The Priceless Wife He Threw Away
For two years, I hid my lethal past as a top-tier Delta Force operator to play the perfect, submissive wife to Kason.
But on the eve of the absolute deadline to claim my parents' ashes, he forced me out of our car into a freezing rainstorm.
He had received a frantic call from his mistress crying over her missing dog.
"Are you seriously using dead people to compete for my attention?" Kason sneered.
He slapped my phone away, hurled my bag with my classified military ID into a muddy ditch, and left me stranded on the highway.
I knelt in the freezing mud as his luxury car sped away. I had swallowed his mother's insults and secretly saved his company from bankruptcy three times. Yet, to him, my parents' remains were just a box of dust compared to his mistress's pet.
The suffocating pain in my chest suddenly evaporated, replaced by a terrifying, absolute zero coldness.
The pathetic, submissive wife he thought he owned died on that highway.
I walked to a dingy motel, washed the gritty mud from my face, and traced the jagged scar on my collarbone.
I picked up the landline and dialed a twelve-digit encrypted number to the Pentagon.
It was time to wake up the ghost operator and burn Kason's world to the ground.
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Chapter 2
The morning air at Joint Base Andrews was crisp and biting.
Allison pulled her rental sedan up to the heavily fortified main gate. She wore a sharply tailored black suit, her hair pulled back into a severe, flawless knot.
Two military police officers, armed with M4 rifles, stepped into the path of the vehicle.
"Identification, ma'am," the taller MP demanded.
Allison rolled down the window. She handed over a solid black card embedded with a holographic watermark.
The MP swiped it through his handheld scanner. The screen instantly flashed a soft, pulsing blue light-the universal Department of Defense signal for ALFA-1 level clearance.
Both officers stiffened. Their boots snapped together as they delivered a razor-sharp salute.
"Clear to proceed, ma'am," the MP said, his voice tight with respect.
The heavy steel barricades rolled back. Allison drove onto the restricted tarmac, parking in the designated VIP zone.
A sleek, unmarked C-37B military VIP transport plane descended from the gray sky. The deafening roar of its engines vibrated through the soles of Allison's shoes as it touched down.
The rear cargo ramp lowered slowly. A fully armed honor guard marched down the ramp in perfect synchronization.
General Vance, a man with two silver stars on his shoulders, walked briskly toward Allison. His face was carved from stone, his eyes heavy with grief.
He stopped two feet in front of her and snapped to attention. In his hands, he held two perfectly folded American flags.
"On behalf of a grateful nation," General Vance said, his voice carrying over the wind.
Allison took the flags. The rough texture of the fabric scraped against her palms. Her throat tightened so painfully she could barely swallow.
Four soldiers stepped out of the aircraft. They carried two black velvet-draped urns with agonizing care.
The base loudspeakers clicked on. The haunting, mournful notes of "Taps" echoed across the empty tarmac.
Allison tilted her head back. She forced her jaw to lock, refusing to let a single tear fall and disrespect the gravity of this moment.
General Vance stepped closer, lowering his voice. "They were the best CIA operatives we had. And you were the best operator Delta ever saw, Ghost. The Pentagon wants you back."
"Ghost died with this marriage, General," Allison replied, her voice flat.
Vance sighed. He pulled a classified transfer manifest from his coat and handed her a pen.
Allison didn't hesitate. She signed her maiden name, Kramer, pressing the ink hard into the paper.
The soldiers carefully secured the urns in the backseat of her rental car.
Allison turned to the General. She delivered a flawless, razor-sharp salute, then opened her car door.
As she slid into the driver's seat, her newly purchased, unregistered temporary phone vibrated violently in her purse.
The screen flashed an unknown local number.
Allison stared at it for three seconds before hitting accept.
"Where the hell are you?" Kason's voice exploded through the speaker. "The caterers are here, and you aren't home to prep the dinner party!"
Allison looked in the rearview mirror at the two velvet-draped urns.
"If you get your ass back here right now and start cooking," Kason continued, his tone dripping with arrogant charity, "I'll pretend last night didn't happen."
A dark, humorless smile touched the corners of Allison's mouth.
She didn't say a single word. She pressed the red button, powered the phone down, and tossed it into the passenger seat.
She shifted the car into drive and headed toward the Lindsay estate in Long Island.
The scenery blurred past her windows. Her mind flashed with images of the past two years. Ironing his shirts. Swallowing his mother's insults. Hiding her lethal skills to play the perfect, boring wife he claimed he wanted.
Two hours later, the rental car pulled up to the towering wrought-iron gates of the Lindsay estate.
The security guard in the booth frowned at the cheap sedan. He stepped out, ready to shout, until he saw Allison behind the wheel.
His lip curled into a visible sneer as he hit the gate release button.
Allison parked near the massive marble fountain. She turned off the engine and took a slow, deep breath.
She opened the back door, gathered the two heavy urns into her arms, and walked toward the carved oak doors of the mansion.
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8.6
In my past life, the Cerberus strain leaked, turning the world into a blood-soaked hell of rotting flesh and mutated monsters.
I thought my boyfriend Declan and my best friend Hailee would have my back as we fled the quarantine zone.
Instead, when the surging crowd of the infected cornered us, they didn't hesitate.
They shoved me backward into the horde just to buy themselves three seconds to run.
As I fell into the mud, I saw them fleeing without a single backward glance.
