1420 Book(s) Related to funny christian jokes and stories

My parents ruined my wedding six times.

Every single time, right at the moment the ring was about to slip onto my finger—the first time, Mom knocked over the champagne tower. The second time, Dad drove his pickup truck straight through the floral arch... Either the groom wasn't good enough, or the wedding was too cheap. Each time was more batshit crazy than the last. The sixth time, Mom even held a knife to her own throat, threatening me not to put on the ring.

It made no sense to me—why push me to get married while doing everything to stop me from wearing that ring?

So for the seventh wedding, I chose a small chapel in a remote mountain area, went completely off-grid, dead certain they'd never track me down.

Just as Ethan was about to slide the ring onto my finger—

The chapel doors burst open.

Two figures stumbled in, gasping for air, faces streaked with tears.

My parents.

My family used me as bait to destroy my sister's happiness.

The plan was simple: fake being poor, watch my sister's construction worker boyfriend run when times got tough, then reveal the truth and break her heart. I was supposed to be the convincing proof of our "poverty."

But I didn't know I was acting. For ten years, I lived their lie for real. Starved while they feasted in hiding. Worked myself to the bone while they watched me suffer.

Then I got my dream job and burst through the door to save everyone—only to find my sister's engagement party in progress.

But she'd dumped the construction worker for a tech mogul. "Maya's suffering was so authentic," she laughed to her guests. "It showed me exactly what I'd become if I stayed with Jake. Thank God I came to my senses."

My pain was her wake-up call.

On our seventh anniversary, Jeffrey brought his mistress home for dinner.

Calla wore my dead mother's necklace and called me a "boring housewife" while I cooked for them. Jeffrey laughed, saying I was lucky he kept me around since I'd never contributed anything to our marriage.

What he didn't know? I'd given up my six-figure tech career to nurse him back from his car accident. Sacrificed everything while he treated me like his personal servant.

For seven years, I endured his cheating and cruelty, thinking love meant sacrifice.

I was wrong.

When I left him the divorce papers, Jeffrey screamed that I'd come crawling back within a week.

But when I never came back, he was the one who lost his mind.

At the Academy's Beast Hunt Competition, I killed a high-tier Shadow Wraith and carved out its core.

My sister Seraphine stole it and claimed first place.

That core eased the brutal dragon prince Draven's chronic migraines. He demanded to marry the mage who presented it.

My fiancé Kelvin soul-bound himself to Seraphine overnight to "save" her. Done deal.

Someone had to fulfill the dragon marriage contract. That someone was me.

Seraphine draped herself over Kelvin, smirking. "Sister, your fiancé's MINE now. Draven arrives in three days—better find some random dragon to marry, or he'll tear you apart."

I looked at her smug face and smiled slowly.

"What makes you think I won't marry him?"

My water broke on the coldest night of winter.

My fated mate, Alpha Cassian, wrapped silver chains around my wrists and threw me into a freezing dungeon.

"Lucian's son must be born first," he snarled, forcing wolfsbane down my throat as I screamed through contractions.

Above me, his sister-in-law Sienna rested in silk sheets, surrounded by healers and warmth. She was carrying his dead brother's heir—the future of the pack. And I? I was nothing. Just the Omega he'd been forced to mark, the one his pack blamed for Lucian's death.

As silver burned through my skin and ice water rose past my chest, I felt our baby's heartbeat flutter. Then slow.

"Please," I begged. "Our child—"

"You owe him this," Cassian said coldly.

When the chains finally came off, he'd lost us both for good.

In my last life, Natalie insisted on stepping out of the car to feed a wild grizzly.

I tried to stop her. Daniel shoved me into the bear's path instead — to save her.

The grizzly's teeth tore through my throat. My blood sprayed hot across the snow.

And there was Daniel, my boyfriend of three years, holding Natalie close. Not a scratch on her.

He even raised his phone to film me being ripped apart, then posted it on TikTok with the caption: "She gave her life to protect us." The donations poured in for weeks.

Now my eyes are open again. Natalie's pushing the car door open, sandwich in hand, ready to hand-feed the cubs.

This time, I don't scream. I don't stop her.

I just watch her lean halfway out the door — and lock it behind her.

Three years ago, I nearly died giving birth to my son.

My husband Elias wasn't by my side—he was outside, ready to rip my baby from my arms and hand him to his dead brother's widow.

"We owe her this."

As I screamed and bled, Elias made his decree: "Aria stays away from the boy. She comes near him, she gets the silver whip."

They gave my son to Vivienne. I wasn't even allowed to see his face.

For three years, I tried everything to reach him.

Scaled walls—got twenty-three scars across my back. Snuck in as a maid—starved for seven days. Crashed his third birthday—thrown in ice water until I couldn't feel my legs.

Every time, worse punishment. Elias started looking at me like I'd lost my mind.

Then yesterday, fire ripped through the house. Flames swallowed the nursery.

