270 Book(s) Related to canto por no llorar novela

I gave up my Harvard Ph.D. and lived in the slums for five years as a corpse restorer, all to save my dying boyfriend.
But when I brought the $72,000 I literally bled for to his VIP ward, I found him drinking champagne.
"Thanks for faking the medical records, Doc," Ethan smirked. "Her sob-story money is paying for my Senate run nicely."
His glamorous campaign manager, Sloane, chimed in: "Just be careful, Ethan. What if she figured out your family background and is just playing the long game? She might be a gold digger climbing the political ladder."
"Please," Ethan scoffed in disgust. "Marry a woman who scrubs dead bodies every night? I'll throw her out the minute the election is over."
A gold digger? Me? Climbing his ladder?
I looked at my calloused hands, then calmly messaged the most terrifying political patriarch in Boston.
"Dad, you were right. I'm coming home, and I'll marry the Federal Prosecutor.”

On the first day of college, most freshmen worry about making new friends. I had to figure out how to pay my own parents for a plate of lunch.
With every penny of my tuition and living expenses strictly controlled by them, I stood empty-handed in front of their campus Gospel food truck. But my mother didn't want cash.
She wanted a public spectacle to cure my "sinful depression."
My younger sister bought her lunch with a simple kiss on the cheek. But for me?
My mother pointed to the growing crowd of students and delivered her ultimatum: sing the toddler nursery rhyme 'My Mommy Is the Best' at the top of my lungs, or starve.
I chose to put the food down and walk away.
But my mother rushed out of the truck. Her fingernails dug violently into my wrist, dragging me back into her nightmare. "You're not leaving until you sing."

"Abort her mutt. Liora is carrying my true pureblood heir."
My Alpha husband’s voice was ice-cold as I bled out on the delivery bed.
The woman he was protecting? My fiercely loyal best friend.
While I was screaming in pain, biting my lips bloody to birth his child, he was in the next room, making her moan.
He killed our baby.
When I returned from burying my grandmother in the freezing rain, his guards threw holy water in my face.
"Wash her," Lachlan ordered coldly. "The stench of death on her will harm Liora's pup."
I stared at the man who once took nine lashes of a barbed whip just to marry me.
He aborted my baby to save hers. He let my only family die.
He tossed me a bag of gold like a beggar and told me to stop causing drama.
So, I packed my bags, and vanished into his world.

The sun dipped below the ocean, and the Sea Goddess temple stood empty. My fifth betrothal ceremony with the Crown Prince, Edric, had ended exactly like the previous four: without my groom.
 When Edric and my mother finally arrived, she grabbed my freezing hands. "Leonora, your father was injured. Edric was busy at the royal infirmary." "Be generous. Don't blame him."
 I bit my lip. "And last time?"
 My mother froze. "Last time... there was an emergency with the Royal Fleet—"
 "Was there?" I cut her off. "Last time you said my brother was ill."
 Edric paled. My mother frowned, "I...I remembered wrong! Don't be so calculating, Leonora. You'll chill the Prince's heart."
 My gaze fell upon the embroidered seashell charm tied to Edric’s belt—an item my weak, illegitimate stepsister never parted with.
 Edric rubbed his temples, his eyes full of exhaustion. "I told you I was busy. If you still won't believe me, I will ask the High Priestess to annul this betrothal."
 "No need," I broke the silence.
 He looked at me, a satisfied smile forming on his lips.
 "I'll ask her myself," I said. "From today on, we are nothing to each other."

