The Secret Diary Of My Ruthless Ex-Husband
Haven was escorted out of her office by security like a common criminal. Her corrupt boss had just fired her without cause, denying her severance and threatening to permanently blacklist her.
Desperate, she turned to her ex-husband Clayton, a ruthless top-tier corporate lawyer, begging him to represent her.
But instead of helping, he stared at her with absolute ice.
"You thought you could pay for my billable hours by opening your legs? Find a public defender."
Left destitute and facing eviction, her life spiraled further into hell. A prestigious newspaper offered her a dream job, only to instantly rescind it. Her vicious stepsister, Bettye, had maliciously tipped them off about a ten-year-old grand larceny conviction—a crime Bettye had actually committed but framed Haven for. To make matters worse, Haven discovered Clayton's law firm was actively defending the very boss who had just ruined her life.
The injustice and betrayal suffocated her. She couldn't understand how the boy she once loved had become such a soulless monster, perfectly willing to protect her abusers while watching her drown.
While packing her meager belongings in despair, she stumbled upon Clayton's old high school diary from exactly ten years ago. Out of petty rage, she grabbed a pen and scribbled an insult on the yellowed paper.
To her horror, the ink vanished. Seconds later, sharp, aggressive handwriting bled through the blank page.
"Who are you? How are you writing in my book?"
Staring at the impossible text from a 17-year-old Clayton, a manic spark of hope ignited in her eyes. She was going to rewrite her destiny.
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Chapter 5
The deafening ring of the 3:30 PM dismissal bell echoed through the halls of Maplewood High. Students flooded out of the classrooms, eager to escape.
Seventeen-year-old Clayton Sloan didn't move. He sat frozen at his desk in the back row.
He stared down at the black diary hidden inside his open textbook. The words that girl is your future wife burned into his retinas.
Clayton lifted his head. His dark eyes scanned the emptying room, trying to figure out which of these girls was supposedly his destiny.
A moment later, Haven Guerrero walked into the classroom. She was wearing a faded, oversized school hoodie. She carried a heavy mop and a plastic bucket. She was the scholarship kid who cleaned classrooms after school to pay for her lunch before heading to her second job downtown.
Clayton's brow furrowed. He watched her struggle to push the heavy wooden desks out of the way. A strange, uncomfortable tightness gripped his chest.
Suddenly, Leo Kowalski, the varsity running back, strutted into the room. He hopped up and sat right on the desk Haven had just wiped down.
"Hey, poverty," Leo sneered, his eyes raking over Haven's body with disgusting entitlement. "Come to my party this weekend. I'll buy you a real drink."
Haven gripped the wooden handle of the mop until her knuckles turned white. She kept her eyes glued to the floor. "Move, Leo. I have to clean."
Leo laughed. He reached out and grabbed Haven's wrist, his grip bruising and forceful. "Come on, don't be a bitch."
A violent surge of anger erupted in Clayton's blood. He slammed his heavy history textbook shut.
The loud BANG echoed like a gunshot in the empty room. Leo jumped, releasing Haven's wrist. He whipped his head around and glared at the back row.
Clayton met Leo's eyes. His face was a mask of terrifying, cold authority. "Get out."
Leo swallowed hard. Everyone knew the Sloan family practically owned the town. Leo cursed under his breath, grabbed his backpack, and practically ran out the door.
Haven looked up at Clayton. Her eyes were wide with shock. "Thank you," she whispered.
Clayton didn't say a word. To cover up his bizarre behavior, he grabbed his backpack, stood up, and walked out the back door into the hallway.
Once he was out of sight, Clayton checked his silver wristwatch. He had fifteen minutes until the theft at the boutique. He waited until the hallway was dead silent, then slipped out the side exit of the school and sprinted toward the downtown district.
He arrived at the Silver Linings Jewelry Boutique just in time, sneaking through the alleyway entrance and silently opening the door to the dark storage closet at the back of the shop.
The closet was pitch black. It smelled like industrial polish and old velvet. Clayton grimaced in disgust and pulled the door shut behind him.
He crouched down between two stacks of cardboard inventory boxes. He peered through the narrow slits of the wooden louvers on the closet door. He had a perfect view of the manager's desk and the locked glass display case containing the shop's most expensive pieces.