"She's dead weight anyway!" Hailee screamed.
"Just keep running, she'll distract them!" Declan yelled back.
I was torn apart, feeling the agonizing tear of rotting teeth sinking into my neck and the hot spray of my own blood.
Before the apocalypse, my greedy uncle had locked away my ten-million-dollar trust fund, leaving me with nothing but a fake boyfriend who only wanted me for my money.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand how the people I loved most could trade my life for a head start.
Why did I blindly trust them? Why didn't I see through their perfectly choreographed lies?
Opening my eyes again, the stench of decaying flesh vanished, replaced by the sterile smell of my college dorm room.
Hailee and Declan were standing over my bed, faking tears of concern over my meningitis fever.
I was back exactly seven days before the world ended, and my spatial vault ability had come back with me.
This time, I'm extorting my uncle for every cent, hoarding the city's supplies, and leaving them all to rot.
9.0
I died alone in the medical wing giving birth to our son.
"Tell her to calm down and stop the theatrics."
Those were the last words my mate, the Alpha, said about me while I bled out.
Instead of passing on, my soul was tethered to the packhouse. I was forced to watch my best friend Seraphina seamlessly step into my life, taking my baby and my husband before my body was even cold.
To secure her place, she planted my blood-soaked birthing blanket in the woods to frame me for faking my own kidnapping.
Ryker swallowed her lies completely. He refused to send a search party, telling the entire pack my disappearance was just a pathetic plea for attention and money.
As a helpless ghost, I watched Seraphina brainwash my one-year-old son into calling her his mother and teach him to joyfully trample my beloved garden.
"Bad mommy ran away. Don't love Kaelen."
Hearing my own child parrot those venomous words was a dagger to my soul.
Whenever anyone questioned my absence, Ryker fiercely defended her, dismissing the desperate warnings of my loyal friends and his own elders.
The man I loved and died for treated my memory like a malicious joke, grateful for an excuse to replace me while living with my murderer.
But when Seraphina's mask finally slipped, and the horrifying truth of my death crashed down on him, it was far too late.
Seeing him crumble in agonizing regret brought me no comfort.
I no longer wanted his love or his desperate apologies.
Now, I only wanted his absolute ruin.
8.4
Ayleen Avery was just a struggling hotel worker trying to survive her shift. But during a sudden blackout, she accidentally stumbled into the pitch-black VIP suite of a ruthless billionaire driven mad by chronic insomnia.
Calmed only by her unique natural scent of roses and rain, the terrifying man attacked her from the shadows and forced himself on her. Terrified and broken, Ayleen fled at dawn, unknowingly leaving behind her late mother's antique rose necklace in his bed.
Her greedy coworker found the necklace, claimed to be the woman from that night, and was instantly swept into a life of luxury. Meanwhile, Ayleen was blackmailed into a forced marriage with her attacker—Cassius Doyle—to save her adoptive father from prison. Deceived by the stolen necklace, Cassius believed Ayleen was a manipulative spy. He brought the coworker into their home and paraded her around the master bedroom.
"In this house, you are lower than the dirt on my shoes."
He choked Ayleen, forced her to sleep in a damp storage room, and treated her with violent disgust while pampering the thief.
Ayleen was suffocating in absolute despair. She had lost her innocence, her freedom, and her mother's only relic to a vicious liar. She couldn't understand how this all-powerful man could be so completely blind. Why couldn't he recognize the very scent that had cured his agonizing madness?
Staring at the dark bruises he had just left on her neck, Ayleen wiped the blood from her lip. She would endure this three-month marriage to secure her family's safety, but once the contract ended, she would expose the truth and tear down the fake savior he cherished so much.
8.6
I woke up choking on rotting air in an alien jungle, surrounded by giant bioluminescent ferns and a three-eyed, armor-plated beast charging straight at me.
Before the monster could tear me apart, I was saved by a squad of men with metallic wings and laser rifles, but my nightmare was just beginning.
When they brought me back to their high-tech military base, every soldier we passed stopped dead, staring at me with a feverish, starving hunger that made my skin crawl.
In the medical wing, a manic doctor bypassed all protocol, pulling out a wicked silver needle to forcibly extract my blood, looking at me not as a patient, but as a winning lottery ticket.
Even their highest-ranking commander, a giant, scarred Admiral, immediately tried to claim me, demanding I be moved into his personal bedroom for "protection."
I didn't understand why I was being treated like a caged miracle, nor why a simple, accidental touch of my hand could bring my winged protector to his knees and silence his feral instincts.
"In the Aethel Empire, there are no females," my protector whispered, his icy blue eyes filled with raw desperation. "You are the only one."
The portal that brought me here was fading, trapping me in a universe of eighty billion shapeshifting Alpha males. Looking at the terrifying devotion in his eyes, I realized my life as an ordinary human was over, and to survive this, I had to tame the beasts.
9.4
Michael Carter is an undercover FBI agent on a mission to take down ruthless mafia king Fernando Ramírez-the man he believes killed his sister. But getting close to Fernando means playing a dangerous game, one where seduction and power blur the lines between enemy and lover.
When Michael uncovers a shocking truth, his thirst for revenge turns into a fight for something far more dangerous-his own heart. Now, torn between duty and desire, he must decide: destroy the man he swore to take down or surrender to the one thing he never saw coming.
Love has never been more lethal.
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.