Rule #1 of cheating: Always turn off your personal hotspot!
Text from Jaxon (7:00 PM): “Coach is killing us tonight. Stuck at practice. Wish I was at the concert with you, future wifey. 🥺”
My iPhone (8:30 PM): Connected to Jaxon’s Personal Hotspot.
My heart flatlined.
As fate would have it, the stage spotlight hit my face. The singer handed me a mic.
Instead of playing the lucky fan, I turned the concert into a massive manhunt.
The jumbotron found him in Section 104.
He wasn't alone.
When the cameras exposed his panicked face and the blonde in his arms, I gave him the ultimate send-off in front of a live audience:
"I'm officially dropping you. You two deserve each other. Match made in hell. "

I gave up MIT for them in my last life.
They paid me back by stealing my lab notes, framing me for misconduct, and choosing her over me when I drowned.
I watched them choose her over me a hundred times
Now I’m 17 again. I block all three and fly to MIT.
They think I’m throwing a tantrum.
Wait till they find out who saved them out of that cave—

My boyfriend hated the new freshman, Lila.
She followed him everywhere from day one, and he’d complain to me nonstop.
“Want me to get her kicked out? My dad can write a check and make it happen.”
I laughed it off. “Cocky much?”
He nudged my shoulder. “You really not scared I’ll get taken?”
Please.
We were childhood sweethearts, bound by family and our upcoming competition duet.
Her cheap, desperate act? I never saw it as a threat.
I had no idea how wrong I was.

A falling planter knocked me out after a fight with my lifelong rival. When I woke up, I remembered everything. But I decided to play dumb and fake amnesia—figured it was the perfect excuse to fleece him for some cash.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Nathan Cole looked shocked for a second, then lied through his teeth“Your boyfriend. We've been together for eight years.”
Wait, what?!
He glanced at my mouth. “Want a kiss? Might jog your memory.”
The audacity of this man.
I'd been after his money. Apparently, he was after my lips.

"She’s boring now. Dead eyes. No spark. I’m just pretending my memory is stuck at nineteen so I can punish my wife without her leaving me."
Standing in the shadows, I listened to my mafia husband confess his sick game to the doctor. By day, he played the devoted boy who once took a bullet for me, crying over my scars.
By night, he trapped me in pitch-black elevators, letting his men rip my clothes and take photos—all to make his mistress laugh.
He thought my trauma made me weak. He thought heavy sedatives would make me forget.
He didn't know I spat the pills out the moment he turned his back.
Valentino, you played me again.
But this time, I will never give you another chance. Not in this lifetime. Not ever.

Love wasn't free in our family. It was literal currency.
My sister, Stella Belle, and I both had a Kinship Savings Jar. 
It held the love and care we received from our families, which could be traded for anything in the Life Exchange Shop.

When I was six, I bought my mom’s life back from cancer by selling away the pain of her carrying me for nine months.
When I was thirteen, I bought my brother a brand-new leg by trading away every memory of dad’s care and upbringing.
Now, at nineteen, my dad was in a terrible car crash. His body was shattered.
Our family came to the Life Exchange Shop once again. 
 
I nudged my younger sister, Stella, forward.
But mom grabbed her and yanked me to the front instead.
"You've never done anything for this family, yet we gave you so much love and care!"
"Now it's your turn to pay back what we gave you, and you're refusing?" She snapped. 
"Besides, everything in that jar came from us anyway. You're grown now. It's only right that you empty it to repay your parents!"
 
I was shoved against the counter.
Beside me, a girl who couldn't pull anything from her jar suddenly explodes like a firework. 
But Mom, I thought in terror, my jar is empty too......

Over the past three years of dating with my boyfriend, everything was perfect. 
My first time meeting his parents at their Sunday Roast went better than I ever dreamed. His mother smiled warmly, serving me mountains of food, excitedly discussing which city we should settle in after graduation. It felt like they were practically picking out wedding dates.
But that illusion shattered over a single spoonful of apple pie.
The moment I took a single bite of the homemade apple pie, his mother's smile vanished. She slammed her spoon onto the fine china with a deafening CRACK. 
"My son must be cursed to have brought home a woman like you!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at my face.
Totally bewildered, I froze. Did I miss the dinner prayer? Did I use the wrong fork? Desperate, I looked to my boyfriend of three years for help. 
But he didn't defend me. He just looked at me with this strange, cold disgust.
"We're done, Sloane," he said, his voice like ice. "Let's break up."
I completelt froze.

