The Unwanted Wife's Ruthless Comeback
I woke up in a Swiss clinic with severe amnesia, having survived a three-week coma from a terrible skiing accident.
That was when I found out I was married to a ruthless billionaire named Holt Farmer. But instead of a loving husband, I was greeted by a monster who looked at me with pure hatred.
Because of my accident, his fragile mistress was being painted as a homewrecker by the media.
To save a corporate merger, my own family dragged me out of the hospital in a wheelchair, forcing me to attend a high-society gala to publicly apologize to the mistress.
When I refused and demanded a divorce in front of the cameras instead, my brother violently shoved my wheelchair into a marble pillar, fracturing my spine.
When I finally made it back to my parents with a broken body, they didn't even ask if I was hurt.
"A PR disaster. That's what you are."
My father looked at me coldly, only worried about the failing stock price, while my mother told me to take the settlement money and disappear forever.
I finally understood that to my husband and my blood relatives, my life was worth less than a corporate contract.
I didn't shed a single tear. Sitting alone in the dark, I dialed the number of the most feared divorce attorney in New York.
"I don't want his money. I want to dismantle them all."
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Chapter 3
The world came back in fragments. The sharp smell of antiseptic. The blinding glare of a penlight being shone into her pupil. The deep, rumbling voice of a man she didn't recognize.
"Diandra. Can you hear me? Squeeze my fingers if you can hear me."
She tried, but her hand felt like it was filled with wet sand. A low groan escaped her lips.
"She's coming out of it," the voice said. "Nurse, push another 2 milligrams of morphine."
The pain was still there, a monstrous, lurking beast, but the edges had been blunted by a heavy, chemical fog. Diandra blinked, her vision slowly focusing on the face of Dr. Alistair Finch. He was an older man, with kind eyes and a stern mouth, and he was looking at her with a mixture of professional concern and barely suppressed anger.
"What... happened?" she whispered, her throat feeling like it was lined with broken glass.
"You suffered a severe acute stress reaction," Dr. Finch said, his voice clipped. "Combined with a displacement of your spinal fixation hardware due to external physical trauma. In plain English, someone violently shook you, and it nearly paralyzed you."
The memory of the hotel room crashed over her. The cold gray eyes. The grip on her shoulder. The blinding, white-hot pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, a shudder running through her body.
"I've posted a security detail at your door," Dr. Finch continued, making a note on his chart. "No one, and I mean no one, gets in without my explicit permission. Not your husband, not the Pope. You need absolute rest. The next twenty-four hours are critical."
Diandra nodded weakly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Thank you," she mouthed.
The next two days passed in a haze of pain, medication, and fitful sleep. The nurses were gentle, their movements quiet and efficient. Brenda checked on her every hour, her eyes full of a pity that Diandra found both comforting and humiliating.
On the third morning, Diandra was finally allowed to sit up slightly. A physical therapist had helped her move her legs, the motion sending dull aches through her healing bones but proving that the feeling was still there. She was resting, watching the snow fall outside her window, when the door to her room swung open.
Holt Farmer walked in.
He was wearing casual clothes this time-a cashmere sweater and dark jeans-but the air of arrogant authority was even more pronounced than before. He looked impatient, his jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the room with a predatory intensity.
Brenda was right behind him, her face red with anger. "Sir, you cannot be in here! Dr. Finch left strict orders-"
"Enough, Brenda," Holt said, not even looking at her. "I've already spoken to the hospital administrator. I am her husband. I have every right to be here."
He walked to the foot of the bed, his eyes fixing on Diandra. "Game over, Diandra. I've arranged for you to be transferred to the best rehabilitation center in the United States. The jet is waiting. We're leaving now."
Diandra stared at him. The fear was there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was overshadowed by something else. A profound, disorienting confusion. She looked at his face, at the dark hair, the sharp jaw, the angry gray eyes. She searched her mind, desperately trying to find a memory, a spark of recognition.
Nothing.
The face before her was as unfamiliar as a stranger's on the street. The only thing her body remembered was the pain he had caused, the terror of his grip. But her mind was a blank slate.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The words hung in the air, simple and raw.
The room went deathly silent. Brenda's sharp intake of breath was the only sound. Holt's expression froze, the impatience draining away, replaced by a stunned, uncomprehending blankness.
"What did you say?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
Diandra swallowed, her eyes never leaving his. "I said, who are you? Why are you in my room?"
The shock on Holt's face twisted, morphing into something ugly and volatile. A dark flush crept up his neck. "Amnesia?" he scoffed, a cruel smile touching his lips. "That's your new script? You expect me to believe that?"
He took a step toward her, his hand reaching out, his fingers flexing with the same violent intent as before.
