213 Book(s) Related to I

I'm Vivian Miller, USC Film School graduate and Hollywood production assistant. For three years, I used my connections and resources to build my husband Rick into one of the hottest independent producers in town.

On our anniversary night, I prepared a three-layer cake and candlelit dinner, waiting for him to come home from the Oscar after-party. Instead, I got red lipstick stains on his shirt and the lingering scent of unfamiliar perfume.

When I discovered that woman was Oscar-nominated actress Amy Williams, everything clicked. She was his college sweetheart, his white moonlight. And me? Just her substitute.

The cruelest truth was yet to come—our wedding anniversary was Amy's birthday.

After our divorce, I thought leaving quietly would give me a fresh start. I was wrong. Amy wanted to destroy me completely. Online harassment, job offers rescinded, fans attacking me on the street... she wanted me erased.

But what she didn't know was that every project idea in Rick's company came from me. Those copyrights belonged to me all along.

Golden Globe red carpet, under the spotlight, when I stood before Rick and Amy, all of Hollywood had no idea what was about to unfold.

I thought I was saving a homeless man. I had no idea I was falling in love with Wall Street's most dangerous player.

When I found Ryan digging through garbage, he couldn't use my washing machine or figure out the coffee maker—a perfect man who needed my care. But why did he speak French like a native? Why did expensive watches keep "accidentally" appearing in his belongings?

When my family business suddenly faced bankruptcy, he always showed up at the perfect moment with mysterious funds and flawless solutions. I started to suspect something, but it was too late—I was already deeply in love with this enigmatic man.

Until that night at New York's most luxurious engagement party, when the spotlight hit the stage: "Ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome the second son of the Montgomery family—Ryan Montgomery!"

I stared at the stranger in a tuxedo on stage, that face I'd kissed countless times. He was the brother of Matthew Montgomery—the man I was supposed to marry!

Was it all calculated? Was my kindness just a pawn in their brothers' power game?

Ten years of secret love, and what did I get? Watching him fall for another woman at MY art exhibition.

The most ridiculous part? He turned to me and said, "Harper, you have to help me win her over."

I orchestrated their romantic encounters, taught him how to charm women, even told him what flowers she liked. I was the perfect wingman, watching them fall in love while I licked my wounds in the dark.

Until Dr. Avery confronted me with one devastating question: "Do you really think he doesn't know you love him?"

When I finally screamed "I've loved you for ten years!" at Mason, his response froze my blood:

"I know. I've always known."

Turns out, my ten years of devotion were nothing more than a free emotional dumping ground to him—the convenient girl who would never leave. He enjoyed my care while pretending not to see my love, because that was safest, easiest.

Pathetic, right?

A woman wastes ten years loving a man, only to end up pushing him into someone else's arms.

Until Blake appeared.......

Have you ever loved someone so completely that you handed them the knife? Believed their lies so desperately that you never saw the blade coming?

"Love you? Christ, Sera, did you actually believe I could love someone so pathetically desperate for affection?" Dashiell's words cut deeper than any weapon, shattering a year of beautiful lies.

That night, beneath the blood moon, they killed me—not with claws or fangs, but with betrayal so complete it stopped my heart. But death wasn't the end. I opened my eyes on my 21st birthday, reborn with perfect clarity. This time, I won't be the naive girl who trusted too easily. Every cruel word, every drop of spilled blood, every sleepless night of agony—I'll repay it all.

Let the games begin. They created a monster, and now they'll face her wrath.

The day I walked in on my boyfriend screwing that blonde tramp, I dropped the homemade tiramisu right there on the floor—our two-year relationship smashed to bits, messier than the splattered cream.

I ducked into a bar, slamming back whiskey, when this guy in a sharp black suit sidles up, his voice smooth as silk laced with bourbon. I spat out, "Help me forget him," but ended up totally lost in the presidential suite. He backed me against the wall, tore open my blouse, his tongue circling my nipple before biting down hard, leaving me breathless. "You taste like candy, baby—tonight, I'm gonna eat you up."

But then my boyfriend FaceTimes, spots the guy behind me, and loses it, screaming, "Dad!"

I went ice-cold—my hookup was my boyfriend's stepdad? Even worse, this thirty-three-year-old powerhouse was Brooklyn's deadliest mob boss.

What began as a vengeful fling spiraled into a forbidden nightmare?

My husband Steven was in late-stage cancer, but he suddenly insisted on divorcing me.

He said it was for my own good, but I absolutely refused.

We loved each other so much - how could I possibly abandon him at a time like this?

Until I was going through some paperwork and accidentally found an $1.8 billion trust fund - but I wasn't the beneficiary.

Why would my soon-to-be ex-husband transfer our family's massive fortune to someone else?

After I discovered the truth, he quickly ended up in the hospital in critical condition. And on the very night his resuscitation failed, I had him cremated.

I'm the Santos family heiress—born into the kind of wealth and power that people kill for. For eighteen years, I've adored my "brother" Diego with all my heart—that golden, gorgeous surfing champion who's the pride of our family.