When I was ten, my parents faked a messy divorce and turned my life into a sick reality show.
They split up me and my twin sister, Romy. She got the Alpine mansion and my mother's luxurious lifestyle.
I was dumped in a moldy basement, scrubbing diner plates and clinging to my physics books to survive my father's "gambling addiction." 
For eight years, I starved to pay off his staged debts. Then, on our eighteenth birthday, Romy casually texted me a link to StreamLens, an exclusive voyeur site for bored billionaires, followed by a few stabbing messages:
[Surprise, sis. Mom and Dad never actually split. We're perfectly happy ]
[It's honestly sad watching you skip meals, but you know how it is.]
[You were the "older sister," so they chose you to be the one raised in the dirt.] 
I clicked the link. The site's #1 live feed was a giant split screen titled: "The Twin Experiment: Raised Poor vs. Raised Rich—Which Sister Comes Out on Top?" 
On the left: me, freezing in a leaky cellar. On the right: Gareth and Marissa playfully hugging Romy on a velvet sofa, slicing into a massive birthday cake. The debt, the loan sharks, my absolute misery—it was all just entertainment. 
Through the feed, Romy stared straight into the hidden camera, flashing a sickly-sweet smile. 
“Smile for the cameras, sis. Your suffering bought us this gorgeous house.”

I used to be a national gold medalist in ballet.
Now I’m the 210-pound laughingstock the whole school gawks at.
I starve myself till I pass out, train so hard my knees bleed, and still the weight keeps piling on like it’s got a personal grudge.
Till the day I hear my best friend cackling in the equipment room, voice shaking with laughter:
“No matter how hard she tries, her weight will always be three-quarters of Bruce’s!”
Bruce is the 280-pound deadbeat loser who sleeps through half his classes. And me? I’m stuck to him, tied by some sick system I can’t break.
She stole my Juilliard audition direct pass. Paid guys to shove me, call me names, film me tripping over my own feet and post the clips all over TikTok.
She watches me flounder like a beached whale in the mud, barely holding back her snickers.
But she forgot one thing: mountains don’t run from streams.
They wait for the water to crash into them. And shatter into a million pieces.
Guess what? The bet’s on.

The poor girl my family funded is known as a "clumsy sweetheart."
Before the CIF Volleyball Finals, she spiked my drink with banned stimulants.
I was reported for doping, stripped of my UCLA scholarship, permanently banned, and expelled in disgrace.
When I confronted her, she cried innocent tears:
"Scarlett, I just wanted you to have enough energy to win... I didn't know it was banned."
My boyfriend Jake wrapped his arms around her, glaring at me: "She was just trying to help! Why are you always so mean to her?"
Ruined and depressed, they came to "apologize" with bottles of hard liquor.
She fed me lethal meds when I was drunk, watching me bleed to death on the floor.
Her excuse? "I'm so silly, I mixed up the pill bottles..."
And my boyfriend testified to the police that I committed suicide out of shame.
Then, I open my eyes. I'm back to the day before the finals.

On the day of the clan’s grand sea banquet, my mafia husband Victor took his beloved white moonlight Lilia to race jet skis in restricted sea waters without permission.
She twisted the throttle all the way open, and the jet ski crashed violently into the my luxury yacht.
The yacht quickly flooded and began sinking, yet Victor completely ignored the people screaming for help on board, only clinging tightly to the terrified Lilia and comforting her softly.
"Don’t be afraid. They trespassed into the restricted sea zone of their own accord; they deserve everything that happened to them."
Not until the entire yacht sank deep into the ocean and everyone aboard vanished without a trace did Victor dial my phone unhurriedly.
"Vera, your mom and Dante are gone in the sea."
In an instant, overwhelming terror swallowed me whole.
The very next second, I saw Mom shoving freshly cooked meat into my mouth just as she did when I was a child.
My brother hurried over with a grin to snatch a bite.
"Mom, you always favor my sister."
They are standing right beside me.
Then who on earth was trapped inside that sunken yacht?

