The Abandoned Wife's Glamorous Return As A Global Star
For five years, Elyse loved Trevor with everything she had, yet it meant nothing when his former lover returned-pregnant.
Reduced to the city's joke, Elyse chose dignity and handed him divorce papers, walking away with nothing.
But when both women fell into the water, he didn't hesitate-he saved the other.
"I'm sorry... she's pregnant," he said, shattering what remained of her love.
She disappeared without a trace. Three years later, she returned as a world-renowned actress, radiant and untouchable.
When Trevor knelt before her, begging, "Don't leave me..." She only watched, her heart long turned cold.
He pleaded, "Please give me another chance, okay?"
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Chapter 6
The second Elyse settled into the car, Anthony's eyes dropped to her hand, and worry crept into his voice. "What happened to your hand?"
Brushing it off, Elyse barely looked at it. "It's nothing serious. Just a small burn."
Concern deepened in Anthony's expression as he studied it more closely. "It's already swollen. We're going to the hospital so you can get ointment. You've got a shoot tomorrow that focuses on your hands, and this can't be ignored."
Exhaustion weighed on Elyse as she shut her eyes. Anthony always took charge of her schedule, and she didn't need to worry about a thing. What stung was that Anthony had noticed her injury right away, while Trevor had remained unaware and even gripped that exact spot, adding to her discomfort.
Once they reached the hospital, Anthony handled everything from registration to picking up the medicine, leaving Elyse seated alone while she scrolled through her phone without interest.
Out of nowhere, a soft and pleasant voice drifted down to her. "Excuse me, miss, could you help me pick up this report?"
Only then did Elyse notice a medical report resting near her feet. Her gaze shifted to the woman who had spoken. She looked fragile and graceful, the kind of beauty that naturally drew protection from others. The gentle curve of her stomach hinted she was about five months pregnant.
Elyse leaned down and picked the report up. Thanking Elyse with a warm smile, the woman did not take the report back. Instead, she asked gently, "Would it be alright if I sat beside you?"
Giving a small nod, Elyse answered, "Of course."
Once seated, the woman caressed her belly. Seeing that Elyse seemed approachable, she began making small talk.
Elyse asked, "Did you come here on your own?"
"Yes. I'm five months pregnant now. My husband is a criminal investigator and is always busy with work. I don't want to trouble him over every little thing."
Hearing that made Elyse's thoughts jump straight to Trevor, who was also a criminal investigator.
The woman seemed to love her husband deeply, as her face brightened whenever she mentioned him. "Still, he treats me so well. He knew I wasn't feeling great during the pregnancy and that my mood was off, so he handed over his whole paycheck to me. And he bought me this bracelet. Isn't it lovely?"
A sudden stillness took hold of Elyse. Just last month, Trevor had given her a bracelet for their wedding anniversary, and it looked exactly like this one—almost identical. Could that really be just a coincidence? Same job. Same bracelet. Something in her chest faltered.
Elyse lowered her gaze to the report still resting in her hand. The name "Joanna Kirk" stood out sharply, almost searing itself into her sight.
Concern touched Joanna's expression as she asked, "What's wrong? You don't find it looks nicely?"
Elyse let out a self-mocking laugh. "So, Ms. Kirk, you go after another woman's husband?"
Color rushed across Joanna's cheeks, though it was unclear if it came from humiliation or fury. Words seemed ready to spill out, but before she could speak, Elyse set the report on her lap and said in an even tone, "Goodbye, Ms. Kirk."
At that moment, Anthony came back with the ointment in hand. One glance at Elyse's expression made him tense. "What happened? Is the pain getting worse?"
"No," Elyse answered, giving a small shake of her head.
"That's a relief. I noticed you speaking with someone earlier. That wasn't a fan who recognized you, right?"
A scoff slipped from Elyse as she replied, "No. That was Trevor's mistress. She just came over to stake her claim."
The words set Anthony off at once. He turned sharply, already heading back. "Damn it. I'll go deal with her myself," he muttered under his breath.
Before he could take another step, Elyse reached out to stop him. "What are you planning to do? Start something with a pregnant woman? Just let it go. We're divorcing anyway. Before long, none of this will concern me."
Right after that, her phone started ringing. Trevor's name flashed on the screen. Since everything between them had not been legally settled, she chose to answer.
"Elyse, where are you? I'll come get you. Let's not end things, alright? I'll explain whatever you want to know. Please don't shut me down," Trevor pleaded through the line.
He had returned home, only to see that over half of Elyse's things were gone, along with her suitcases. That meant she had already moved out the very next day after bringing up the divorce, leaving him with no chance to explain.
Elyse's tone was flat. "Trevor, I ran into Joanna."
Trevor's breathing faltered. When he spoke again, his tone turned gentle, as if he were trying to calm her down, urging her not to act impulsively or make any harsh decisions.
A cold smile formed on Elyse's lips. So he was nervous she might do something to Joanna.
Hanging up, Elyse blocked his number without hesitation. She would mail him the divorce papers soon.
As it happened, she was about to enter a month-long closed shoot. That break would give her space to settle her emotions and keep things from turning into an ugly confrontation before the divorce was finalized.
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8.6
"What do you think people would say if they found out you don't have a dick?" Christian asked, his voice low and dripping with seduction. His hand pressed firmly against my crotch, fingers exploring the flat, unfamiliar emptiness there. A devilish smirk curved his lips. "Or if they discovered these voluptuous breasts you've been hiding so well?"