Everyone screamed, including Vivienne—but she didn't move.

Only I ran in.

I pulled Asher out, barely breathing.

When he woke up, he shoved me away and clung to Vivienne, sobbing: "Mommy! She's here again! Make her GO! You said she'd leave if I was good!"

Three years of lies had erased me completely.

I dropped to my knees, voice breaking: "Call me 'Mom' just once. Then I'll disappear forever."

On my anniversary flight to New York, fate sat my cheating husband's mistress right beside me.

Alice spent the entire trip gushing about "her Daniel" while wearing the sapphire ring he'd called "too vulgar" for his wife—me.

"She's so pathetic," Alice laughed, describing how Daniel planned to dump his "clingy" spouse. "Good riddance!"

If only she knew his "pathetic" wife was the billionaire secretly bankrolling his success.

At JFK, Daniel threw money at my feet and told me to disappear.

I smiled, dialed my investment firm, and watched his face crumble.

"Hello, darling. Your sugar mama just quit."

My fiancé has tried to kill me seventeen times.

Everyone says I'm cursed by the Moon Goddess. Five years, seventeen mating ceremonies—all ending in blood.

An eagle's talons through my spine. Poisoned wine that stopped my heart. Ritual flames that charred my skin. Each time, I survived. Each time, Kael Silverblade held my hand and swore it was fate's cruelty, not his.

I believed him.

Until the seventeenth time.

Blood moon. Three assassins. Nine bone blades cutting precise lines across my body—missing every vital organ, maximizing the pain. I writhed on the sacred stones, screaming until my voice broke.

Three days later, still wrapped in bandages, I heard him talking to his lieutenant outside the healing den.

"Lord Silverblade, she almost died this time. Maybe we should—"

"No." Kael's voice was ice. "Her brother saved my life. My grandfather swore a blood debt—a mating bond to repay it. But goddammit, I love Vira. I've always loved Vira. Not her."

Silence.

"Keep the accidents coming," he said. "As long as she won't let go, we keep going. She'll break eventually. She has to."

I pressed against the wall, tears streaming down my face.

Seventeen times. Not curses. Not fate.

Him.

The male I'd loved since I was sixteen.

But here's what Kael doesn't know—this time, he finally wins.

I won't survive the next full moon.

The night before our engagement party, my fiancé gifted me a million-dollar yacht—with another woman's name carved on the hull.

Not mine. "Serena"—his first love, the one who got away.

Five years of patience. Five years of sacrifice. And this is what I get?

"Stop overreacting," Austin said without a hint of shame. "She's severely depressed. I'm just trying to comfort her."

Comfort her? What about me?

When Serena tried on what should've been my wedding dress, when Austin demanded I "be the bigger person" yet again—I finally snapped.

I threw the engagement ring. It cracked against his face.

Austin's hand shot up in fury.

The door exploded open.

Julian Cross—New York's most dangerous billionaire—stepped inside, his presence filling the room like a storm.

"You dare lay a hand on my woman?"

At my seventh wedding, they replaced me.

The Oracle pointed at me and screamed one word: "CURSED."

Father's hand cracked across my face. Mother tore the wedding dress off my body and shoved my cousin Seraphine into it.

"She'll marry him instead," Father said. "You'll destroy us all."

What they didn't know? A thousand years ago, our family made a blood pact with the Shadow Lord himself: if the eldest Ashford daughter remained unmarried on her twenty-sixth birthday, she belonged to HIM.

Today was my twenty-sixth birthday.

I begged Julian to run. "Please. We have until sunset."

He laughed. "The Shadow Lord's a fairy tale, Anna. Seraphine's just going through the motions. You're being dramatic."

Then he told my parents everything.

They locked me in the tower.

But the Shadow High Priest's warning was clear—at sunset, the Shadow Lord would come. And when he did, I'd drink the Potion of Forgetting and lose everything.

My memories. My name. My soul.

The clock struck five.

He was coming.

"Sign the Brooklyn house over to Isla. I'll cover your tuition next semester."

Gabriel didn't look up. Just sat there in his leather chair like he was doing me a favor.

My mother grabbed my sleeve. "She has depression, Rachel. She just needs a studio. Why are you making this so hard?"

I looked at her, then at him. That house was the only thing my father left me when he died. The only thing. And my stepbrother was sitting in his leather chair, offering me a trade like it was nothing.

"That house is the only thing my father left me," I said. "You know that."

Gabriel finally looked up. "I know. Sign anyway."

My mother tightened her grip on my sleeve. I shook her off.

"Give me the pen."

I signed. Grabbed my suitcase — packed for three days — and walked out.

I had nowhere to go. I didn't care.

My fiancé was going to humiliate me at our own wedding.

I know because I heard him think it.

I'm Isabella Rossi — mafia heiress, future bride to Lorenzo Falcone, the golden boy of New York's underworld. Our marriage was supposed to unite two empires.