To protect my childhood sweetheart from the "bullies," I gave up my Yale recommendation and rejected the offer from Institut Le Rosey. I even promised to transfer with him to an ordinary local public school.
But the day before I was supposed to submit my transfer application, I overheard him in the locker room.
His friend laughed,"You faked being bullied all this time just to trick her into leaving?"
Duke’s voice was sickeningly cold. "She’s always looking down on me with her Old Money arrogance. Having her constantly breathing down my neck is suffocating. Now she's stuck here, and Jennifer and I can finally breathe."
I stood outside the door for a long time. Then, without a word, I turned away.
I pulled out my phone and called my father. "Tell the board in Switzerland I'm accepting the Le Rosey offer."
Duke forgot one crucial thing: Without my protection, he was nothing but an unacknowledged bastard. We were always worlds apart.
He thought I would beg him to come back.
He thought wrong.
When Duke finally managed to crawl his way into a high society gala, desperately trying to secure a crumb of investment.
When the doors opened, he froze.
Because the ruthless, untouchable billionaire CEO, Elias Neville—Duke’s legitimate older brother—was walking down the grand staircase.
And his hand was resting possessively on my waist.
Elias looked down at Duke, his voice dripping with deadly calm. "Duke. Where are your manners? Say hello to your future sister-in-law."

My organs are failing, rotting from years of toxic lab work.
My only life-saving antidote was stolen by my husband and biased parents, given to adopted sister, Ivy.
I gave up any chance to live, injecting strong painkillers to endure crippling agony.
The price I paid: only three days until my organs shut down completely.
During those three days, I surrendered everything I owned:
I handed over the Ghost formula that monopolized the black market, and my mafia parents looked utterly relieved;
Marcus laid divorce papers before me. I signed without a second thought, and said I’d finally become sensible;
The day before my death, I spent the whole day out with my son, yet he only wanted Ivy for his mother;
I gifted Aphrodite, the beauty serum, as my husband and Ivy‘s wedding present, and every single one praised me for finally being meek and mild.
I thought myself:
When I’m dead, will they feel remorse for the things they’ve done to me?

For eighteen years, I was my family's invisible daughter.
My sister got a $100,000 graduation gift; I got a free promotional tote bag.
They promised her a $7,000 monthly allowance for college; I was told to survive on $700.
She got a custom gown; I was told to wear a plain shirt and hide in a corner.
Even Silas, my boyfriend of three years, chose to stand proudly by her side.

They thought I was a failure. They thought I was trapped.
They were dead wrong.
On the night of the biggest party of the year, I packed a single suitcase, blocked all their numbers, and silently left the state.

But the real chaos began when a TV crew crashed my sister’s party, desperate to interview the state's top scholar with a perfect ACT score.
My family bragged. The cameras rolled. But then, the reporter looked closely at the official admission file and froze.
"Wait a minute," he said, his microphone catching every word. "The state's top scholar is... Flora Hayes?"
Now, my toxic family and my ex are desperately tearing the city apart trying to find the genius they threw away.
Too bad they don't realize one thing: I'm never coming back.

They say everything is bigger in Texas. Apparently, that includes the audacity of a cheating billionaire.
Kyle Hamilton thought I was a nobody. When his secretary/mistress drunkenly hijacked my VIP parking spot and crashed his Lamborghini into my SUV, he didn't care about the truth. He just wanted to humiliate the "small-town fiancée" his father forced upon him.
Surrounded by a mocking crowd, he demanded $5 million for the scratched paint and threatened to end my life if I didn't drop to my knees.
I pulled out a silk handkerchief and calmly wiped my hands.
"Let me confirm," I said, my voice dead calm. "You are breaking the engagement, extorting me for five million, and threatening my life?"
Kyle laughed, thinking he ruled this city. He had no idea that my simple beige coat cost more than his car.
He didn't know my real identity. And he definitely didn't know that his ruthless father had begged for this marriage just to keep me from destroying their entire energy empire.
"Funny," I whispered, staring into his arrogant eyes. "Not even the President of the United States dares to speak to me that way."

My family ignored my calls while I was dying in our basement. They thought I was trying to ruin my younger sister's graduation.
That night, my brother finally came looking for me. My sister wanted the cookies I used to bake for her.
I was right beside him when he demanded that I come home.
He couldn't hear me. My body was still downstairs.