A strangled moan slipped from my throat as his hand slid under my shirt, his fingers brushing over my hardened nipples, teasing them with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Which do you think they'd call you?" he murmured, eyes gleaming. "A boy with tits... or a dickless little fraud?"
I stared into his hungry blue eyes, words failing me.
"The term you're looking for is 'girl,'" came Xavier's smooth voice from the bathroom doorway. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, his gaze raking over me with open interest. "So tell me, little girl... what the hell is someone like you doing in an all-boys dorm?"
Christian's smirk widened. "She wants to be devoured by boys like us." His fingers gave my nipple one last firm pinch before he leaned in closer, breath hot against my ear. "And I'll be more than happy to give her a taste."
7.1
I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York.
To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen.
But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table.
It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test.
"Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture."
I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking.
He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago.
He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy.
He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go.
He was wrong.
I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don.
And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy.
I wanted to erase him.
I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built.
Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa."
It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul.
On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial.
When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth.
He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife.
Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.
7.5
On the morning of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, I found a cream-colored document tucked inside my husband's suit pocket.
It was a twenty-million-dollar asset transfer for his former receptionist, Carmen. But what made my blood run cold was the contingent beneficiary: Leo, my newborn son who the hospital claimed was kidnapped twenty-three years ago.
When I confronted Devonte, he didn't even try to explain. He handed me a fake Cartier watch, canceled all my credit cards, and publicly called me delusional.
The next day, he moved Carmen into our mansion and emptied all our joint accounts into offshore trusts.
"If you don't sign these papers and walk away, I will have you committed," he threatened, his mother nodding in agreement.
They had orchestrated the kidnapping of my baby, hiding him with the mistress while I spent half my life sedated and screaming in grief. Now, to keep his secret, Devonte was going to lock me in a psychiatric ward and bury me in debt.
I didn't understand how the man I loved could be such a monster. Why did he steal my child? What else was hidden in that confidential adoption file?
Pushed to the absolute brink, I refused to be his victim.
When his goons came to my temporary apartment to drag me away, I turned to the rugged union electrician who had just fixed my lights.
"If you need a husband to keep you out of a psych ward, I'll marry you," he said, offering himself as my legal shield.
I took his hand. It was time to tear my husband's perfect life apart.
8.8
I am the best esports jungler in the league, but I've been hiding a severe wrist injury just to keep my team alive in the semifinals.
Right in the middle of the crucial tie-breaker game, our mid-laner deliberately walked into the enemy team and died without casting a single defensive spell.
He was match-fixing for offshore betting sites, throwing away our entire season for a massive payout.
Because of his betrayal, we had to sub in two terrified rookies, and we were absolutely slaughtered. The stadium crowd booed us out of the arena. The internet exploded with pure vitriol, trending hashtags calling me a washed-up fraud who hid on the bench to save my own stats. The media demanded I retire immediately. My physical therapist gave me a grim ultimatum: my shredded nerves only allow me four hours of playtime a day before my right hand completely locks up.
I destroyed my own body for this team, only to be sold out by a coward and crucified by the very fans I bled for. Why should my legacy end in total disgrace because of someone else's greed?
I refuse to step down. I forced the traitor out, ignored management's safe roster choices, and locked my eyes on the most toxic, universally hated streamer on the platform.
"He's a walking PR nightmare," my coach warned.
I don't care. He is an arrogant, unhinged killer in the game, and I am going to make him mine.
8.1
One wardrobe malfunction.
Two people who don't belong together.
Three awful "Be my wife."
Everyone else is at this party to marry the host.
I'm only here until I can get a ride home.
When my dress rips in the world's worst-timed wardrobe malfunction,
I go find somewhere quiet to fix it.
So I'm standing there in nothing but my heels when,
As my luck would have it, the door opens...
And the man of the hour walks in.
I wish I could say I played it cool.
But it's been a looong time since anyone has seen me in my birthday suit...
Much less the hottest man I've ever laid eyes on.
All I want to do is fix my dress, click my heels three times, and be back on my couch in fuzzy slippers.
But Ivan has other ideas.
He's decided who he's taking to the altar...
And I don't have a choice but to say "I do."
8.0
After fifteen years of marriage and a brutal battle with infertility, I finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test. This baby was my victory, the heir that would finally secure my place as the wife of mob capo Marco Vitiello. I planned to announce it at his mother's party, a triumph over the matriarch who saw me as nothing but a barren field.
But before I could celebrate, my friend sent me a video. The headline read: "MOB CAPO MARCO VITIELLO'S PASSIONATE NIGHTCLUB KISS!" It was him, my husband, devouring a woman who looked like a younger, fresher version of me.
Hours later, Marco stumbled home, drunk and reeking of another woman's perfume. He complained about his mother begging him for an heir, completely unaware of the secret I held. Then my phone lit up with a text from an unknown number.
"Your husband slept with my girl. We need to talk."
It was signed by Dante Moretti, the ruthless Don of our rival family.
The meeting with Dante was a nightmare. He showed me another video. This time, I heard my husband's voice, telling the other woman, "I love you. Elara... that's just business." My fifteen years of loyalty, of building his empire, of taking a bullet for him-all dismissed as "just business."
Dante didn't just reveal the affair; he showed me proof that Marco was already stealing our shared assets to build a new life with his mistress. Then, he made me an offer.
"Divorce him," he said, his eyes cold and calculating. "Join me. We'll build an empire together and destroy him."