I also have a secret. I can read minds. But only when people want to use me, hurt me, or destroy me.

Lorenzo's thoughts had been silent for three years. I thought that meant he loved me.

The night before the wedding, I finally heard him. The mistress he'd planted in the crowd. The fake pregnancy reveal. The plan to humiliate me at the altar so he could play the victim — and steal my family's power in the chaos.

To marry Damian Thorne, I almost died thirteen times.

Over three years, I planned twelve weddings. Each one left me bleeding.

The first time: a runaway truck crashed into the bridal boutique, crushing my right leg.

The second time: the church ceiling collapsed during rehearsal, leaving me broken and bloodied.

The third time: poisoned champagne at the reception nearly killed me as I foamed at the mouth.

...

Manhattan's elite whispered that I was cursed.

But I still loved him desperately.

Until the thirteenth time. That bloody rainy night, three thugs cornered me in an alley and stabbed me seven times—two to the chest, three to the abdomen, two to the back. I lay dying in my own blood, yet somehow survived.

After I healed, I accidentally overheard Damian talking to his assistant.

"Mr. Thorne, she almost really died this time... Maybe we should stop? If your grandfather finds out..."

"We can't stop," Damian said wearily. "Her father saved my life. Grandfather is hell-bent on me marrying her. But DAMN IT, I love Selena, not her."

"As long as she won't give up, these accidents have to continue until she gets the message and leaves on her own."

I trembled as I touched the bandages covering my wounds, tears falling silently.

All these years, the man I desperately loved had been meticulously planning my death.

But he didn't know that this time, he really wouldn't have to marry me anymore.

I was dying, but honestly? Death felt like mercy.

As a vampire, I should have been immortal. But at six years old, I'd made a deal with a demon, gambling my fate on "true love"—if three times I failed to win the heart of the one I loved, the demon would claim my soul.

Just when I thought death was certain, I got pregnant. Morag, the demon, showed rare mercy, promising to wait until I gave birth.

But at eight months, my husband sneered about removing the "bastard." My brother didn't even flinch as he sliced open my belly. My parents cursed that I deserved it—all to save my sister Lycia, who'd somehow "returned from the dead."

The day they cut my child out, not one tear. Not for me.

So why, after I died, were they all on their knees at my grave, sobbing?

The tour bus hung precariously over the cliff's edge, smoke billowing from its engine. Inside, two pregnant women were trapped.

"Captain Walker, both pregnant women are in critical condition. Who do we save first?"

I had been pierced by a steel rod through my abdomen, my water had broken, and I was screaming desperately at my husband:

"Ryan Walker! My water broke! The baby's dying!"

On the other side, his first love Stella clutched her chest, her face deathly pale:

"Ryan, I'm having a heart attack! Save me!"

The man in the firefighter uniform charged toward Stella's side without hesitation.

"Captain, your wife's position is easier to reach!" team member Mike shouted.

"SHUT UP! Follow orders!"

He rushed to Stella without looking back, leaving behind one sentence:

"She won't die. I'm her husband, I take full responsibility."

When my parents forced me to donate my organs to my sister, I didn't refuse or run away. I just quietly signed the surgical consent forms, willingly giving my kidney to Vivienne, their beloved daughter.

A few months ago, my sister was hospitalized with kidney failure. The doctor said she needed a transplant. My family's first thought was me—the backup daughter they'd kept around all these years.

When my husband Allen took my hand with tears in his eyes and said, "Only you can save her," I agreed without hesitation.

When the doctor explained the surgical risks and potential complications, I smiled and nodded my understanding.

My parents said I'd finally learned what sisterly love meant.

Even Allen, who'd always been cold to me, held my hand gently and said, "The surgery's safe. You're so healthy, nothing will go wrong. When you recover, I'll take you to Hawaii."

But they don't know that no matter how the surgery goes, I won't be around to celebrate.

Because I just got my own test results—I have terminal brain cancer. I'm going to die anyway.

"Just a poor warrior girl," they laughed. Until HE showed up.

Marcus dumped me six years ago for money and status. Now he's back with his snake princess girlfriend, ready to humiliate me again. They force me to kneel, break my legs, tear my clothes—all for a stupid wedding dress.

"Your boyfriend can't save you," Seraphina hisses. "Nobody cares about trash like you."

Then the wall EXPLODES.

A massive black wolf storms in, golden eyes blazing with fury. When he shifts back to human form, every face in the room goes white with terror.

Turns out my "nobody" boyfriend is the most feared Alpha on the continent. Oops.

Ten years ago, I sat in the witness stand and told the court my beloved Uncle Arthur was a monster.

My testimony sent him away for twenty years and made my father Robert a hero.

For a decade, I lived inside the perfect world my father built around me — safe and warm and suffocating. Then one afternoon, digging through boxes in the basement, I found Buster's old collar. My golden retriever. The dog I'd made myself forget.