[My remaining lifespan: 36 Hours]
I didn't cry when my own mother branded a death pact into my chest.
I didn't fight back when my brother kicked me into the mud using the very leg I gave my life force to heal.
But when I opened my bedroom door to find my husband thrashing in our bed with another woman—and he smashed my bleeding head against the floor just to shut me up—something inside me finally snapped.
With 12 hours left, my in-laws shatter my bones.
With 3 hours left, my husband hands me a poisoned drink.
They think they are getting rid of a useless burden by tossing me into the World Rift.
They have no idea they are sending me to the very place where my powers will awaken.
And when I return, hell is coming with me.

The night before graduation, a confession post blew up the school forum:
“Daphne, I’m gonna rip up my Harvard offer onstage during commencement to confess to you—my whole college future as my love token.”
The OP bragged nonstop in the comments that he’d locked down the state’s only full-ride Harvard scholarship, his admission was a done deal, and graduation was nothing but a meaningless formality anyway.
The attached photo showed their interlaced hands. That old burn scar on his forearm—the one he’d claimed he got saving me—stared back like a chain that’s trapped me for ten years straight.
I poured every cent, every spare hour and all my academic resource just to get him into Harvard. I even voluntarily stepped down from the scholarship race and passed the spot to him.
This childhood sweetheart who’d sworn we’d go to Harvard together only hours ago threw every promise out the window for a rich transfer student, willing to gamble both our futures just for a dramatic grand gesture.
I shut the forum tab, pulled up my email to the scholarship committee.
I’m formally taking back the scholarship spot I gave up！

I was vacationing in Miami with my mother when my husband’s female right-hand woman sent me a photo out of the blue. In the picture lay an elderly woman stripped half-naked, her body covered in fresh blood, paired with a cocky voice memo.
The audio blared Gina’s arrogant tone:
[Cecilia, keep your greedy, miserly mother in check!]
[How dare she sneak into the mansion Don Vito just bought for his own mother to mooch off him? She’s got zero shame!]
[I spared her a breath. No need to thank me.]
I froze on the spot and glanced up.
My mother was sitting right across from me, safe and sound.
I zoomed in on the photo without delay, and my heart dropped straight to my stomach.
That woman sprawled on the pavement was my mother-in-law!
I immediately dialed Gina’s number. “Gina, have you lost your mind? That’s Vito’s mother!”
Gina’s tone remained utterly dismissive. “Come on! Vito made it clear. Your mother’s just your mother, his mother’s his own. He’s never once considered your side of the family his real kin.”

My best friend Lily was brutally assaulted and tragically took her own life.
But I fiercely protected the monster who did it.
Lily’s mom knelt down and begged me, but I just closed the door coldly.
When the villagers came with torches to smash my home, I didn't hesitate to unleash my dog to drive them away.
"Ivy, you cold-blooded monster! We treated you like family, and you protected the beast who drove Lily to her death for a whole decade!"
"Today, I’m going to show the whole world who this man is—the one you’d rather be cursed by everyone than expose!"
But when my deepest memories were violently torn open and the culprit's face appeared clearly on the giant holographic screen...
The high and mighty Emma instantly drained of all color and collapsed to the floor.

Kael Graham is a cold, unfeeling man driven by a relentless quest for revenge. He is determined to destroy Rachel Mitchell's life and will do anything to achieve his goal. To do so, Kael lures Rachel into a dangerous trap, but, ironically, it is Rachel's sister Sarah who suffers the consequences. Now, who will emerge victorious in this game of revenge and pleasure?

“Poppy, I want you to stage a private jet crash for me. That way I can get away from Elias for good.”
When my best friend Poppy heard my request, her jaw nearly hit the floor. She wondered if she’d misheard.
"Are you out of your fucking mind, Molly?" she deadpanned.
"I’m entirely serious." I said, keeping my voice dead flat.
"Molly, you're married to Elias Blackwood." Poppy stood up, running a hand through her blue hair. "The Elias. The Alpha who swore you were his one true love, fought his entire clan to make you an ordinary human his Luna, and literally threw away his inheritance for you. The guy who shares his live location with you 24/7 and fired every female assistant in his building. Half the internet calls your marriage the modern fairy tale. If you die, he will tear the world apart looking for your body."
I let out a dry, broken laugh. "He won't have to look hard. He already has a replacement."
Poppy froze. "What are you talking about?"
"He has another family, Poppy."

