seductive way and pinned her against the wall.
His hand went up under her black dress tracing her skin in a calculated path, as his fingers touched her already soaked pants, Amelia let out a soft moan and pulled him closer with a kiss.
***
Amelia found herself getting married to her ex-fiancé's brother, it was an almost perfect revenge. Only to find herself wrapped deeper in the evil hands of the brothers. Would she ever be able to get her revenge and find her true love?
Explore a tale of romance, suspense, treachery, and love. The fascinating novel 'For Her Sake' will have you reading until the very last page.
8.3
Imogen Montgomery was the perfect billionaire heiress, deeply in love and ready to marry her fiancé, Clark Ellis.
That all ended the night her cousin Kathleen ripped the sapphire pendant from her neck and pushed her into a pool of toxic chemicals to die.
Two years later, Imogen's eyes snapped open. But she didn't wake up in a hospital. She woke up tied to a stained mattress, trapped in the battered body of Briana, a teenage girl from the slums who had just been sold to a local trafficker.
After violently fighting her way out of a cheap motel, she discovered the horrifying truth. Kathleen had taken over the Montgomery Group. She had locked Imogen's grieving parents away in a psychiatric facility as prisoners.
And worst of all, Kathleen was now flaunting her stolen wealth online, preparing to marry Clark.
A wave of pure, white-hot rage boiled in her blood. Kathleen had murdered her, stolen her family, and was playing the perfect grieving cousin. How was she supposed to fight back? She was just a runaway nobody now. If she tried to expose the truth, Kathleen's security would shoot her dead in the street.
She needed a weapon. She needed a shield. She needed the one man Kathleen feared.
Covered in mud and blood, Briana intercepted Clark's car in the freezing rain. She was going to infiltrate his home as his vulgar, unhinged fake mistress, and she would drag Kathleen straight down to hell.
9.2
When Alma's father stood in front of the bulldozers to protest, the energy company's thugs beat him half to death in the mud.
Instead of arresting the attackers, the police handcuffed her bleeding father and threw him into a cruiser.
"Stay back, kid," the officer barked, shoving Alma away.
Her father was denied bail and framed for assaulting an officer. The corrupt mayor just smiled and told her not to cause a scene. Meanwhile, the company mailed her weeping mother a severance check that barely covered a month of groceries.
Alma was forced to watch her family be completely destroyed by men with money and power.
Kneeling in the cold dirt where her father's blood had spilled, she didn't shed a single tear. The panic in her chest died, replaced by a cold, absolute hatred.
She realized that crying wouldn't do anything. In this world, justice didn't exist for the weak.
Years later, Alma stepped onto a prestigious Ivy League campus, her cheap backpack slung over her shoulder.
She was surrounded by the arrogant children of the very executives who ruined her life.
She lowered her head, hiding her dead eyes, and put on the perfect mask of a timid, helpless charity case.
Undergrad was just a training ground, and these elite kids were just her practice dummies. The hunt was officially on.
9.0
My father was dying in the ICU, and our family company, the Martin Group, was on the verge of total collapse.
While I was desperately trying to sign the consent form for his life-saving surgery, my fiancé, Eston, sent me a text.
"I told you not to be stubborn. The company is mine by Friday. Beg me, and I might pay for the funeral."
He had been secretly looting my family's assets from the inside, waiting for me to break so he could steal everything. He thought I would crawl back to him in absolute despair, surrendering my father's legacy just to survive. The sheer weight of my helplessness crushed my chest as the heart monitor next to my father's bed let out a frantic, high-pitched scream.
The betrayal tore through me, but the despair quickly hardened into a cold, sharp stone.
Why should I let the man who ruined me dance on my family's grave? Why should I let him walk away with everything while I lost the only family I had left?
I wiped away my tears and blocked his number permanently.
Then, I stepped out into the freezing Manhattan rain and went straight to the top floor of the Maxwell building.
I threw my remaining shares onto the desk of Ellwood Maxwell—the apex predator of Wall Street, and Eston's untouchable, ruthless uncle.
"I want you to marry me," Ellwood said, pushing a marriage contract toward me. "That is the only way your company survives."
I picked up the pen. If Eston wanted to destroy my life, I would become his aunt and make him bow.