1530 Book(s) Related to melinda dillon not in christmas story sequel

Jennifer suddenly announced in the sorority common room: "Everything's on me tonight, ladies—oceanview cabana at The Pearl!"
The whole room cheered. I kept my eyes on my textbook.
Yesterday she borrowed twenty bucks from me for a salad. Now she's booking a five-thousand-dollar minimum venue? She wanted the black card in my bag.
"Teresa, just lend me your card to get us in the door. I'll cover everything myself." I stared at her for three seconds, then handed it over. Her face lit up.
I stepped away and called the club manager. "Lock my account, highest security tier. Without my verification code, not a single charge goes through."
She took my card and rounded up five girls, headed straight to the club. Champagne, caviar, Wagyu, Louis XIII—she ordered all of it.
When the check came, it totaled fifty-two thousand, three hundred and eighty dollars.
And the card wouldn't go through.

I had just pulled the teddy bear cookies from the oven when my daughter Dora ran into the kitchen.
"Dora, sweetheart! Mommy's special cookies are ready!"
But the moment she saw the cookies, her face went white as a sheet. She screamed "Get away! Get away!" and bolted from the room.
I was completely stunned. Just then, Herbert walked through the door.
"Try one and tell me what's wrong," I said, pointing at the cookies.
Herbert was about to comfort me, but when he learned I'd made these cookies for Dora, his expression turned absolutely bizarre. "You really made these? If you did, I want a divorce. Immediately!"
"What?"
My mother-in-law Athena heard the commotion and came to console me, but the moment she heard these were cookies I'd made for my daughter, she slapped the entire tray out of my hands. "What kind of mother are you?!"
Cookie crumbs scattered across the floor. I stood there in shock, completely bewildered by what was happening.

I survived 100 underground death matches just to keep my brother alive.
My reward? A rusted coffee can holding his ashes.
When I knelt in the pouring rain, desperately scraping his ash out of the black mud, Cassian—the mafia boss I'd bled for ten years—kicked the can away.
He pulled a gun and pressed it to my head. All because his innocent fiancée felt "scared" by my look.
"Apologize to her," he commanded.
Looking at the gun I had engraved with his name years ago, I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I just laughed.
Clutching the battered, empty tin can to my chest, I turned and stepped off the cliff into the raging Black Sea.
Only then did the great Cassian panic, his desperate screams swallowed by the dark waves.

The day the promotion list went public, a photo popped up in the company's all-staff Slack channel.
In the photo, my profile nearly overlapped with a scantily dressed girl, the background a dimly lit Manhattan nightclub.
Immediately after, Brad added a caption:
[No wonder Harper landed Richard's M&A deal. Last night's 'overtime' must have been rough, huh?]
Less than ten seconds after he sent it, the message still hung there in the channel. No retraction.
The chat that had just been flooding with "congrats Harper" messages went dead silent.
In my past life, my head buzzed. I thought no one would take such a cheap joke seriously.
But within two days, the company's internal anonymous forum exploded with accusations, complete with photos and "proof."
They said I slept with clients to win the merger deal. That I secured my full-time offer by sleeping my way up. That my personal life was a mess, that I was trash.
My mother collapsed from a heart attack when she heard. She never woke up.
Later, my promotion was revoked. HR suspended me for "damaging company reputation."
I was slut-shamed, radioactive across the entire finance industry — no firm on the Street would touch me.
Within a month, I spiraled from depression to sleepless nights, and finally jumped from the rooftop of my Brooklyn apartment.
Before I lost consciousness, my phone was still buzzing.
"Did they fire her yet? People like that don't belong on Wall Street."
When I opened my eyes again, I was staring at the blinking Slack messages on my screen.

The day I woke from the coma, the man I'd loved for seven years handed me to someone else.
I could have exposed him with one sentence. I didn't.
Dorian and I had been together since college. His best friend Silas had never once pretended to like me.
But that day, Dorian stood at my bedside, pointed at Silas, and said, "He's your boyfriend."
And nobody in that room thought there was anything wrong with that.
I believed him. At least, I made it look that way.
That night, I moved into Silas's villa — and then I heard the phone call.

My husband told me to take the train home for Thanksgiving because his childhood sweetheart needed my seat in the car.
So I bought a ticket—to my own hometown.
He thought I'd be waiting at his parents' house when he arrived. Cooking, cleaning, playing the dutiful wife while another woman sat in my place.
But when he called to demand his dinner, I was already gone. And when he threatened divorce, I gave him exactly what he wanted—the papers had been waiting on the table for days.
Now he's begging me to come back. Telling me he's changed. Swearing she means nothing to him.
But the man who spent ten years treating me like a live-in maid doesn't get to rewrite history just because he's drowning without me.
He still can't name my favorite food. He doesn't know what perfume I wear. And the son I raised? He asked for a different mother—and I gave him one.

Hours before I was supposed to elope with my secret boyfriend, the baby in my womb told me exactly how he would murder us both.
I had a best friend who wanted my name, my inheritance, and the man I was engaged to.
And the father I trusted was helping her take all three.
So this night, I called the man I was supposed to marry—and set a trap that would force every betrayer to expose themselves.

The day my son called another woman "Mom," I signed the divorce papers and left.

Five years later, now a top scientist, my ex-husband cornered me at a gala. I tried to push him away, but he gripped my waist tighter, his hot breath against my ear sending shivers down my spine.

"Stop pretending," he rasped. "Your body still remembers me."

I scoffed. "Ex-husband, have some dignity."

Just then, my phone rang with my son's desperate sobs. "Mommy! The bad woman hurt me... Please come save me! Daddy said you don't want us anymore..."