My little sister and I each bear a Heart-Seed Mark etched into our chests.
Inside each seed grow Heartbeat Petals—currency that can trade for anything under the boughs of The Heart-Root, the ancient devouring tree.
At eight years old, I plucked one petal to cure Mom’s terminal cancer.
At ten, I tore out another to mend my older brother’s shattered bones after his brutal fight.
At twenty-four, I sacrificed my third and final petal to wake my husband’s sister from a car-crash-induced vegetative state.
Now, two disasters struck at once: my father died in a horrific car wreck, and my husband’s mistress lost their unborn baby.
Both sides of my family flocked to The Heart-Root, all fixated on stealing my petals for their own wishes.
I tried to step aside and let my younger sister go first to make the trade, but Mom shoved me hard.
“Every bit of love we’ve poured into you these years, every petal came from us! You’d really hold out and refuse to save your own father? Ungrateful girl!” my mom snapped.
My husband’s mom cut in sharp as a knife: “A good wife knows her place. It’s your duty to bring that baby back for your husband. If only you’d given him a son yourself.”
They tied me tight to the tree trunk. I watched a girl standing nearby get torn apart by black, writhing vines when she had no petals left—her flesh dissolved straight into the tree’s roots to feed it.
But my Heart-Seed didn’t have a single petal left either...

My younger sister scored 8.2. I scored 0.3.
She was the genius. I was the waste-blood Omega.
My parents threw me to the strays.
Said I didn't deserve the Silver Moon name.
Said the slum was where I belonged.
Now I'm awake, with molten gold in my veins.
This time, you'll be the ones begging to take me back.

I was born the true heiress of the powerful Voss family, but after being swapped at birth and failing to awaken my wolf, I was branded as worthless trash.
For six years, I worked as a "Scavenger" in the underground slums. I hauled mutant corpses, endured silver poisoning, and swallowed cheap suppressants—all to pay off my husband’s massive debts and buy the cure for my brother’s fatal blood disease.
Today, I finally handed my brother the life-saving medicine. 
He casually tossed it into the trash. "I'm not sick, Isolde. Oh, and Mom and Dad aren't dead either. I orchestrated that highway explosion six years ago. You were the only one meant to be crippled."
My blood ran cold. 
Jaxson, my supposedly bankrupt Alpha husband, adjusted his Rolex. "I never lost my company, either. Whenever I said I was working late at the docks, I was actually sleeping in my Manhattan penthouse. Honestly, the corpse stench on you was making me gag. We just wanted to end this little game."
I stared at the men I had sacrificed my soul for. Why?
My parents stepped out from the shadows, holding Violet—the fake daughter who stole my life—protectively in their arms. "Because you were too arrogant! We had to break your spirit so you'd stop bullying Violet. This 'trial' was for your own good!"
They thought this ultimate betrayal would finally force me to submit and beg for their forgiveness. 
But as my heart shattered into dust, the legendary Silver Wolf bloodline—dormant for 24 years—finally tasted the extreme despair it needed to awaken.
My eyes bled from amber to piercing silver. 
Fine, my inner wolf whispered. Let's show them what a true monster looks like.

In the bridal suite of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Kian and Kael stood before me. Two identical faces, two identical groom suits.
"Renata, can you tell which one is me?"
In my past life, I instantly pointed to Kian, the arrogant Voss heir.
He smiled, took my hand, and led me to the altar, swearing his eternal love in front of New York's most powerful families.
After the wedding, he spoiled me like a true Queen. I naively thought this was my perfect happily-ever-after.
That was until his precious adopted sister, Lorelei, died in a yacht explosion.
Driven mad by grief, my "perfect" husband pushed me off our penthouse balcony.
"If you had just chosen Kael at the wedding, I could have eloped with Lorelei! She wouldn't have died! Why did you have to ruin everything, Renata?!"
When I opened my eyes, I was back in my wedding dress.
This time, without a second of hesitation, I threw myself into Kael’s chest. I hooked my finger around his tie and smiled. "I’d know you anywhere."
I heard Kian let out a heavy sigh of relief, thinking he had won his sick little bet.
But he didn't notice Kael’s arms locking around my waist like a steel trap, nor the dark, predatory hunger in his eyes that he had buried for a decade......

