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 7
The air inside the private Manhattan cigar club was thick with the scent of aged tobacco and expensive leather.
Allison followed the waiter down a dimly lit hallway and pushed open the door to a soundproof VIP room.
Griffin sat on a Chesterfield sofa, a glass of amber bourbon in his hand. Files were scattered across the low glass table.
Allison sat opposite him. Griffin pushed a perfectly mixed martini toward her.
He picked up the failed divorce document from his pocket, struck a match, and set the corner on fire. He dropped it into the crystal ashtray, watching it burn to ash.
"If you want thirty percent," Griffin said, his voice strictly business, "we need to prove gross marital misconduct. New York is a no-fault state, but egregious dissipation of marital assets changes the game."
"Kason bought Haylee a condo in Tribeca last month," Allison said smoothly. "Paid in cash from a subsidiary account."
Griffin's eyes gleamed. "Get me the wire traces. I need hard proof."
"Give me three days," Allison replied.
They clinked their glasses together. The sharp chime of crystal marked the official beginning of the war.
Suddenly, Allison's burner phone buzzed on the table.
The screen read: Kason.
Allison frowned and reached to decline it, but Griffin caught her wrist. His fingers were warm and firm. He shook his head, gesturing for her to answer.
Allison hit speakerphone.
"Listen to me carefully," Kason's arrogant voice filled the quiet room. "My grandfather's eightieth birthday banquet is this Saturday at The Plaza."
Allison remained silent.
"You will be there," Kason ordered. "The board is getting nervous about the rumors. We need to present a united front. If you embarrass me, or if you don't show up, I will make sure you leave this marriage with absolutely nothing."
Allison looked at Griffin. Griffin rolled his eyes in silent mockery.
Allison thought of Arthur Lindsay. The old man was the only person in that toxic family who had ever treated her with an ounce of respect.
"I'll be there," Allison said flatly, and hung up.
"Why go?" Griffin asked, taking a sip of bourbon. "It's a trap."
"Because," Allison said, staring at the dark liquid in her glass, "I have a gift to deliver."
Later that night, back in her penthouse, Allison opened a heavy steel floor safe.
She reached past stacks of cash and passports, pulling out a faded, worn velvet jewelry box.
She popped the latch.
Inside sat a dull, heavily oxidized copper St. Christopher amulet. The edges were battered, the metal scarred.
Allison gently traced the engraving with her thumb.
Her father had carried this in the Middle East. It wasn't just a trinket; it was a legendary artifact, recovered from a warlord's vault. It was the only physical thing she had left of them.
She closed the box. Her eyes hardened. She was ready for Saturday.
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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.