The Discarded Ex-Wife's Glorious Fragrance Comeback
Six years ago, Seraphina's billionaire husband slapped a fake infertility report onto the marble table.
"Sign the divorce papers and get out," Julian commanded, looking at his wife of three years with pure, icy disgust.
Kicked out into the freezing rain while heavily pregnant, her own family abandoned her like garbage thanks to her sister's vicious lies.
She nearly died in a sterile operating room that night, giving birth to quadruplets, only for the grim-faced doctor to tell her two babies didn't survive.
She spent six agonizing years rebuilding her shattered identity in London, raising her surviving genius twins.
Meanwhile, her ex-husband paraded around New York with Livia, the very woman who orchestrated her ruin.
But when a medical emergency forced Seraphina back to the city, her twins accidentally crossed paths with two identical children at JFK airport.
Why did Julian's severely traumatized, mute daughter look exactly like her own little girl?
And why did her genius son just hack into his father's private server, only to find her delivery records locked behind military-grade encryption?
Staring at a faded ultrasound printout of four tiny shapes, a cold smile broke across Seraphina's face.
Tomorrow night, the discarded wife they thought they broke was going to crash the Astor-Vance charity gala, and she was going to burn their empire to the ground.
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Chapter 4
Seraphina stepped out of the restroom. The noise of the JFK arrivals hall hit her instantly. She immediately glanced toward the security podium, only to find it completely empty. The officer had rushed off to break up a loud, aggressive passenger dispute fifty feet down the hall. She scanned the sea of moving bodies, looking for her twins.
Her eyes locked onto a massive concrete pillar near the VIP channel.
Two small figures stood there, their backs to her.
She frowned, her medical and maternal instincts instantly picking up on something bizarre. The boy was wearing a perfectly tailored, miniature charcoal suit. The girl was dressed in an absurdly expensive, stiff lace dress. They looked like they were attending a high-society gala, not surviving a transatlantic flight. Had they raided the garment bag she’d strictly forbidden them to touch? It was the only explanation for the sudden transformation, though the speed of it defied even her calculations. Perhaps Zara had arrived early and helped them play this prank? No, Zara was still twenty minutes out. Seraphina’s tired brain struggled to bridge the gap, but the visual evidence—her children’s faces, their height—was undeniable.
She walked over fast, her heels clicking sharply against the tile.
"Gideon, really?" Seraphina scolded lightly, reaching out.
She grabbed the boy's hand. The moment her fingers wrapped around his, she noticed it felt slightly bonier than usual. "Dehydration," her medical mind noted automatically. "I need to check his electrolytes the moment we hit the hotel." The chaos of the terminal left no room for a full diagnostic, so she simply tightened her grip and pulled him forward.
Peregrine stumbled. The sudden yank threw him off balance. His first instinct was to rip his hand away and yell for his security detail.
But then he looked up.
He saw the woman's face. His breath caught in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs. It was her. The woman from the hidden photographs in his father's locked desk drawer.
A strange, electric warmth shot up his arm from where her hand held his. The rigid tension in his muscles vanished. He didn't fight. He just let her pull him.
Isolde stood frozen. She watched her brother get dragged away by a stranger. Her massive eyes stretched wide with pure terror. Her small fists grabbed fistfuls of her lace skirt. She opened her mouth to scream, but her throat was locked tight. Not a single sound came out.
Seraphina stopped and looked back. She saw the girl standing there like a statue.
"Silas, come on," Seraphina sighed. She reached out with her free hand, grabbed Isolde's arm, and pulled her into her side. "Stop daydreaming."
Isolde crashed into Seraphina's legs. She was instantly enveloped in a soft, warm scent of jasmine and vanilla. It was a mother's scent. Something Isolde had never, ever felt. The absolute terror in her chest melted into a confusing, desperate need.
Isolde leaned her head against Seraphina's thigh. Her little fingers slowly reached out and clamped onto the fabric of Seraphina's trench coat. Hot tears welled up in her eyes.
Seraphina looked down. She frowned. Silas was usually a whirlwind of chatter. This stony silence was her 'red-zone'—the state she entered only when she was dangerously overstimulated and on the verge of a total meltdown. Seraphina knew she had to get her out of this sensory-overloaded hall immediately before the screaming started.
"Are you feeling sick?" Seraphina asked softly. She pressed the back of her hand against Isolde's forehead. It felt cool. No fever. "Just jet lag, huh? Let's go."
She tightened her grip on both their hands and marched toward the exit.
Fifty feet away, inside a high-end boutique, the real Gideon was paying for a box of pastel macarons. He turned around to hand one to his sister.
He stopped dead.
The pink macaron box slipped from his fingers. It hit the floor with a loud smack. The delicate cookies shattered, scattering across the polished tiles.