I was the orphan Hayes Holt pulled from the foster system, the girl he raised for eight years.
In my past life, I drowned in his suffocating tenderness, mistaking his guardianship for love. When he brought Josie Rowe home and announced their engagement, I snapped.
I threw a hysterical fit, screaming my unrequited love until the scandal bled into every gossip rag in New York.
My reward was his cold disgust. Labeled "sick," I was shipped off to a psychiatric ward, where I died strapped to a table, my brain fried by forced ECT.
The very next day, Hayes gave Josie the Manhattan wedding of the century. To the world, I became nothing but a cautionary tale: the delusional slut who tried to seduce her adoptive father.
But fate pulled me back. Back to the exact moment I ruined my life. Back to the fatal question:
"Can't we be more than just father and daughter?"
Across the dining table, the ruthless CEO of Holt Holdings was painstakingly peeling a shrimp for me. At my words, his long fingers froze.
"Excuse me?"
In my past life, I missed the flash of pure disgust in his eyes and just cried, begging for his love.
But now, hearing his icy tone, the phantom stench of my own burning flesh filled my nostrils. A violent shudder ripped through me. Digging my nails into my palms, I forced a flawless smile and pulled my plate away.
"Dad," I said, the word tasting like ash. "Didn't you tell me to grow up? I can peel them myself. I won't bother you anymore."

I woke up back on the night Rhys’s Blood Tide Frenzy hit.
This time, I wouldn’t offer my blood to calm him. Instead, I sent an urgent Message Crystal to Seraphina—his precious white moonlight.
In my past life, I saw Rhys’s Blood Tide spiraled out of control, threatening to tear his body apart.
In my past life, when he commanded me to call Seraphina, I had let my pathetic, unrequited love blind me.
I offered my own body as the cure, desperately weaving the Origin Blood Seal with him.
Not long after, I fell pregnant with his half-blood child.
He had no choice but to plan our wedding. On the big day, Seraphina was ambushed by blood hunters.
She sent ninety-nine distress blood signals, yet he was tied up with wedding duties and never saw a single one.
After his beloved nearly died, he laid every ounce of blame on me.
When I went into labor, he locked me away in the Blood Dungeon. He drained every drop of my Origin Blood in a ritual meant to resurrect Seraphina, leaving me and our unborn baby to die in agony.
As my life slipped away, his words echoed in my ears: I’d ruined his one true love, and both me and the child deserved to perish.
When I opened my eyes again, I was right back to that night.

Reborn on the eve of our weddings, my gentle cousin and I made a deal: we swap husband.
She was too soft for the Boston underworld.
In our last life, she was bullied to death by a mafia boss's 'innocent' little bitch sister while trapped in a loveless marriage.
I was too wild for high society.
My Wall Street husband despised my lack of manners, leading to a bitter divorce and my death on the streets.
Not this time.
“You marry the accountant and live a safe, happy life,” I told her. “I will take the Mafia Boss.”
I grew up fighting in the underworld. Let's see if that boss and his two-faced 'adopted sister' can survive me.

My labor pains flaring violently the same day my husband’s widowed sister-in-law, Nancy, went into labor.
Nancy tricked everyone into believing I carried a girl while she bore the heir son.
Obsessed with securing the inheritance for Nancy’s fake male child, Rowdy locked me inside a hospital morgue cold storage, transferring all doctors, blood reserves and emergency gear to her VIP ward.
I knelt on icy ground, begging him to spare our baby and swore to renounce all family wealth, yet he kicked me aside and called me a greedy schemer.
His adopted sister Gina sneaked down, beat me brutally and injected a high-dose labor suppressant straight into my womb to stall my delivery.
It was only after Nancy delivered her baby that Rowdy belatedly remembered I was also stuck in labor downstairs.
Before he could head down to the basement, his panicked subordinate rushed in and cried, “Boss, Awful!—your wife and your son are died!”