The memory hit like a freight train.

The man in the dark had clamped his hand over my mouth, and I could smell him now — peppermint and cologne, thick and choking. I saw Buster lunge at him. Saw the man's boot connect with the dog's ribs.

But Uncle Arthur was deathly allergic to dogs. He couldn't get near Buster without his throat closing up.

If it wasn't Arthur that night — then who the hell was it?

I won the championship at the sailing regatta, only to watch my arch-rival smash my trophy into a thousand pieces.

"Sienna's nothing but a homewrecker! She doesn't deserve squat!"

Cindy—my defeated opponent—stood there in front of the entire school, accusing me of sleeping my way to the top. According to her, I'd seduced some sponsor to steal the win.

"Are you out of your damn mind? You lost. Deal with it!"

"Lost? Oh honey, that's rich coming from someone who cheated her way to the finish line!"

I almost laughed at her pathetic meltdown—until she whipped out a photo of me on a yacht.

"Take a good look, bitch! That's my father you were screwing!"

The woman in the picture? Definitely me.

The man beside me? She just called him "dad."

What. The. Fuck.

Since when do I have a goddamn half-sister?

The more I cry, the hornier my sister gets.

Not a metaphor. Stone cold reality. Me and pop superstar Melody share a sick "emotional link" — the worse I suffer, the more she glows on stage.

My husband Christian discovered this secret.

Then he chose to betray me and crawl into bed with Melody.

Now every time Melody has a big show, Christian locks me in the basement, force-feeds me depression pills, and blasts horror movies 24/7 until I'm totally broken.

My despair gets fed straight into Melody's energy, making her perform like she's possessed.

Tonight they're fucking to celebrate her win. Tomorrow's concert means draining me dry again.

Enough!

If my pain is your sex drug, I'm cutting off the supply completely.

I'm going to the medical center to freeze myself for one full year.

Let you two horny bastards screw each other to death!

I bought my five-year-old son a Captain America shield for his birthday.

But when I landed in New York, the hospital called.

"Your son died during the medical procedure your husband authorized."

Marcus had signed Axel up as a living donor. For his mistress's kid.

While our baby bled out on the operating table, Marcus was cutting birthday cake with his new family.

Even used Axel's favorite Superman pillow as decoration.

I stared at my child's mutilated corpse and made a promise.

You fed my baby to wolves for a whore's smile. Time to return the favor, Marcus.

"Give Lydia half your beast core blood—you owe our clan that much!"

Facing the man who wore my brother-in-law Arthur's face but carried my dead husband Carlisle's distinct scent, I didn't fight back. I let him drive the blade into my chest.

Three years married, and Carlisle died in the border beast surge. I'd tried to follow him in death so many times that grief had nearly bled me dry—only to catch him alive, faking his death so he could marry his precious sister-in-law under his brother's name.

To keep his cover, he stood by while his new woman degraded me, even forced me to sign a slave contract that stripped me of all dignity.

He thought I loved him too much to ever leave.

Until I drained every drop of blood that carried his mate bond and disappeared.

That's when this arrogant bastard finally lost it completely.

"Brielle, I need money... My bone cancer is worse. Without treatment, I won't make it past next month."

For Cole's words, I gave up everything—my billionaire father, my inheritance, my name. I became a crime scene cleaner, the most degrading job in New York.

Twenty hours a day, I scrubbed blood and rotting flesh off apartment floors. I even sold my own blood. All to save the man I loved.

One million dollars. Finally, I had it.

I rushed to the five-star hotel, clutching the warm check in my trembling hands. Pushed open the presidential suite door.

And froze.

Cole—healthy, glowing, dressed in an expensive suit—knelt before Delilah, New York's newest socialite. A diamond ring glittered between his fingers.

"Babe, that corpse-smelling idiot sent more money today," he laughed. "That bag you wanted? Let's go buy it right now."

The check fell from my hands.

Something inside me shattered.

And something darker took its place.

I've been with Nathaniel for five years. We were supposed to announce our wedding date next month.

Then he brought his "fragile" intern Lily to a Halloween escape room. When she drew the punishment straw — ten minutes in a freezing water tank — he swapped it with mine in the dark.

I have claustrophobia. I just had surgery. He knew. He didn't care.

I nearly drowned while he held her and wiped her tears through the glass.

When I woke up in the hospital, Nathaniel was gone. But Alexander Sterling was standing by my bed — the billionaire who'd been anonymously funding my gallery all along.

He offered me a contract marriage. I accepted.

Now Nathaniel's on his knees begging. But I'm already wearing another man's ring.

"Grace, your trashy mom ruined Jessica's dress. Bitch deserved to die!"

Blake stepped on the bloody corpse, shoving me down to grovel at Jessica's feet.

The bastard forgot already? My mom sold our Texas ranch to make him rich! But once he hit it big, he let his secretary Jessica beat her to death like she was some street bum.