In the present timeline, twenty-seven-year-old Haven sat on her sofa. She stared at the diary on her coffee table. Her palms were sweating. Changing the past was a massive risk, but she was out of options.
Back in 2014, the back room door handle rattled. Clayton stopped breathing. His muscles locked up.
Mr. Sterling, the elderly boutique owner, shuffled into the room. He walked to the desk and started sorting through tomorrow's inventory ledgers.
Then, Sterling turned and walked straight toward the storage closet. He reached out and grabbed the brass doorknob.
Clayton's heart slammed against his ribs. If Sterling opened this door, Clayton had no excuse for hiding in the dark.
Right as the knob began to turn, a voice echoed from the hallway. "Alistair! Telephone out at the front register!"
Sterling let go of the knob. He turned around and shuffled out of the back room.
Clayton exhaled a long, shaky breath. A layer of cold sweat coated his forehead.
He pulled his smartphone out of his pocket. He switched it to video mode and aimed the camera lens right through the louver slits, focusing on the display case.
Soft, creeping footsteps echoed from the hallway. A dark figure slinked into the back room, hugging the wall.
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9.7
Darcie Miller survives elite St. Jude's Academy on sarcasm and invisibility, steering clear of golden quarterback Charles Sterling-her most ruthless tormentor. But when her father's bankruptcy hands everything to the Sterling family, Darcie faces a humiliating ultimatum: move into Charles's mansion as his live-in "academic handler" to keep him eligible for graduation.
Now the girl who despises him holds his future in her hands, and the boy who shattered her reputation might be the only one who truly sees her. In a world of cold marble and buried secrets, hate is about to catch fire-and obsession could burn them both.
9.3
On her wedding night at The Plaza Hotel, Clara went looking for her husband.
Instead, she found him in the dimly lit parking garage, passionately pinning down her bridesmaid.
She couldn't even scream or expose them. Just hours before the ceremony, Julian had tricked her into signing away her twenty percent shares of their co-founded company, leaving her completely penniless and unable to pay her grandmother's life-saving medical bills.
Fleeing in absolute despair, a sudden hotel blackout plunged her into a second nightmare. She was dragged into a pitch-black room and brutally violated by a heavily drugged stranger.
When a shattered Clara returned to the office to audit the books and reclaim her power, Julian demoted her to a dusty desk by the trash cans.
He flaunted his mistress in the executive suite and deliberately sent Clara into a horrifying trap. He arranged for vicious clients to drug and assault her, demanding high-definition blackmail photos so he could divorce her with absolutely nothing.
"Since you want to play rough, you can service Mr. Petrocelli tonight," the thug sneered, locking the VIP room door.
Clara was pushed to the brink of hell. Why was the man she devoted three years of her life to trying to destroy her so completely? And why did the freezing cedarwood scent of the stranger who ruined her in the dark perfectly match Conrad Vance, the ruthless CEO and Julian's untouchable uncle?
Rather than let Julian win, Clara smashed a glass bottle, held the jagged edge to her own throat to force the men back, and threw herself off the second-floor balcony into the freezing night.
But the bone-crushing impact never came. A massive figure shot out from the shadows and caught her, and her brutal counterattack finally began.
9.5
Alina was the eldest daughter of the prestigious Padilla family, but everyone mocked her as a defective dud who couldn't cast a single spell.
The moment she woke up, her father and younger sister Karina barged into her room, demanding she sign a transfer agreement to the Aethelgard Order-the most brutal faction on the continent.
It wasn't just a transfer; it was a legal disownment. In her past life, Alina didn't realize Karina was also reborn. She had dropped to her knees and begged to stay. Her reward? Her magic was violently drained from her veins by her own family. Her fiancé drove a blade through her chest, and her sister stood over her bleeding body, smiling. She had ruined her hands making potions for them, only to be discarded like trash.
The phantom pain of her chest being ripped open still burned behind her ribs. Looking at the hypocritical family waiting for her tears, she felt nothing but exhausting disgust. Why should she ever be their stepping stone again?
"For the honor of the family, you leave today."