Silas followed her brother's frozen stare. She slapped both hands over her mouth. A loud gasp sucked into her lungs.
They watched, completely paralyzed, as their mother walked toward the exit doors. She was holding the hands of two kids who looked exactly like them. It was like looking into a terrifying, walking mirror.
Gideon's genius brain fired on all cylinders. He instantly ruled out cloning. The math was simple, but the conclusion was earth-shattering.
He grabbed Silas's arm and yanked her hard behind a display rack.
"Don't scream," Gideon hissed, his face pale. "We have siblings."
Silas's eyes were huge. She pointed frantically toward the doors, her whole body vibrating with the urge to run after their mother.
Gideon pressed his hand flat against her chest, holding her back. "No. Wait. Look."
Heavy, fast footsteps echoed from the VIP corridor. Four massive men in black suits pushed through the crowd. In the center was Julian's executive assistant, M. Blackwood. Sweat poured down Blackwood's forehead. He was looking around frantically.
Blackwood's eyes swept past the boutique. He spotted the two small figures hiding behind the rack.
The color rushed back into Blackwood's face. He let out a massive breath of relief and practically sprinted over.
He stopped in front of them and bowed slightly. "Young Master. Miss. Please, you cannot wander off like that. Your father is waiting."
Gideon and Silas looked at each other. A silent, high-speed conversation happened between their eyes. They both understood the assignment instantly.
Gideon wiped all emotion from his face. He lifted his chin, mimicking the cold, arrogant posture he had seen on the boy who looked like him. He didn't say a single word.
Silas pressed her lips tightly together. She shrank behind Gideon's back, grabbing his jacket and looking at Blackwood with wide, fearful eyes. She perfectly copied the terrified girl they had just seen.
Blackwood didn't notice a thing. He just thought the kids were throwing one of their usual silent tantrums.
"Please follow me to the VIP lounge," Blackwood urged, gesturing for the bodyguards to form a protective ring around them.
Gideon grabbed Silas's hand. He stepped out from behind the rack and walked forward into the lion's den. A dangerous, twisted game of identity had just begun.
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8.4
Elia was an orphan from the rust belt, taken in by the wealthy Chapman family in New York.
To them, she was just a shameful charity case.
The parents shoved her into a dusty storage closet, treating their other daughter Geri like a delicate princess, and mocked Elia as uneducated trash.
When Elia secured her own admission to Manhattan Elite Prep, Geri's jealousy turned vicious.
Geri orchestrated a massive smear campaign, posting anonymously on the school forum that Elia was a violent dropout who sold her body to a sugar daddy to pay tuition.
In the cafeteria, the school's elite dumped dirty milk on Elia's food.
They called her a whore and told her to go back to the streets, while Geri watched from afar with a victorious, innocent smile.
They thought she was just a helpless stray dog who would easily break under their high-society cruelty.
They had no idea she was actually "L", the dark web's most feared hacker, and "The Surgeon", a genius medical anomaly.
They also didn't know she was currently tracking a dying Wall Street billionaire who had stolen her only necklace in a dark alley.
What made these arrogant rich kids think they could destroy a girl who played with international firewalls for fun?
Instead of crying, Elia calmly pulled out her phone.
Within seconds, she breached the school's server, locking every screen in the building onto a blood-red skull.
As Geri's own recorded voice plotting the fake rumors blasted through the PA system, Elia grabbed her bag, stepping back into the shadows to reclaim what was hers.
8.8
I was the despised adopted daughter of the Sanders family, hiding behind heavy gothic makeup and enduring their daily disgust.
The day my adoptive father died in a severe car crash, my adoptive mother and stepsister didn't even bother to call me.
Instead, while his body was still warm, my mother filed a multi-million dollar life insurance claim.
"I am not feeding a useless freak for another day. Pack your trash and get out."
She kicked me out into the freezing rain, but that wasn't the worst of it.
My stepsister Cornelia stole my greatest secret. Five years ago, I saved the life of Fidel Vaughan, a ruthless billionaire heir, from a burning estate.
Cornelia claimed my identity, accepted a million-dollar reward, and secured a marriage proposal from him, burning my only proof to ashes.
They thought I was just a helpless, pathetic high schooler they could discard and replace.
But when I hacked the police files, I discovered my father's crash wasn't an accident. It was a targeted hit, and the Vaughan Group had hijacked the traffic cameras to cover it up.
I washed off the ugly black makeup, shedding the disguise of a pathetic outcast.
I am Spectre, the world's most elusive hacker and underground doctor.
I intercepted the billionaire heir's heavily armed convoy in the dead of night. They thought they could steal my life and murder my father, but now, I hold the needle that controls Fidel Vaughan's sanity, and I will make them all pay.