I looked at the body wearing that emerald ring, trying to tell him the truth, but he backhanded me hard.

Then the asshole ordered her thrown in the septic tank just to kiss up to Jessica.

I wiped blood from my mouth and laughed.

Idiot had no clue—that wasn't even my mother.

My six-month business trip to Europe was finally over. I decided to surprise my husband Nathaniel by coming home early without telling him, bringing my six-year-old son Lucas straight to his newly opened upscale restaurant.

Lucas excitedly ran toward the children's play area while I scanned the restaurant for Nathaniel, eagerly anticipating our reunion.

Suddenly, a scream shattered the peaceful atmosphere.

I turned to see a woman in work uniform roughly shoving my son, snarling viciously:

"What the hell are you RUNNING around for, you little brat! Can't you watch where you're going?"

I froze. How DARE this woman treat my child like this in my husband's restaurant?

When my fiancé left me to burn alive to save his "fragile" white lotus, I thought my story was over.

But death had other plans.

Reborn with memories intact, I watched him make the same fatal choice—abandoning me in the flames for her. This time, I smiled and said, "Go save her."

Because this time, the most powerful Alpha in North America was coming for me.

Derek thought he was discarding a burden. He had no idea he was throwing away his only lifeline.

Now, as I stand beside Lucas in his billion-dollar empire, watching my ex grovel in the gutter, I have just one message: karma is a bitch, and so am I.

I've been married to billionaire Joseph Miller for three years. Pregnant three times. Aborted three times.

Every time, my husband stood outside the operating room, watching them wheel me in.

The first baby, my mother-in-law Victoria said had spinal deformities. The second, my father-in-law Richard showed a "report" claiming heart defects.

I believed them. I thought it was my fault, something wrong with my body.

Until the third pregnancy.

This time I secretly went to another hospital—DNA showed 99.9% match with Joseph, every prenatal indicator perfect.

I rushed home clutching the report, thinking I could finally save my child.

Victoria glanced at it and tossed it on the coffee table. "You are carrying a healthy baby. But the Miller family doesn't need it."

My in-laws forcibly dragged me to the clinic. I screamed to Joseph for help: "That's your child!"

His eyes were red, but he still let them kill my baby.

Desperate, I demanded a divorce. He coldly refused, tearing at my clothes: "Stop being dramatic. Time for the fourth."

I finally understood—I wasn't his wife. I was their breeding machine.

But why? Why force me to keep getting pregnant, only to kill every healthy baby?

Until that night, I pushed open the attic door that had been locked for three years—

And finally understood everything.

Seven years married. Seven years reading minds. Still ended up the biggest joke in New York's underworld.

My husband Dante—Mafia boss—put that ring on my finger thinking, "This should be Elena's."

Seven years taking bullets for him. Seven years tortured for him. All I got was his cold contempt.

Then Elena came back with a kid. I became trash.

"Victoria, you disgust me." He crushed me under his boot, had me beaten bloody—all for her.

That's when my heart died.

I didn't explain. Just watched the clock.

Three hours until the boat leaves.

Dante, we're done. Forever.

I tear your shirt, Davina was simply beautiful.... My cock is throbbing with desire, it goes straight from your neck to those pink and ample breasts, I suck hungrily, craving more, forcefully, between kisses and nibbles, I slide my hands to your entrance, one finger playing with your clitoris and another playing with your backside in a constant rhythm of thrusting in and out.
I hear you moan softly, hearing you like that is pure bliss.... I continue to descend, planting kisses all over your body, rubbing my cock against your entrance, causing you to arch your back.
The only thing keeping me from being there is the thin fabric of your lace panties and my underwear, I feel them soaked through the fabric, which only excites and intensifies the arousal.
I keep descending further... I need to taste you!

In "Welcome to my hell, Mafia Wife," Davina is forced to marry Adam, a feared Mafia Don from England. As they prepare for their union, they discover a world of seduction and betrayal. Shocking secrets are unveiled by a mysterious masked figure, igniting a burning desire for revenge in Davina. The tension between them escalates with each encounter, threatening everything they know. Amidst secrets, betrayals, and passionate encounters, Davina and Adam must unravel the truth behind their arranged marriage and fight for survival in a hellish world.

For 158 years, Vera has known nothing but darkness, chains, and lies. Kidnapped as a child and imprisoned beneath a werewolf fortress, she has been told that her vampire people are dead and that she will remain forgotten forever.

Then Luca, the powerful Alpha who has just conquered the fortress, discovers her.

He should have left the mysterious vampire prisoner exactly where he found her. Instead, his wolf recognizes her as his mate.

But Vera is not an ordinary vampire. She is the lost heir to a royal bloodline, and an ancient prophecy says her return will change the werewolf world forever.