Wendy Vance once believed love meant being chosen.

As the scentless daughter of the Whitlock Pack Alpha, she had spent her life feeling like a flaw. Then Drexel Pace, the Bloodmoon heir, claimed her. His possessiveness felt like devotion. His jealousy felt like safety. She endured his control because she believed he would never let her go.

She was wrong.

Drexel betrayed her with her stepsister, Mabel. When Wendy caught them together, he did not apologize. He stood between them and coldly declared, “An Alpha heir cannot make a defective wolf his Luna.” Her place, he said, was beneath Mabel—as his servant, his mistress, and a Luna who would have to kneel for scraps of recognition.

Wendy refused.

She refused to beg. Refused to accept the life he offered. Even when Drexel struck her. Even when her own father condemned her before the pack. Even when Mabel dragged her into the killing forest and left her for the beasts.

Bleeding and abandoned, Wendy renounced the Whitlock Pack and disappeared.

For three years, she built a quiet life no one could destroy. Then Drexel found her.

Come home—or I will come for you.

With no pack to protect her, Wendy has only one shield left: a marriage contract with the mysterious man who became her mate after a single date.

Cassian Vey is calm, wealthy, and terrifyingly powerful. He offers her a legal bond, a safe home, and freedom from the man who discarded her. Either party may leave without penalty.

But Cassian is not merely a consultant.

He is the strongest Alpha in the region—the ruler powerful packs fear to challenge. And now he has bought Wendy’s company, claimed her as his wife, and stepped into her life with secrets hidden behind icy blue eyes.

Drexel threw Wendy away when she was powerless.

Cassian will burn entire worlds before he lets anyone take her from him.

Kia Williams thought getting into her dream university would finally change her life.
Instead, she finds her father's body in the woods...and becomes the prime suspect in his murder.
The only clue he leaves behind is a mysterious library card that opens a portal to Eden Falls Academy, a supernatural school where vampires, witches, werewolves, and long-buried secrets thrive. Determined to uncover the truth, Kia enrolls at the academy only to discover that the House her father once belonged to was erased from history and branded a traitor centuries ago.
Her only ally is Rhys Wilde, the academy's feared vampire prodigy, who knows far more about her father's past than he's willing to admit.
As students disappear, ancient rivalries resurface, and every clue points closer to Rhys, Kia must decide who to trust before history repeats itself...and she becomes the next victim.

Eden Quinn has always played it safe—quiet, polite, painfully untouched. At 25, she’s still a virgin, living in the shadow of her vibrant older sister and a past she never quite escaped. But when she returns to her coastal hometown for Harper’s wedding, everything changes—starting with one drunken confession at a backyard BBQ: she’s still a virgin… and she’s tired of it.

NOVEL ONLY FOR 18+ AGEIf you are not into Adult and Mature Romance/Hot Erotica then please don't open this book.
Carina is a proud rose who hides her thorns to marry Eric just so she can give her unrequited love a happy ending.
She works hard by Eric's side for two years, and after a night of craziness, she accidentally gets pregnant with Eric's child. When she thinks her beautiful dream will finally come true, Carina hears that Eric's first love, Karen, has returned home after living abroad.
It is not until Eric throws the divorce papers in front of her that Carina realizes that she has already lost the game before Karen shows up.
The most painful thing is not the return of Eric’s first love, but Eric's preference to other woman in front of Carina to maintain the beauty of his first love in his memory.
The scandal of her father's incest, two car accidents, jumping into the sea to survive...
How many ups and downs does Carina have to go through before she gets happiness?
Who is the girl in Eric's heart, and who can really be with him till the end?

A soccer star and a kind-hearted artist find themselves on the same team, but love is a game they never planned on playing.Lucy Martin left her small hometown behind after her divorce. Now she's back, caring for her soccer-crazed nephew while his parents are deployed. She'd do anything to make him happy—including approaching her high school crush and current soccer superstar, Ryker James, for a favor.Nursing an injury, Ryker is laying low at his parents' house until he can rejoin his club and prove he has reformed his bad boy ways. When the sister of an old friend asks him to coach her nephew's soccer team, he should decline. But Lucy intrigues him, and he finds himself unable to disappoint her.Coaching forces them together and sparks fly—on and off the field. Lucy is wary of romance, and Ryker can’t afford a distraction. Before the final whistle blows, will they take a shot at love or forfeit the match?

She needs a fiancé—for only one night.Cassandra Daniels’ parents want to meet her fiancé. They’ve driven hours to have dinner with the man who stole their daughter’s heart. The only problem—he doesn’t exist. She made him up because her mom and dad are concerned about her. Cassandra could tell the truth, but she’s tired of always disappointing her family. Now, she must find a handsome, respectable-looking guy to be her fake fiancé.Troy McKnight can’t believe a gorgeous blonde wants to pretend to be engaged for the night. Why him? She’s his total opposite—impulsive, adventurous, and a risk-taker. He should say no. He’s not the type to go along with crazy schemes and drama, yet he can’t deny her pull. Giving into his attraction, he agrees to be her fiancé. What’s the worst thing that can happen?Turns out Cassandra’s father is a powerful venture capitalist who could make or break Troy's career, so they continue the ruse. But as their fake engagement spirals, their attempts to stop the madness fail. Troy wants to spend more time with Cassandra, but she fears losing her heart…to him. The charade must end, even if she wishes her fiancé for the night could be her perfect husband for life.One Night to Forever series:Book 1: Fiancé for the NightBook 2: The Wedding LullabyBook 3: A Little Bit EngagedBook 4: Love on the Slopes