Diandra's body reacted before her mind could process the threat. The memory of the pain, the sheer, blinding agony of his last touch, flashed through her nervous system like an electric shock. She flinched violently, yanking her arm away from his reaching hand.
Her fingers scrambled against the mattress, finding the hard plastic of the red emergency button on her bedside rail. She slammed her palm down on it.
A shrill, piercing alarm erupted from the speaker above her bed, echoing down the hallway.
Holt froze, his hand suspended in mid-air, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Did you just-"
The door burst open. Two large men in security uniforms rushed into the room, followed closely by Dr. Finch, who looked absolutely furious.
"What is the meaning of this?" Dr. Finch demanded, stepping between Holt and the bed.
The security guards moved to flank Holt, their expressions grim. "Ma'am," one of them said, looking at Diandra. "Are you alright? Did this man touch you?"
Diandra pointed a trembling finger at Holt, her voice shaking but clear. "I don't know who he is. He tried to grab me. I want him out."
"Ma'am, he's your-" the guard began, but Dr. Finch cut him off.
"I don't care who he is," the doctor snarled. "He's endangering my patient. Remove him."
"You can't throw me out of my own wife's hospital room!" Holt roared, his composure shattering. "I'm Holt Farmer!"
The commotion had drawn attention. A stern-faced man in a dark suit stepped into the doorway. Detective Mark Coulson, from the local police precinct. He had been called by the clinic's administration after the previous incident.
"Is there a problem here?" the detective asked, his voice calm and authoritative.
"This man is harassing me," Diandra said, her voice gaining strength. "I don't know him. I want him to leave."
Holt let out a bitter laugh. "She's my wife. She's having a psychotic break."
Detective Coulson looked between the two of them, his eyes narrowing. "I'll need to see some identification. Both of you."
Holt pulled out his wallet, slamming his passport onto the bedside table with a frustrated thud. A nurse handed Diandra her purse, and she shakily retrieved her own passport.
The detective picked up both blue booklets, flipping them open. He studied the photo pages, then looked up at Diandra, his expression softening with a pity that made her stomach drop.
"Ma'am," he said gently, holding out the two passports side by side. "According to these documents, this man is indeed your husband. Holt Farmer."
Diandra stared at the passports. She looked at her own face, staring blankly from the glossy photo, a face she barely recognized. Then she looked at his face, the cold, angry stranger who had caused her so much pain.
Husband.
The word that had been a hollow void a moment ago now felt like a death sentence. She was married to him. She belonged to him. The realization hit her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. The room spun, the walls closing in on her.
She was bound, legally and irrevocably, to the devil.
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8.0
When gifted cellist Vivienne Aurel inherits her late father's catastrophic $4.2 million debt, she expects to lose everything. She doesn't expect the debt to be bought by Caspian Vane, the most feared private equity magnate in New York. Caspian doesn't want to ruin her; he wants her to work exclusively for him as the artistic director of his new cultural foundation for eighteen months. Forced into his world under a binding agreement, Vivienne prepares to fight against a cold, transactional cage. But as the intense, quiet proximity between them begins to blur the lines of their contract, she discovers a terrifying truth: the man who now owns her future has been watching her from the shadows long before she ever knew his name.
9.1
Julian Laurent was known as the most notorious playboy in Rivermont, changing girlfriends as often as he changed his clothes and treating marriage like a joke.
Clara Sterling, on the other hand, had always been the most quiet and obedient daughter of the Sterling family. Raised as the heir since childhood, she had been flawless in every word and every gesture.
A family-arranged marriage forced these two complete opposites into the same life.
On their wedding night, Julian openly made out with a young model at a nightclub.
For the first time, Clara cast aside her propriety, slapping him and demanding a divorce on the spot.
But before the next day was over, their families had forced them to remarry.
This time, Julian managed to stay faithful for a month before he cheated again.
Clara filed for divorce once more, cutting ties with him completely.
However, that very same day, it was revealed that Clara was not the real daughter of the Sterling family, and she was thrown out.
At her lowest point, Julian found her and solemnly promised to protect her from then on.
They remarried again, and from that day forward, the scandals surrounding Julian ceased.
Everyone said Clara was lucky. Even her best friend insisted that Julian had truly settled down, and Clara believed it.
Until she saw him in a hospital corridor, holding her best friend's hand, his voice strained with deep emotion, "I never liked her. You're the one I've always loved!"
It turned out all of his tenderness had been a lie.
This time, she walked away and never looked back.
And the man who had once treated her as disposable only realized after she was gone that he had long since drowned in her quiet love, unable to escape.
7.2
Azura Briggs was just a broke college student working freezing valet shifts to pay her adoptive mother's crushing medical debt.