As Luca uncovers the secrets hidden beneath his enemy’s fortress, Vera begins to regain the strength her captors deliberately kept from her. The more powerful she becomes, the more dangerous the truth surrounding her imprisonment appears.

Now Luca must decide whether to trust the vampire who was raised to believe wolves are her enemies.

And Vera must decide whether the Alpha who freed her is truly different from the men who kept her chained.

Because their bond may be the key to ending centuries of war…

or the beginning of something far more dangerous.

When I called my husband with trembling hands, clutching my cancer diagnosis, all I heard was his sweet laughter with his young, hot influencer girlfriend. Ten years of marriage, and when I needed him most, he chose betrayal.

In divorce court, I was painted as the "crazy ex-wife" while the entire internet mocked me. Everyone took their side. No one knew I was fighting for my life.

Until the day he finally learned the truth.

Seven years of marriage turned me into a joke.

My husband Christopher would drive across half of New York in a blizzard just to bring my sister Amanda a cup of mulled wine. My own son Ryan would point at my face and scream, "Aunt Amanda is a hundred times prettier than you! She should be my mom!"

In this house, the three of them were family. I was just the unpaid help.

I thought if I loved them enough, I could win their hearts. Until the day Ryan stomped on my architectural model—six months of work, my ticket back to the career I'd sacrificed. Christopher just shrugged. "Amanda wanted it as a toy for Ryan. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of it?"

Something inside me went quiet.

I signed the papers without a word. Left my ring on the table. Walked into the winter night and never looked back.

My husband pushed me down the stairs when I was three months pregnant.

I thought it was his bipolar disorder acting up again. The doctors said he couldn't control himself. So I forgave him—just like I'd forgiven the cigarette burns, the broken ribs, and all those nights he choked me unconscious.

Then I lost our baby.

And overheard him on the phone: "The bitch deserved it. If she hadn't stopped me three years ago, Elena would be mine."

That's when I realized—he was never sick. He'd been torturing me on purpose for three years.

Punishing me because I "made him lose" the woman he loved.

So I signed the divorce papers and walked away without looking back.

When Daniel and Melissa's marriage imploded, Grace and I were ten.

They fought wildly in family court for Grace, screaming until they were blue in the face. Then, the judge looked down from the bench and asked about my custody.

Crickets. Total, suffocating silence.

They eventually agreed to split time. In a thirty-one-day month, they meticulously counted hours, practically drawing blood to see who got Grace for the 31st day. I was just the invisible ghost taking up space in the backseat.

Now that we are eighteen, I've secured a full scholarship to Harvard. While they toast to Grace's adulthood in a room full of guests, my bag is packed.

My flight to Boston leaves in two hours. It's a one-way ticket.

Eight years ago, I was forced to marry Sicily's most dangerous man.

Louis De Santis, heir to the Santis crime family, decided he wanted me. Right in front of me, he brutally tortured and killed my fiancé Alessandro, then dumped the body in the ocean for the sharks. He used Alessandro's blood to write threats on the wall to my parents—I had no choice but to walk into that fortress he called home.

Louis was obsessed with me to the point of madness. He took bullets for me during family wars, got down on his knees and begged the family elders when they questioned his choice. Under that twisted kind of love, I gradually fell for him and gave him a son—Marco.

For five years, I thought I'd found happiness.

Until year eight, when the Corleone family sent their "peace offering"—Angelina Corleone. This innocent-looking woman effortlessly stole Louis's heart. He had the nerve to announce: "You two are going to get along."

I couldn't stand the betrayal, so I secretly reached out to other families to try getting rid of Angelina.

I got caught.

In his rage, Louis strung up 5-year-old Marco above the blast furnace at the steel mill.

"NO! Please! He's just a child!" I rushed toward Louis frantically, but his men held me back.

Molten steel roared inside the furnace at 2912°F. Scorching heat blasted upward as little Marco dangled just ten feet above the flames.

My heart nearly stopped.

"Mommy! Help me! It's so hot! So hot!" Marco screamed in terror.

"Put him down! Please!" I fell to my knees, begging desperately, "Kill me! Kill me instead! Don't hurt Marco!"

"Nod and let her stay, and I'll let him down." Louis coldly began counting down: "TEN!"

I watched Marco's little body writhing in agony from the heat.

"NINE!"

Sweat and tears blurred my vision.

"EIGHT!"

"I agree! I AGREE!" I broke down screaming, "She can stay! Please let Marco down!"

Louis smiled with satisfaction and stopped counting, about to signal his men.

Then—

"SNAP!"

The rope suddenly broke!

"NOOO—!"

Time seemed to freeze. I watched helplessly as Marco's tiny body plummeted.

"THUD!"

He fell into the furnace.

In an instant, he was gone.

I completely shattered, blood spurting from my mouth as I collapsed.

When I opened my eyes again, I'd gone back to the day Louis first brought Angelina home.

This time, I'm going to make him pay!

Nineteen times. That's how many times Elliot had walked out on me while we planned our wedding.