One little public scandal—and now they’re engaged…sort of.When Cara O’Neal finds herself dragged into a PR nightmare with A-list actor—and former crush—Brody Simmons, a pretend engagement seems to be the only way to stop the madness. But she’s not an actress, and faking anything with Brody has epic failure written all over it. It’ll take nothing short of an Oscar-worthy performance to survive with her heart intact.Brody enjoys playing the role of Cara’s adoring fiancé way more than he should. Acting like he’s in love with the pretty bookworm isn’t exactly a chore. She’s always been a good friend, but he can imagine her as more, which complicates their charade. When the lines between make-believe and reality blur, can Cara and Brody turn their fake relationship into a true happily ever after?* Parts of this 51,000 word novel were previously published in a Kindle World novella called The Wedding Charade. *One Night to Forever series:Book 1: Fiancé for the NightBook 2: The Wedding LullabyBook 3: A Little Bit EngagedBook 4: Love on the Slopes

One tech entrepreneur, one blond bombshell, and two rival dating sites.When Dani Bennett lands a new marketing job, she can't wait to prove herself. But her excitement fizzles when her new boss insists she create an online dating profile to spy on the competition. Quitting isn't an option; she needs the money. Now, she must meet the charming guy who's been messaging her. Dani, however, has played this game before. She knows exactly what he's after—what they're all after. It's a good thing she has a foolproof plan to keep her date from being interested in her.Bryce Delaney works hard to keep scammers from infiltrating his dating website. He'll do anything to keep his clients and his company safe, like asking a potential corporate spy to meet him for coffee. When the woman turns out to be more hobo than hottie, he's intrigued. She has no idea he founded the dating website, and he plans to keep it that way until he can uncover her agenda.As one date leads to another, sparks fly. Dani knows a relationship built on lies will never work, but she's not the only one with a secret. Will the truth bring her and Bryce closer or send them back online to find someone else to love?

I used to think the most embarrassing moment of my life was when my neighbor called the cops on me for testing "special" game sound effects.
That was before the door opened to reveal a devastatingly handsome police officer who accused me of hiding someone in my apartment—and casually informed me he was my husband of three months. A husband I'd never actually met.
The worst part? He had proof.
Now this impossibly attractive stranger isn't just forcing his way into my life—he's become the unwitting inspiration for my new game's male lead.

I thought the orchestrated assault was the most profound betrayal of my life. Then, from the shadows of the wine cellar, I heard my husband and his brothers toasting to their success.
"The slow-motion capture of her climax, paired with those broken whimpers... it was cinematic perfection."
"She played her part beautifully. After all, she’s just a Valenti."
I learned the devastating truth: my agony was their scripted entertainment. My husband. The director.
He married me to claim his inheritance.
He branded me to mark his property.
He caused my miscarriage in that dungeon, coldly calling it "tidying up loose ends."
But they overlooked one ancient law—the Moretti blood oath: should the Don betray his vows, everything becomes his wife's.
Now, I stand in the penthouse of his casino.
My fingers trace the scar on my shoulder—now transformed into a dagger.
"Darling, you celebrated the anniversary of your production. My gift to you is a lifetime behind bars."
Now, the final cut is mine.

The night Julian Wright orchestrated his "rose ceremony," everyone expected a full meltdown.
They were taking bets—would I show up sobbing, or would I skip straight to the roof? After all, everyone knew I was broke. Without Julian's money, I'd be out on my ass.
But when Julian handed that rose to campus queen Chloe Miller, the ballroom doors never opened. No crying. No scene. The whole party lost its main event.
What nobody knew was that while Julian was busy playing bachelor, I was sitting on his half-brother's leather couch in nothing but an oversized white dress shirt. Bare legs tucked under me.
I glanced up at Vincent, catching my lower lip between my teeth. "Your couch is soaked. Where exactly are you planning to sleep tonight?"
Vincent Wright's throat worked. Hard. He dragged his gaze away like it physically hurt. When he spoke, his voice came out wrecked: "Stay put. I'll grab a towel."
A beat. Then rougher: "Need to get you dry."

Seven years of marriage turned to ash the moment I discovered my husband had arranged for his sister-in-law to carry his dead brother's child—using his own sperm to continue the family bloodline.
Lorenzo Corvino—New York's most ruthless don—would drive three hours through a storm just to get me imported cherries. He held me at my mother's funeral, crying until dawn. He hospitalized a man for disrespecting me at a charity gala.
I thought I was the center of his world.
Until the private investigator's flash drive revealed the truth: Lorenzo at the clinic for Claudia's prenatal appointments, his hand on her pregnant belly, whispering "Marco would be so proud."
In the end, on the Corvino family's scale of priorities, continuing his dead brother's bloodline would always outweigh his infertile wife.
The night the yacht exploded, the New York sky burned red. The news reported the mafia don's wife had perished in the flames. He collapsed on the dock, clutching the charred wreckage, breaking down completely.
But he didn't know—
That "dead" woman was across the Atlantic on the Amalfi Coast, one hand on her seven-week baby bump, protecting the secret he'd never discover.
Seven months later, when he stepped into my new life and saw the infant with his deep brown eyes cradled in my arms—
This man who'd built an empire on violence and fear finally understood what he'd truly lost.
And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure he knows: some betrayals are so deep, even "I'm sorry" is more than he'll ever deserve.