Her father sneered as she calmly bit her thumb and pressed her bloody fingerprint onto the contract. This time, Alina didn't cry. She packed a single bag and walked out the door, heading straight for the deadly Aethelgard Order to show them what a true monster looked like.
9.8
Haylee always thought she belonged to the wealthy Bowen family.
But on the night of her birthday, her younger sister Cynthia handed her a crushing DNA report, sneered that she was taking her trust fund and fiancé, and shoved her violently off the yacht into the freezing Atlantic.
Washing ashore on a dark island, Haylee was brutally assaulted by a drugged stranger.
When she was finally rescued, she stared at a tiny television screen in absolute horror.
Her adoptive father was calmly declaring her mentally unstable and officially dead to the press.
Meanwhile, Cynthia was on screen flaunting a massive diamond ring from Haylee's own fiancé, inheriting everything that was rightfully hers.
Discarded like trash, stripped of her identity, and suddenly pregnant with a stranger's child, Haylee was forced to flee the country with nothing but a heavy silver signet ring she found in the dark.
She never understood how the family she had loved and trusted for years could erase her existence so ruthlessly.
"Are we going to see the bad people who bullied you, Mom?"
Five years later, Haylee stepped off a plane at JFK Airport, holding the hand of her genius five-year-old son.
She was no longer a helpless victim, but a top-tier medical director holding the key to a billion-dollar empire.
"We aren't running anymore," Haylee said softly, her voice laced with steel. "We're here to take everything back."
7.6
I sold myself to a paralyzed billionaire to pay for my mother's life support.
But my step-sister staged a photo of me with another man, making my new husband think I was a cheating gold-digger.
In a jealous rage, Curtis locked me in a dark panic room.
While trapped, my step-mother sent a picture of her hand on my mom's ventilator plug, forcing me to sneak out to a black-market clinic.
There, they forcibly drained 800cc of my blood to sell.
Half-dead and in severe shock, I dragged myself back home, only for Curtis to confront me with another staged photo of my ex grabbing me outside the clinic.
Believing I had snuck out to see a lover, he ordered his guards to throw my blood-drained body into the freezing wine cellar.
"Please, don't put me down there! I'll die!"
I begged and clung to his wheelchair, but he just kicked my hand away in absolute disgust.
In the pitch-black, 55-degree room, my organs slowly shut down.
I didn't understand why I had to endure this hell, or why he was so blinded by his own fragile ego that he never even noticed how chalk-white my face was.
Hours later, his precious sister needed an emergency transfusion, and they dragged my icy body out to drain me again.
But when the doctor rolled up my sleeve and exposed the horrific, bruised puncture wound, Curtis finally realized the truth.
As he stared at my arm in absolute, paralyzed terror, the EKG machine attached to my chest flatlined.
9.2
I was a broke freelance copywriter, tortured for three sleepless nights by an impossible corporate client.
Needing to vent, I typed out a wild, highly inappropriate rant mocking the brand's stiff heritage.
But in my exhausted, sleep-deprived blur, I accidentally sent the massive block of text to the wrong chat.
The recipient wasn't my friend. It was Emerson Beard, the elite, ruthless brand consultant I was supposed to desperately network with.
I waited for the professional execution, terrified of the massive five-figure penalty fee hanging over my head.
Instead, he didn't block me. He critiqued my unhinged draft.
He saved my career through late-night, encrypted phone calls, his deep, commanding voice becoming my only lifeline.
But when I heard a woman with a sultry French accent knocking on his hotel door during our call, my ugly jealousy flared.
I yelled at him and hung up, completely humiliating myself.
I thought I was just a pathetic, annoying workaholic interrupting his romantic getaway.
But he texted back to clarify he was entirely single, and in the process, realized I was actually twenty-five, not a fresh-out-of-school teenager like he had assumed.
The cold, distant mentor instantly vanished.
In his place was a man radiating a raw, aggressive, and predatory energy that bled right through the screen.
"Texting is too inefficient. The full integration requires face-to-face communication."
He dropped a location pin for an ultra-exclusive Manhattan club, demanding I meet him to save my contract.
Wearing a desperately bought emerald silk dress, I pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping right into the trap of a man who had just taken off his leash.