Standing in the bridal shop, he didn't even bother to sound sorry. "Cecilia, it's Vivienne. Another panic attack. She's alone—it's not safe. I have to get to her."

Margaux, my biological mother, shot me that look. "Your sister is suffocating, and you want to make this about a dress? Be the bigger person, Cecilia."

I watched him leave. No hesitation. No looking back. And for once, I didn't beg him to stay. Didn't crumble in the dressing room like I had eighteen times before.

I turned to the mirror. The bride staring back wore thousands of dollars in ivory silk. Her eyes were dead.

"Help me out of this," I told the saleswoman, whose face had gone pale. My voice came out calm. Almost pleasant. "I don't need it anymore. There won't be a wedding."

My mate lost his memory and fell in love with another woman.

Alpha Killian Cross forgot our five-year bond after a rogue attack. Sandra, the Omega who saved him, became his new obsession. I fought to restore his memories—and succeeded.

But the day he remembered me was the day Sandra killed herself. Killian blamed me for her death and chose to hate me instead.

When rogues attacked our pack, he died taking a hit meant for me. His last words? "I wish you'd never made me remember. I wish you'd let me love her."

Now I'm back—reborn to the day I first found him with Sandra. This time, I won't fight for his memories. This time, I'll let him keep his happiness with her.

Even if it kills me all over again.

I am the pampered Princess of the Carpenter crime family, a girl whose three fiancés once leveled a city block just to retrieve her lost diamond.

But next to Avery—a battle-hardened medic who showed up with her kid and could dig out bullets without blinking—my "spoiled nature" suddenly became such an exhausting joke that Jackson and Rhys simply walked out on me.

Gabriel was the only one who didn't. He was my safe haven, kissing my forehead and promising, "They’re fools. They don't appreciate you."

I believed him. Until I looked out the window.

My proud, untouchable Gabriel was down on one knee in the dirt, humbly wiping the mud off Avery’s high heels.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw a fit. I just turned around, walked straight into my father's study, and looked the Godfather in the eye.

"Dad," I said. "That marriage alliance with the West Coast 'Butcher' family next month. I'll do it."

I'd been married to Nikolai Konstantin for three years. In that time, I'd miscarried six times for him—nearly died on the operating table once.

Every time I woke up, this cold-blooded mafia boss would hold my hand and say, "I'm sorry you had to go through this. Should we try again?"

I thought he loved me.

Until my seventh pregnancy, when I saw that video—

My sister Scarlett curled up in his arms, crying: "Nik, she's had six miscarriages... what if something happens to her? It's all my fault. My heart condition won't let me carry a baby..."

Nikolai kissed the top of her head: "Don't worry, baby. Her body can handle a few more tries. I promised you a child, and I always keep my promises."

That was when I finally understood—

The child in my womb had NEVER been ours.

"Give Paige the tickets. I'll buy you a new bag tomorrow."

That was Caleb's first sentence to me on our five-year anniversary. His black Maybach idled at the curb. Paige stood closely behind him, wiping her tear-stained face. She had just climbed out of his passenger seat; I was just holding the two Nova VIP passes that took a miracle to score.

"She needs a distraction," Caleb added, fully expecting my usual quiet surrender.

I looked at them. No screaming. No tears. I just placed the tickets into his hand, turned on my heel, and left.

Let them enjoy the show. There was no space for me in that crowded arena, just like there was no space left for me in his world.

A blizzard night. My car broke down in the middle of nowhere, and my legs had already lost all feeling.

With purple, cracked fingers, I dialed my fiancé, Silas.

Through the phone came the cozy crackle of a fireplace, and the sweet giggles of the fake heiress, Stella.

"Silas... save me... Route 82..." I gasped, my voice fading.

"Harper, this jealousy game makes me sick," he snapped. "Stella only sat in your passenger seat, and you play disappear? Go freeze to death out there. Don't bother us!"

Beep.

He hung up. Followed by a ruthless block.

He didn't know it wasn't a stunt for attention. It was my last SOS in this world.

When my body was dug out of the snowdrifts, frozen stiff along with the cheap engagement ring he bought on a whim, that arrogant man dropped to his knees on the icy morgue floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Too bad, I could never see it again.

They said I killed them all.

My father. My daughter. My brother's legs. One explosion, one moment of selfishness, and I became the family murderer.

My husband Dominic—the most feared mafia boss in the city—drowned himself in whiskey. I drowned myself in something worse.

Three years on the pole. Three years with strangers' cash stuffed in my bra, their cocks shoved down my throat, their fists in back alleys, their cameras catching every degradation. Three years swallowing cum and shame to scrape together half a million for my brother's surgery.

Then the doctors found the tumor. Three months left.

One last show, I told myself. A blindfolded performance. Enough to pay off Ethan's debt before I died.

That's when someone ripped off my blindfold.

Dominic.