"What gives a scarred freak like you the right to stand next to him?"
Four years ago, a brutal attack left a hideous burn scar across the left side of my face. Ever since, I've hidden behind a black mask, fading into the darkest corners of St. Oak High. I thought if I just stayed perfectly invisible, I could survive high school in peace.
Then Michael came back.
He's the President of Model UN, an Ivy-League-bound genius, and the golden boy everyone revolves around. And me? I’m just a damaged outcast too terrified to show my own face.
The harder I pushed him away, the closer he got.
But when a video from four years ago surfaces—showing him throwing a punch just to defend me—his flawless future is suddenly on the line. That's when I knew I couldn't hide in the shadows anymore.
This time, even if it means exposing my ugliest scars to the harsh light of day, I will do whatever it takes to protect him.

I thought I just had a high sex drive.
Until that night, I dumped another premature loser and downloaded an app called MythosMatch.
Silver-haired Elandil appeared at the bar downstairs. His kiss was laced with deadly danger, his fingers gave me my first real orgasm, his damn size nearly split me apart—
Then I saw his pointed ears.
Turns out human men couldn't satisfy me, not because I was too demanding.
But because I was never fully human to begin with.

The spring semester at the Academy had barely begun when Mother's enchanted letter burst into flames on my desk, that familiar acrid smoke already filling the air.
The smoke swirled and her voice emerged, sharp with anxiety:
"Cecilia, have you found a human man yet?"
"Less than a month left before we must present our tribute to the tribe. Noah is your own brother—can you really stand by and watch him die?"
Surrendering Noah meant certain death.
Over eighty Medusa females in the tribe were of breeding age. Noah had been frail since birth, his scales pale as paper.
If he were dragged onto that cold stone altar to serve as a breeding tool, he wouldn't survive the first night.
But where the hell was I supposed to find a human man?

"Aveline, a world without you means nothing to me."
The dragon's scalding blood splattered across my tombstone, melting the thick blanket of snow.
Five minutes ago, he had severed the crimson fox's head—vengeance for me.
I died at the hands of my most cherished companion, died in a carefully orchestrated betrayal. I'd wielded the full power of the Court to elevate that pitiful low-born wretch to godhood, only for him to join forces with my dear sister and plunge a blade into my heart from behind.
And the dragon war god I had scorned—the one I'd humiliated and treated as nothing more than a beast slave—defied imperial decree, razed an entire city, and severed his own life force. All for me.
I watched his dragonfire extinguish completely in the bitter cold. My soul reached out to embrace him, but passed through nothing but endless snow.
Until a blinding light pierced through my vision.
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself staring up at the familiar domed ceiling of the Celestial Hall.
I had returned to three years ago, to the Binding Ceremony that sealed my fate.
Reborn into a second chance, those vermin who climbed to power on dragon bones will finally get the hell they deserve.

Six months ago, a yacht explosion consumed everyone I loved: my husband Leonard, my parents, and my brother.
I escaped only because of stomach pain that kept me from boarding. My adopted sister Claire became the sole survivor.
Since then, I've become an empty shell.
Even after being diagnosed with terminal uterine cancer, even while carrying my late husband's child, I've endured the agony of chemotherapy alone, exhausting what little strength remains to scrape together money for Claire—who hides away in a private care facility, claiming severe PTSD.
Until this winter day, with a blizzard approaching.
Dragging my dying body to my husband's memorial to pay respects, I discovered a credit card statement—charges made three months after his death.
Following the address on that receipt, I pushed open the door of a luxurious suburban villa.
Inside, it was warm as spring. My parents and brother, who should have been at the bottom of the ocean, stood there perfectly alive.
At the center of the room, my husband—the man I'd grieved for day and night—was kissing my adopted sister, his lips tender against hers.
The whole family was celebrating, raising glasses to toast the infant cradled in Claire's arms—barely a month old.
There had never been any disaster at sea.
It was all a meticulously planned hoax—their twisted way to erase me from their lives forever.

The day I found out Quinn Prescott had pulled strings to give away my Ivy League recommendation to some transfer student, I packed up everything he'd ever given me and dumped it on his doorstep.
The next day, I found that same box in the dumpster outside my building.
Quinn's face was twisted with irritation.
"Drop it. So what if we don't go to the same college? You can get a full ride anywhere on your own, but Paula can't even afford tuition without that recommendation letter."
He let out a cold laugh. "And if this actually blows up, I promise you—it won't be me walking away with regrets."
I pressed the UCL acceptance letter tighter against my back, looking at him one last time with perfect calm.
He looked exactly like he always did when he knew he'd already won—like the outcome wasn't even a question.
But Quinn, I don't need you either.
My one-way ticket to London was already booked. We never had to see each other again.

In Heaven, there exists an iron law: during the Ascension Ceremony, if a bride fails nine times to complete the bonding flight with her groom's Divine Cloak, her soul is deemed tainted, and she will be cast into the Abyss for seven centuries of penance.
I was once Heaven's greatest warrior, until I threw myself before the hellfire meant for Archangel Gabriel—and lost my wings forever.
I endured eight Ascension ceremonies. Each time, Gabriel found a reason to delay.
Then came the ninth. My last chance. One flight bound to his Divine Cloak, and I would soar again—my name cleared, my honor restored.
But atop the ceremonial tower, he unclasped the cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it around Irene, the trembling Healing Angel.
"Cecilia, Irene needs this more. You're strong—you'll survive the fall."
He'd forgotten one thing: without wings, this height would kill me.
I didn't beg. I simply met his eyes—and stepped off the edge.
I woke in the arms of the Demon Lord I'd once shown mercy.
He spread ten pairs of wings that blotted out the heavens and carried me back to Heaven as his queen.
And Gabriel—that proud Archangel—knelt at my feet, tears streaming, begging me to look at him just once more.