8.2
Justine abandoned her career as a top trauma surgeon to marry Congressman Carl McConnell. She did it to fulfill her dying sister's last wish: to protect her son, Leo, from this ruthless political family.
But the seven-year-old boy she swore to protect shoved her into a freezing koi pond, then cried to his father that Justine tried to drown him.
Carl didn't even check the security cameras. He hugged his precious heir and looked at his freezing wife with pure disgust.
"Are you out of your mind? Trying to hurt the heir to the McConnell family!"
He locked Justine in a 55-degree wine cellar while she was burning with a 102-degree fever. When she finally told him the truth, Carl flew into a rage and hurled a heavy brass-cornered book at her face, slicing her cheekbone wide open.
His mother even ordered the staff to starve her for seven days to reflect on her sins.
Justine stood in the dark, blood dripping down her face, her heart completely dead. She had sacrificed her brilliant future and her pride for this family, only to be tortured and discarded like garbage. How could they be so utterly devoid of humanity?
She pulled out her old medical kit and stitched up her own face.
Then, she signed the legal documents to permanently relinquish her stepparent rights, threw them at the housekeeper, and calmly looked at her abusive husband.
"I am divorcing you, Carl."
9.5
As a highborn succubus, I somehow managed to starve myself to death-thanks to my obsessive cleanliness and ridiculously picky appetite.
When I opened my eyes again, I had transmigrated into Vivian Hartwell-the long-lost "real" daughter with a tragically cursed fate.
I had barely been taken back into the Hartwell family before they forced me to attend a so-called "death matchmaking" event in Kingsford-on behalf of Natalie Hartwell, the fake heiress-to meet Damian Blackwood, the infamous "living reaper."
Rumor had it Damian was brutal and bloodthirsty-every woman who'd ever been involved with him either ended up dead or driven insane.
At the event, over a hundred socialites were trembling on their knees, silently praying they wouldn't be the one chosen.
Just as Damian let out a cold smirk and reached to pick his unlucky victim, I took a deep breath from the back of the crowd.
The scent emanating from him was a rare, potent masculine essence-something encountered perhaps once in ten millennia.
For a painfully picky succubus like me, this was nothing short of salvation.
I kicked aside the girl blocking my way, my eyes practically glowing as I threw both hands up. "Pick me! Hurry, pick me!"
9.6
Antoinette stood on the manicured church lawn, the blinding summer sun stabbing her eyes. The funeral service for her parents had just ended.
A hand wrapped around her trembling shoulder, carrying the sharp, cloying scent of Fabian Cash's cologne. It was the exact same cologne her fiancé wore the night he locked her in a burning house to die in her previous life.
Now, wearing a mask of sorrowful devotion, Fabian tried to drag her to his car to control her parents' massive life insurance payout.
When she shoved him away in pure nausea, his mother Eleanor immediately shrieked to the crowd, deploying her usual guilt trip.
"She's lost her mind! The girl has completely snapped!"
The townspeople whispered and pointed fingers, watching Fabian play the victim as he tightened his bruising grip on her wrist, claiming she was hysterical and needed to be locked away.
Antoinette stared at the mother and son who had conspired to steal her family's estate and end her life. The rage inside her felt like battery acid pumping through her veins.
They didn't care if she lived or died; they only cared about the money. How could she let them strip her of everything again?
She didn't hesitate. She swung with every bit of strength she possessed, slapping Fabian across the face in front of the entire town.
"The engagement is over," she announced coldly.
Then, she turned her back on her greedy ex-fiancé and walked straight toward the terrifyingly powerful billionaire Hiram Graves, ready to let the world burn.
9.7
Charity woke up in a hellish, acid-rain-soaked slum, trapped inside a bloated body covered in festering, toxic sores. She was the exiled Grand Princess of the Empire.
But the real nightmare wasn't her ruined body. It was the fact that the original owner had used her royal authority to force genetic marriage contracts onto four top-tier, powerful men.
Now, she was bound to them, and they absolutely loathed her.
Hjalmar, chained to a bed in her filthy room, smiled like a feral beast and promised to rip her head off the second his chains snapped.
Braden, a ruthless military officer, saved her from a mutated rat only to look at her with pure disgust.
"If you want to die, go die somewhere else. Don't dirty my patrol sector."
Even the locals mocked her fallen status, and a wealthy heiress publicly framed her for stealing a hundred-thousand-coin energy core just to see her rot in a dark cell.
She was universally despised, physically repulsive, and a lethal biological toxin gave her exactly 59 days left to live. How was she supposed to survive this absolute hell when her starting affection with her partners was at negative 100?
Then, a mechanical voice echoed in her skull, activating a survival system. To purge the poison, she had to harvest emotional energy by making these four men fall for her. Charity accepted the mandate, unlocked a top-tier culinary skill, and grabbed a rusted meat cleaver to start her counterattack.