Behind him stood my very-alive father. And Ethan—on two perfect legs, kicking aside an empty wheelchair. And my adopted sister Vanessa, draped over my husband, flashing a diamond ring.

This whole performance? Her birthday present.

"Surprise, sweetheart." Dominic smiled. "The explosion was fake. We just needed to put you in your place."

Ethan laughed. "Three years of stripper money made one hell of a party, sis."

My father still wouldn't look at me. "Learn to treat Vanessa right, or you're no daughter of mine."

The room exploded in laughter.

I stood there, diagnosis crumpled in my fist.

The explosion was fake. The crippled legs were fake. Everything was fake.

But the cancer eating my brain?

That was real.

I died watching my fiancé check another woman for scratches while three bullets tore through my chest.

I was his human shield. She was his true love.

Then, I blinked—and I was back. Reborn on the exact day I was supposed to sign our Mafia marriage pact.

Matteo slammed the sacred blood-oath on the desk. "Sign the damn paper, Serena. And stop being jealous of Anna. She’s fragile."

He wanted me to be his Donna. To run his casinos, bleach his dirty money, and take the bullets, while he played house with his sickly-sweet stepsister.

In my past life, I cried and signed my soul away.

This time? I smiled. I picked up the gold pen and signed the Bride line.

But I didn't write my name. I wrote Anna.

I tossed the contract at his chest, packed my bags, and walked out of the underworld forever.

Have a nice wedding, Matteo. Let's see how long your empire survives when your fragile little princess gets the throne.

In seven years of marriage, I miscarried five times. I nearly died on the operating table.

My husband, Lorenzo Castellano—the mafia king who controlled the entire East Coast—gripped my blood-stained hand and choked out: "It's okay. You're all I need."

I believed him.

Until our anniversary, when I smelled her perfume on his shirt and discovered the truth: his sister-in-law had given him a three-year-old son—those same deep brown eyes I'd bled five times trying to create.

The cruel irony? Just the day before, two pink lines had appeared on a pregnancy test.

That night, the explosion lit up the entire ocean, our private yacht burning like a funeral pyre.

The man who made all of New York's underworld tremble finally learned what it meant to lose.

He lost his wife.

And the child he would never know existed.

Three years ago, my brother left me with his most trusted friend, Kaden.

That "trustworthy" Alpha had me pinned beneath him on my third night in the Shadow Pack.

Since then, I played his obedient little "sister" by day and spread my legs for him by night. Three years of sneaking around—I was done.

My ultimatum: make it official or we're done.

Hours ago, with me pressed into the mattress, he swore between thrusts, "Tomorrow. I'll tell everyone tomorrow."

Then his first love Chloe came back.

He dropped everything and ran to her. I followed. Watched him gently wipe her tears—the same hands that had gripped my throat just hours before.

"Kaden, you promised—"

"Shut up." He turned on me, voice lethal. "Don't say another word in front of Chloe. There's nothing between us. I'm doing Seth a favor, looking after his bratty sister. Clear?"
My hands trembled. Three years. All of it—a fucking joke.

I pulled out my phone and texted my brother: "The Silver Moon marriage. I accept."

Ten years loving Liam Rockefeller cost me everything.

He said the football team jumped him—so I charged in and took the punches. He sobbed that his stepbrother would destroy him at Yale—so I ripped up my acceptance letter. He held me at midnight whispering "I'm so lucky to have you"—and I thought that meant forever.

Three months later, I heard him laughing in the locker room—laughing about me.

"Iris is like a fucking puppy, so easy to fool. Now that the Yale spot's open, Emily can go with me."

The bullying was staged. The tears were fake. Those intimate embraces—just tools to control me while he fucked his side piece.

He thought I'd still stand in front of him even with a broken nose. He thought I'd never wise up.

I wised up.

In his stepbrother Sebastian's bed.

At a three-day yacht party, my suppressants went missing.

Without them, my heat—that humiliating, consuming need my body couldn't control—hit me like a sledgehammer.

Worse—as I stumbled out of the bathroom, I collided with him.

Victor Sterling. My father's best friend. My boss. The one man I had no business fantasizing about every night when I touched myself.

This man, infamous for never touching women and his ice-cold control, never came to parties like this. Yet here he was.

And the worst part? Thanks to the storm, I'm trapped in a room with him tonight.

I nearly died in the freezing ocean at my adopted sister Jane's birthday party.

When the yacht started tilting and alarms shrieked through the corridors, Dad grabbed Jane and bolted for the deck without looking back. Mom clutched Jane's ragdoll cat in her arms, following close behind under the bodyguards' protection.

They saved the cat.

But left their biological daughter to drown.

Three days later, I staggered home covered in wounds. The living room was decorated with scented candles and a three-tier birthday cake. Light piano music mingled with laughter—they were throwing Jane a makeup birthday party, celebrating how "the whole family" survived the disaster.