One month until the SAT.
Staring at my phone screen—at the pulsing number on "Oracle," the mandatory score prediction app that Elite Prep forced every student to install—I couldn't help but think it was all a joke.
In my previous life, every time I finished a practice test, this garbage system would automatically dock twenty points from my predicted score.
But skip class for a day? The number would mysteriously jump up twenty points.
Back then, I actually believed in this bullshit algorithm. I completely gave up for an entire month, watching that predicted score skyrocket all the way to 1550.
But when I finally logged into College Board to check my real results, I'd scored a pathetic 400.
And that brilliant 1550? It appeared on my stepsister Dahlia's score report instead.
Disgusted that I'd embarrassed the Wright family, my father Harold froze my credit card without a second thought and threw me out of the family estate, clearing the path for Dahlia to claim Grandpa's ten-million-dollar trust fund all for herself.
That night, homeless on the streets, I was cornered by some thugs in a filthy Brooklyn alley and beaten to death.
Lying in a pool of my own blood, fading fast, I heard Dahlia's voice.
"Your GPA's been crushing mine since we were kids. I thought you, the so-called 'Straight-A student,' were supposed to be so smart."
She stood over me, mocking. "Turns out you got played by a prediction app. Pathetic."
That's when it finally clicked. My Oracle prediction system had been completely rigged from the source code—by Dahlia.
I shot up in bed, gasping, my shirt soaked through with sweat. I'd actually gone back in time—one month before the test.
Right now, the Oracle widget glowed eerily on my phone's home screen, displaying a single number: 1350.

Three torturous years hauling bodies on the mortuary night shift, and I'd finally scraped together the cash for my brother Charles's heart transplant.
He just waved it off.
"My heart is fine. Mom and Dad didn't die in that gang war, either. I orchestrated the hit. You were the only casualty."
Nearby, my husband, Gerald, casually lit a cigar to deliver his own confession. "I never went bankrupt. 'Laying low' was just my excuse to avoid squeezing into that dingy funeral home dorm with you. I've been at the Long Island estate."
"I was going to punish you for another three years," Charles added, "but the stench of formaldehyde on you is nauseating. We couldn't take it anymore."
I froze, still clutching the credit card. Charles plucked the plastic from my numb fingers and shoved his phone screen in my face. A banking app stared back at me.
Balance: exactly zero.
"My name is still on the joint account," he sneered, tossing the card into the trash. "I drained it this morning. That blood money you made bagging stiffs is being handed out to street junkies as we speak. We'd never touch that filth."
Before the sheer absurdity of it could suffocate me, my parents walked in. Flanked by bodyguards, they kept their distance, eyeing me like a plague rat.
"You thought being the biological daughter gave you the right to ruthlessly bully Violet. We simply wanted to put you in your place."
"Swear you'll never cross Violet again, and you can remain a Falcone," my mother added coolly. "Otherwise, you're dead to us."
In the stifling silence that followed, my phone buzzed. A text from my oncologist.
[Mrs. Castello, the results are back. It's terminal. Do you consent to initiating the hospice and DNR protocols we discussed?]

When my boyfriend of three years won the student body presidency, I rented out the entire bar to celebrate. But when I came back with the cake, I heard deafening jeers from the private room.
"I bet ten grand I can get her to ditch the engagement her family arranged and elope with me before graduation."
"That uptight bookworm? Sweet-talk her a little and she's wrapped around your finger."
"Guess what would happen if she found out—even the money for my off-campus apartment with Marie came from her part-time jobs. Think she'd go ballistic?"
The cake box slipped from my hands. Cream splashed onto my white sneakers—the ones I'd worked three part-time jobs to afford, the ones he said he loved because I looked so "pure" in them.
Turns out what he loved wasn't my purity, but how cheap and controllable I was.
I didn't storm in and confront him. I simply turned around, stepped over the mess, and walked away.
Everyone seemed to forget—Calvin and I were never equals.
I am Athena Stavros, only heir to one of Europe's old money families.
And this three-year charade of being just another student was about to end.

My flame-red dragon Theodore, the one I'd raised for seven years, had become wrong.
Normally, if I left for more than a day, he'd slam into me the second I walked through the door—tail coiled around my arm, head nuzzling my neck, acting like a hatchling fresh out of the shell.
This time I pushed open the door and Theodore didn't even look at me.
I reached out to touch his scales. He shook my hand off, irritated.
That night I tried to let him coil around my arm to sleep like always. He actually whipped me with his tail, then flew up to the top of the cabinet with pure disgust on his face.
I stared up at that arrogant dragon head perched on the cabinet, something tight and cold coiling in my chest.
Finally, I'd had enough. I pulled the crystal orb from my sleeve.

For five years of secret marriage to Sebastian Hawthorne—one of New York's most powerful attorneys—he still refused to let our son Quinn call him "Daddy" in public.
At the firm, I was his on-call senior associate, the invisible workhorse cleaning up his messes and handling his impossible cases. At home, I was the single mother who stopped waiting up for a husband who never came home for dinner.
Everyone knew the new intern, Delilah Vance, was his favorite—a federal judge's daughter, his hand-picked "rising star."
I used to believe that if I worked hard enough, if Quinn behaved perfectly, the heart beneath all that arrogance would eventually soften.
Until that rainy night when he threw his wife of five years and their son out of their own home to comfort Delilah over some fabricated stalker scare.
And while Quinn collapsed in my arms, gasping through a severe allergic reaction, Sebastian was raising champagne with that woman at an impossible-to-book French restaurant, celebrating her win in a pointless mock trial.
Watching my son's pale face and the hope slowly dying in his eyes, five years of one-sided devotion finally reached its verdict.
The case is closed, Sebastian. I'm done.