Her desperate life shattered the night a bulletproof Maybach violently cornered her in an alley, and a ruthless billionaire kidnapped her by mistake.
After a harrowing escape, Azura was forced to take a humiliating "plus-one" gig at a high-end gala just to survive. But her date turned out to be the billionaire's arrogant nephew, who promptly abandoned her to the wolves. Cornered by a sleazy executive and his psychotic wife, Azura was publicly slapped, her dress torn, and left bleeding on the floor while hundreds of elites watched in disgust.
Just as she prepared to fight to the death, the crowd violently parted. Hunter Mcintosh, the terrifying man who had kidnapped her days ago, dropped to his knees in the broken glass and wrapped his bespoke jacket around her trembling shoulders.
Azura was completely paralyzed. Why was the monster who threatened her life now destroying billionaires just to protect her?
But the illusion of safety didn't last. Trapped in his Maybach hours later, Hunter threw a draconian employment contract at her feet.
"Sign it, and her care is covered. Forever."
He knew exactly how to break her. He was offering to pay off her mother's debt, but only if she signed her life away to become his personal assistant. With no other way out, Azura picked up the heavy pen.
7.4
"You can't escape me, Aurora. You are mine!"
The Alpha King's roar echoed through the palace walls.
But Aurora just tightened her grip on the blade hidden beneath her cloak.
She would never-never-give herself to the monster who murdered her father.
Even if the Moon Goddess cursed her to be his mate.
***
Aurora Regalia once had everything-a loving father, a prosperous pack, and a future that glittered with promise. Her father, the king, even chose her a mate: Logan Charming. Powerful. Charismatic. Cursed.
She thought he was her destiny.
Then she watched him tear her father's head from his shoulders.
One night. One betrayal. Her entire family, slaughtered. Her pack, reduced to ashes.
Aurora jumped off a cliff that night-not to die, but to survive. To become something her enemies would never see coming.
An assassin. A ghost. A blade wrapped in silk.
For years, she trained in the shadows, fueled by one single purpose: revenge. Blood for blood. She would make Logan Charming suffer the way she had suffered. She would carve his heart out and feel nothing.
But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
The Moon Goddess looked down at her shattered daughter and laughed.
Because the man who destroyed her life?
The monster who wore her father's blood on his hands?
He was her fated mate.
Now Aurora stands at a crossroads she never asked for. Every instinct screams for vengeance. Every fiber of her being recoils at the bond pulling her toward him.
But Logan? He doesn't care about her hatred. He doesn't care about her blade.
"You can run, little mate," he whispers, crimson eyes gleaming in the dark. "But I will always find you."
And when he does?
He won't just cage her body.
He'll claim her soul.
8.3
Half a month into our cold war, I, Claire Parker, found an abortion procedure slip tucked inside Daniel Carter's suit pocket.
The patient's name belonged to the fragile little childhood sweetheart he had always protected so fiercely-Sophie Bennett.
I folded the paper calmly and slipped it back where I had found it.
Daniel noticed the movement immediately. His eyes flicked toward me through the rearview mirror, resignation coloring his voice.
"What are you overthinking now? Sophie was just keeping a friend company at the hospital. She accidentally left it there."
I turned toward the window and said nothing.
This was Sophie declaring war on me, yet the man who could crush competitors without mercy in the business world believed her completely.
The silence inside the car grew suffocating until Daniel finally stopped outside an upscale jewelry boutique.
He reached over and ruffled my hair with easy familiarity, his tone indulgent and affectionate.
"Come on. Pick out a ring. Your birthday's next month anyway, so we might as well register our marriage too."
I bit down hard on my lip as tears fell soundlessly onto the back of my hand.
What he still didn't know was that I wouldn't live long enough to see next month.
7.0
My marriage ended at a charity gala I organized. One moment, I was the pregnant, happy wife of tech mogul Gabe Sullivan; the next, a reporter' s phone screen announced to the world that he and his childhood sweetheart, Harper, were expecting a child.
Across the room, I saw them together, his hand resting on her stomach. This wasn't just an affair; it was a public declaration that erased me and our unborn baby.
To protect his company's billion-dollar IPO, Gabe, his mother, and even my own adoptive parents conspired against me. They moved Harper into our home, into my bed, treating her like royalty while I became a prisoner.
They painted me as unstable, a threat to the family's image. They accused me of cheating and claimed my child wasn't his.
The final command was unthinkable: terminate my pregnancy. They locked me in a room and scheduled the procedure, promising to drag me there if I refused.
But they made a mistake. They gave me back my phone to keep me quiet. Feigning surrender, I made one last, desperate call to a number I had kept hidden for years-a number belonging to my biological father, Antony Dean, the head of a family so powerful, they could make my husband's world burn.