Then came that shark attack. A mysterious lifeguard nearly died saving us. When that DNA report landed on my desk, my world shattered completely: this beaten-up kid Lucas from the slums—he's my real blood brother!

And Diego? The boy I've cherished like family for eighteen years? Not one drop of Santos blood in his veins.

Blood or bond—who do I choose?

My roommate's violent ex-boyfriend stormed our dorm with a knife. I rushed out to protect her and got stabbed, bleeding all over the floor.

I desperately pounded on her door for help: "Hestia! Save me! Open up!" Dead silence from inside. That BITCH stood right behind the door, listening to me take my last breath.

Even more disgusting, she cried to my boyfriend Brian:

"I don't know why this happened... Connor was just crazy... Freya insisted on going out to reason with him... I tried to stop her but couldn't..."

Watching her collapse into Brian's arms playing innocent, I died filled with rage.

Reborn two weeks earlier, I'm personally collecting this blood debt!

For three years, I've watched his routine so intently my eyes have calloused. Detective Nate Blackwood—the man who swore in court my parents "resisted arrest and assaulted officers"—became my only reason to keep breathing.

I approached him through his lost brother, crafting a gentle persona, manufacturing chance encounters, always with odorless, tasteless poison tucked away in my bag. But when he instinctively shielded me during the restaurant robbery, when the light in his eyes as he said "family is everything" made me falter—I panicked.

How could the man I've hated for three years make my heart race? In this revenge-driven charade, who's really falling into whose trap?

At eleven p.m., I'm staring at the charity foundation's financial report, barely able to focus on the numbers—Theron is "networking" again, but for three years now, his "networking" has always involved another woman. Then my phone rings. It's Tommy, the paparazzo: "Mrs. Sterling, your husband's on his private yacht, all over some 22-year-old blonde intern!"

Thirty-seven times. Have you ever tried treating your husband's affairs like routine maintenance? Smiling at reporters while quietly wiring money to delete photos? I believed his bullshit promises that he'd "change," convinced myself this was just the price of a high-society marriage. But looking at the photos in my email—there in the bedroom of the yacht he "only uses for business meetings"—is a girl whose face I saw at the company just yesterday.

My stomach turns as I call Tommy back: "Don't delete them. Send the photos to every media outlet." I grab my car keys and rush out the door, asking myself: Do I really want to play the perfect Mrs. Sterling this time? No—but am I ready to blow up my entire life?

Have you ever pressed your cheek against your mother's cold skin, pretending she was just sleeping?
For seven days, I climbed on chairs to steal cookies, sweeping up broken glass with my bare hands when the jar slipped—terrified any sound might disturb her eternal sleep. I pulled her favorite blue dress over her still body and whispered, "You're not cold now, Mommy. You're not cold."
I was five years old, and I thought death was something you could fix with a blanket.
Dad's study stayed locked until the day we buried him. That's when I found them—hidden behind loose boards in the wall. Videotapes he'd never watched. Letters he'd never sent. And phone records showing the calls Mom made in those final days.
Twenty-three missed calls. Twenty-three attempts to reach the man she was dying to forgive.
keep wondering about that final call my mother tried to make to my father—did he ever know she reached out? Was his coldness toward her truly indifference, or was it a kind of love I was too young to recognize?
Some secrets die with their keepers. But the questions—the questions bury themselves in your bones and grow.

"I died carrying his child, only to return as a ghost forced to watch him caress her face in our sacred place. Death gave me eternity—eternal witness to betrayal, eternal revenge."

"I died loving him. When I watched his hands touch her skin, his lips kiss hers where we once swore our vows, love became hatred. Now he'll taste my wrath."

"Three months pregnant, dying alone, yet forced to watch their moonlit intimacy. I couldn't stop it, couldn't scream—only witness him choose her. But a ghost's fury burns hotter than the moon's light."

"He thought I'd vanished, so he welcomed her into our sanctuary without hesitation—playing with the console I gave him, sharing our secrets with her. I watched it all, and hatred consumed what love remained."

"I thought death was the cruelest pain, until I saw him tenderly bandaging her wounds, almost kissing her in the place where we pledged our souls. That moment taught me—some agonies transcend death itself."

"Three days ago I was his beloved. Now I'm a restless spirit, condemned to witness every touch between them. But they don't know—my hatred burns fiercer than my love ever did."

What if your greatest sacrifice became your deepest regret?

Sarah Miller believed love meant unconditional support—abandoning her nursing degree, working double shifts, and funding her husband's coding dreams. When Jake's app hit one million downloads, she thought they'd finally taste success.

But success brought shame, not gratitude. Jake demanded a "low-key marriage," listed himself as "Single" on LinkedIn, and denied his family on national TV. Sarah wasn't a wife anymore; she was a stain on his success.

When their daughter Emma was dismissed as "the help's kid," Sarah understood a brutal truth: gaining everything means losing yourself, while losing it all can make you whole.