My name is Megan, and I am the Queen of the Star Fae.
Sixteen years ago, I left my Mate — Orlando, Alpha of the Darkmoon Pack — and the daughter we had just brought into the world, to hold back an invasion of Abyssal demons.
Sixteen years of war in the Void — and at last, the Abyss was sealed.
I came home crowned in glory, my mastery over the Source of Starlight absolute. I expected my husband's arms and my daughter's smile waiting for me.
I never imagined that setting foot on Darkmoon land again would mean no flowers, no cheering — only the sound of my own child screaming for help from inside a filthy dungeon.

The kidnapper's boot sent the briefcase flying. Thirty million in cash scattered across the floor.
He pointed at me, then at the unconscious Camilla. "Not enough money. So you pick one to take home. The other stays."
Lorenzo stood among the bills, his face drained of color.
"I'm sorry. Camilla has a heart condition—she won't make it through the night here." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "You've always been the strong one. Once I get her to the hospital and pull together the rest of the ransom, I swear I'll come back for you."
The next second, Lorenzo gathered Camilla in his arms and walked out without a backward glance. The heavy iron door slammed shut with a boom that echoed through the space.
In the cavernous abandoned factory, it was just me and five thugs with brutal faces.
The leader dragged the flat of his blade across my cheek, his eyes dark with sick intent. "Well, well. Looks like your rich boyfriend just chose her over you. But hey, don't feel too bad, sweetheart—we're gonna keep you company."
Watching the twisted hunger in their eyes, I didn't scream or beg. I just glanced at the locked door. "Lorenzo's gone, right? Far enough away?"
"That p**y's probably halfway across the county by now." The leader grinned, reaching for my collar.
"Good." I let out a breath.
Snap.
The zip tie around my wrists gave way like thread. A massive shadow swallowed him whole.
In less than two seconds, a dragon nearly sixty feet long filled every inch of space.
I lowered my massive head, molten slitted eyes locked on the five frozen insects below.
Then I opened my fang-lined jaws and snapped them up one by one.

The agony of flesh being torn apart still burned in my memory.
But I had been reborn.
I tremblingly touched the face in the mirror. Whole, unmarked. Was this real?
Just moments ago I had been struggling on death's edge, and now I stood in an 18-year-old body. Everything felt too surreal.
The entire pack still thought I was that naive Elena, forever living in the shadow of my pureblood sister Sarah. They didn't know I had seen the darkest truth.
The door suddenly burst open, and Sarah walked in carrying a cup of hot tea.
"Elena, don't stress yourself." Her voice carried an air of superiority. "Given your... situation, the Moon Goddess would be more forgiving."
Looking at her flawless smile, I was nearly sick to my stomach. This face, this expression—I had witnessed it countless times in my past life.
"About fated mates and all..." Sarah gently stroked my shoulder. "It's not something you absolutely have to follow. If you find Alpha Lucas too domineering, choosing a gentler Alpha would be a good option too. I'll stand by you either way."
Stand by me? I nearly laughed out loud.
In my past life, I had been blinded by these very words. I had given up other opportunities and chosen my fated mate Alpha Lucas, only to become a tool to mask his true feelings.
The truth hadn't surfaced until Sarah's birthday celebration. When the rogue wolves' claws had targeted her, that man who had claimed to love me for years hadn't hesitated to push me toward the pack.
As I collapsed in a pool of my own blood, the wolf claws having torn deep gashes across my flesh, I watched Lucas cradling Sarah protectively while she clutched her belly in panic.
"Save Sarah! Quickly, save her! The child in her belly..." Lucas had immediately rushed her to the medical room.
No one had paid attention to me lying in a pool of blood. In everyone's eyes, only Sarah had mattered.
"It's all my fault," Sarah had said weakly. "If I hadn't gotten pregnant, Elena wouldn't have been lashing out in jealousy..."
What? She had actually claimed I was lashing out in jealousy?
"Elena, I'm sorry... I'll make it up to you in the next life." Lucas had given me one last look, his eyes full of guilt.
Next life?
You got me killed, and you still wanted me to give you a chance in the next life? Dream on!

Lunar Depletion Syndrome. Seven days.
That was my death countdown. And my Alpha mate Kael was still threatening me, demanding I use the last of my life force to save my sister.
On our third anniversary, he had given me a surgical consent form and dissolution papers as gifts.
How laughable.
Three years ago he had said my eyes sparkled like stars. Three years later he wanted me to close them forever.
They all said I had finally matured, learned the spirit of sacrifice expected of an older sister. The joke was, I hadn't been moved by love.
I was just tired.
Why struggle when death was inevitable?
Rather than dying alone in the wilderness, it was better to die on the operating table and become the perfect sacrifice in their story.

I died on the fourth night after Thanksgiving.
A blizzard had swallowed the entire town, and I was locked in an unheated attic.
My broken leg had turned black with infection. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass. I tore four fingernails from their beds, but I still couldn’t claw my way through the door.
With the last of my strength, I held my old iPad against the frost-covered window.
On the screen, my twin sister, Lily, stood beneath the Alps, rosy-cheeked and healthy, raising a crystal glass. Our parents stood on either side of her.
My life was beating inside her chest.
The caption read: [Just the three of us. Finally, some peace.]
A single tear slipped into my hair.
I closed my eyes.
I had traded my life for hers.
Now it was time for them to learn how much that life had cost.

I was the undefeated queen of the underground octagon—a body held together by broken bones and spilled blood, all to build Dorian's fighting empire from the ground up.
But when he'd made it to the top in his tailored suits and polished shoes, suddenly my scars made me too crude, too ugly to stand beside him.
He ordered me to throw my title defense—told me to take a dive for some rich girl whose daddy bought her a spot in the cage. And when that woman shattered both my legs with an illegal knee strike, he just stood there and watched.
I clawed my way out of that wreckage—barely breathing. Left him a blood-stained divorce decree and vanished.
While he mourned over what he thought were my ashes, I was already training alongside the legendary king of the octagon, rebuilding myself from the ground up.
Now I'm back—stronger than ever.
This time, I'm going to break that princess's pretty face and crush his pathetic ego underfoot.

When the people who wanted revenge finally came after us, my husband, who loved me more than anything, threw himself in front of me to protect me.
He was stabbed eighteen times and died right there.
I didn't call the police. Instead, I cleaned up every trace the killer had left behind.
Later, my mother-in-law grabbed my hands and cried, "You were there when my son died. Please, tell everyone who killed him!"
Our daughter was sobbing, too. "Mom, you and Dad loved each other so much. Tell them who did this so Dad can get justice!"
Even the police officer looked at me sternly. "Covering for a killer and obstructing an investigation are crimes, too. If you know anything, you'd better tell us everything."
I kept my face blank and replied calmly, "I was asleep in my room. I didn't see anything. Is that a crime, too?"

My name is Evelyn. I grew up in the slums. Now, I'm the wife of Victor De Luca, head of New York's most feared mafia family.
Outsiders say I left him for money when he had nothing, then shamelessly came crawling back once he rose to power.
Only Victor and I know the truth. He paid five million dollars to drag me back, chain me here like a dog, and lock me away.
He married me, trapped me in this estate, and found new ways to break me every day.
He brought his mistress into our bed. He used his power to grind what was left of my dignity into dust.
But there's one thing he doesn't know.
I'm dying.
I have an inherited bone marrow failure disorder. The same disease that drained my mother dry. Now it's my turn.
Five years ago, I took the money and walked away. I let everyone call me every name they wanted because I couldn't make him watch me waste away.
I'm not afraid of death. I'm afraid of pain.
But it doesn't matter anymore.
This long, slow torture is almost over.

When the fourth victim from the Chicago arsonist landed on my brother's autopsy slab, I watched from above, a ghost trapped in the room.
As the city's star medical examiner, he recited his findings with detached precision. "Female, twenties. Evidence of controlled, prolonged burning prior to death." He had no idea he was cataloging my murder.
Three days earlier, in that same warehouse, I'd begged into my phone. His fiancée, Harper, held it for me, her smile a blend of sugar and venom. "Call him again, Ivy. Maybe he'll answer for his poor little sister this time?"
A click. Then, his voice.
"Julian, please—"
"Not now, Ivy. I'm choosing our wedding rings."
The dial tone pierced the air. Harper struck the match.
Now, in the morgue's fluorescent glare, I see the blood drain from his face. The report trembles in his hand. Every measurement, every scar—they all whisper my name.
Oh, Julian. With every incision, you were reading my last words.
The killer is right beside you, already in her white dress.

"Fuck a whale like that? Dude, I'd need a goddamn forklift to dig through the rolls and find the hole. You could pay me a thousand bucks and I still wouldn't touch it. This isn't a date—this is a fear factor challenge."
Three months ago, those words boomed through the speakers at the frat party, filling every corner of the house.
That night, I was the joke. The fattest pig in their twisted little hunting game.
Three months later, I'm at the podium running for student body president. My waist dropped from 38 inches to 24, and this custom suit fits like a weapon.
Down below, the same people who laughed are staring up at me now. And that asshole who needed the forklift? He's face-down in the dirt like a kicked dog, waiting for me to end him.
My name is Leona. This isn't some crying fat girl's diary anymore. This is how I crushed every bastard who ever stepped on me—and clawed my way to the crown with blood and sweat.

I died on the barren wasteland in a raging blizzard.
Before my death, many from the pack came to say goodbye.
Even Seraphina, my lifelong rival, came.
Only Kael, my Alpha mate of five years, was absent.
He was with that rogue Jennifer, watching the moon's reflection in Silver Moon Falls.
In my final moments, I received his mind-link.
"When the Moon Goddess guided me to find you as my fated mate, you were just a Beta. To inherit the Alpha position, I had no choice but to choose you. All these years I've been giving you suppressants, forbidding you from getting pregnant, and you agreed to it all. You've been a competent Luna."
"If there's a next life, I'll still choose you. In this life, rest in peace. I'll personally arrange your funeral."
Sensing this mind-link, my rival Seraphina sneered mockingly: "Karolyn, you really weren't cut out to be a Luna."
"In the next life, don't compete with me anymore."
Her words proved prophetic. When I opened my eyes again, we had both returned to the day of the Darkwood family's mate selection ceremony.
Kael said coldly: "Karolyn, the Moon Goddess has chosen you as my fated mate. You will be Darkwood's Luna."
Without hesitation, I stepped back and pointed to Seraphina.
"I think the Luna position is better suited for Seraphina."

I spent fifteen years taking beatings in the Bronx hellhole — beatings meant for my mother.
She's a Manhattan heiress now. Chanel suits, a daughter on her arm, and eyes full of disgust whenever they land on my hollowed-out frame.
"You're just like your disgusting father. A sewer rat. You've always reeked of something rotten."
What she doesn't know: on that rainy night fifteen years ago, I wrapped my arms around that man's legs and let him kick me half to death, so she could run.
What she also doesn't know: the tumor in my stomach has spread. I won't survive the winter.
I'd made my peace with dying alone, quietly, so I wouldn't disturb the perfect life she'd built. I swallowed the blood rising in my throat and started walking toward the dark.
Then came the dinner party, a few months later. Her daughter shoved me off a second-floor balcony.
I hit the ground at her feet like a broken doll. Dark red blood flooded across her white heels.
I watched the color drain from her face. With the last breath I had, I apologized.
"Don't be scared. This piece of garbage won't dirty your eyes anymore."

I was always the last one picked.
In gym class, nobody wanted me on their team until there was no one else left.
At White Elephant exchanges, I always ended up with the worst gift.
Even when classmates invited me out to eat, I somehow wound up covering the bill.
Then I went to college and met Brooke, who always saved me a seat, and Ethan, my boyfriend, who stepped in whenever things got awkward.
For three years, we did everything together.
We rushed to eight a.m. lectures, split DoorDash delivery fees, and walked back from the library at two in the morning after late-night study sessions.
When my parents divorced and neither seemed to want me, Brooke and Ethan stayed.
They even set their phones to alert them whenever I texted.
For the first time, I believed I'd found people who would never leave me behind.
Then came the night of our final exams.
We were at a party on the second floor of a downtown hotel when every phone in the room blared with a tornado warning.
People screamed and rushed toward the stairs, desperate to reach the hotel's designated storm shelter downstairs.
Ethan grabbed Brooke and headed for the exit.
I was right behind them when he shoved a banquet table out of his way.
The table scraped across the floor and slid directly into my path.
My foot caught on one of its legs, and I went down hard.
Before I could get back up, a massive crystal chandelier came crashing down.
Part of its heavy frame struck my back, and broken glass scattered across the floor.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to get up. With everyone rushing past me, I had no time to think about the pain.
I just needed to get somewhere safe.
By the time I reached the hotel's storm shelter, Ethan and Brooke were nowhere in sight.
I'd been left behind again.
I pulled out my phone and texted my aunt Dana.
[I'll do it. I'll sign up for the trial.]

Being completely unbalanced makes you a liability. But pair two broken mages together? That creates an unstoppable force.
In Arcania, your Overall Rating is everything. With a bone-dry mana pool, I was publicly humiliated by my Instructor and banished to the academy's deadliest ruined tower.
Everyone expected me to die there. Even my fiancé threw our engagement ring in my face before the entire school.
What they didn't know was that inside that rat-infested prison, I'd meet Kael—the guy ranked second-to-last.
He possessed an ocean of raw magic, but couldn't channel a single drop without a violent, explosive backfire.
Smash our pathetic stat sheets together, though, and you forge the most terrifying magical entity on the continent.
"Ready to tear through the rankings and take the top spot?" I asked.
He grinned. "My pleasure."

I used to be the happiest food-truck girl on the streets of Brooklyn. Spencer Grant said he loved the warmth and down-to-earth spark I carried with me.
But over the six years of our marriage, he wrapped me layer by layer in Michelin-starred rules and fussy French culinary etiquette, turning me into a flawless, cold, untouchable chef.
Six years later, he asked me for a divorce because of a girl who ran a roadside taco stand.
He said my food was perfect but suffocating, while that girl made him feel alive again.
The way his eyes lit up when he talked about her was exactly how he'd looked at me when we'd first met six years ago.
In that moment, I knew our marriage was over.

At my mother's funeral, my fiancé held my frail Omega servant tightly in his arms.
And my father—the Alpha of the Crescent pack—struck me across the face in front of everyone, all for the sake of the woman who had gotten my mother killed.
"Your mother brought this on herself. Lilith is just a poor, helpless girl!"
That was the moment I heard my faith in this family shatter.
Later, to force me to bow to Lilith, they smashed the one relic my mother had left behind, right in front of my eyes.
I looked at them and smiled coldly. Then I turned and stepped off the edge into the abyss.

Out on a pack hunting run, a grizzly mauled me, and I was rushed straight to the infirmary.
The last thing I remembered clearly was the scent of pine and blood before everything went dark.
Now I was awake, bandaged, and staring at a man who looked ready to fall apart.
Watching my boyfriend Ryan spiral into a blind panic beside my hospital bed, a mischievous thought popped into my head. I'd play a little trick on him.
I locked eyes with him and tilted my head. "Who exactly are you?"
Ryan froze.
I was already about to crack a grin and drop the act, ready to tell him I'd only been messing around. But before I could, he shoved his older brother Nathan toward my bed.
"I'm your boyfriend's younger brother," Ryan said without hesitation.
A heartbeat later, he pulled my closest friend Paige tight against his chest. "And—" His arm tightened around her waist. "I'm her mate now."
My expression hardened.
Nathan stepped closer to my bedside. "That's right. I'm the one who's your boyfriend."
I met his eyes and curved my lips into a cool smile. "Fine. Then I'm leaving here with you."
A boyfriend wasn't irreplaceable. If he turned out to be the wrong one, I could just find another.

I was the unluckiest kid in my family—always the one pulling the black-tipped stick from that pretty little "Fairness Jar."
In our house, red meant new dresses, Disneyland, and a goodnight kiss from Mom. Black meant endless chores, lockup in the attic, and the kind of hunger that ate you from the inside out.
Mom loved to stroke my hair in front of the neighbors. "God gives everyone a fair shake," she'd say. "Riley's just a little unlucky, is all."
I believed her for fourteen years.
Until I had an asthma attack and died on that dusty attic floor.
The moment my soul slipped free, I looked down at the overturned Jar, its sticks scattered across the floorboards—and I finally understood why I'd drawn black every single time.