I've signed five blood-bound annulment contracts with my mafia don husband, Killian.
Each and every time, he fed me the same line: "When this is over, we'll tie the knot again."
But every single one of those "things" was for the same woman: Seraphina Moretti.
We ended our marital bond for the first time, and I sobbed, begging him to tell me if his love for me had ever been real.
He clamped his hold on my jaw hard enough, enunciating every word coldly: "Elara, that doesn't matter."
When the second annulment rolled around, I was mocked openly at the family gala.
I locked myself away in the ensuite bathroom and sliced open my wrists; blood trickled along the tile grout.
My best mate tracked me down to find me trembling.
It wasn't the wound's ache making me shake, though—Killian was somewhere on the estate that very night, yet he never bothered to pop by and check on me once.
By the third split, I'd taught myself never to shed a tear in his presence.
On the fourth occasion, I even took it upon myself to ask him flat-out: "What sham do you need me to play along with now?"
He froze for the longest moment, said nothing at all in the end.
Now we're here for the fifth annulment.
He thought he only needs to click his fingers and I'll trot back to remarry him just as I've done all the previous times. What he did not know is this:
This time, I'm disappearing from his life for good.

The night my childhood fiancé humiliated me in front of our entire senior class, I didn't cry.
I just went home and made two decisions.

Lose the 60 pounds.
Secretly reject my Princeton acceptance.
I erased his number, packed my bags, and vanished from his toxic orbit. Nathan thinks he won.
He thinks he finally shook off the "burden" his parents forced on him.
But what happens when the girl you spent your whole life running away from... becomes the only woman you can't live without?

"Five years. Five pureblood sons."
My husband's mistress smirked, parading her boys through my private hall.
She was the one who looked the most like me—the best of the 99 breeding Omegas my husband supposedly "rejected" years ago.
"Dominic told me he's disgusted every time he touches your barren, ruined body," she sneered. "I'm the one giving him a real family."
My husband dug up our dead daughter’s urn and let his mistress pour dirty dog blood on it.
"Her dead spirit is cursing my fertility," the mistress whined.
The next day, he cornered me at the hospital, threatening to leak the video of my dungeon torture if I didn't kneel to his mistress.
The sound of my own agonizing screams and the clinking of those heavy chains echoed from the speaker.
"Get on your knees and apologize to my mate," Dominic snarled, shielding his pregnant mistress. "Or I release this video. Everyone will see what a broken, dirty whore you really are."
My vision faded to black, my hands instinctively shielding my slightly aching stomach.
When his frantic hands rush my lifeless body into the emergency room, he’ll find two things in my coat pocket:
A finalized divorce decree.
And a scheduled abortion form for the baby he never knew I was carrying.

The son I’d nearly died giving birth to looked me dead in the eye after seven years of calling the woman who ruined my life his mother, and spat: “You’re not even fit to shine Chloe’s shoes.”
My husband Arthur stood right beside him, sneering. “Even your own kid doesn’t believe you. Just accept it.”
I’d always thought if I just humbled myself enough, I might earn even a scrap of pity from this father and son.
I’d fought tooth and nail to get my son back, begged him on my knees to choose me, even when I found out my husband was planning to carve out my kidney alive to keep that woman happy — I still clung to the stupid, desperate hope he’d feel even a flicker of regret.
It broke for good when my seven-year-old son, desperate to please his “new mum”, stuffed the evidence she’d planted to frame me right into the sofa cushions with his own two hands.
That all shattered the night he forced me to kneel and serve for him and that homewrecker while they slept together.
In that moment, I was done being the doormat everyone trampled into the dirt.

I dropped out of Harvard and took on massive debt to save my dying brother.

For five years, I starved. I worked five jobs a day. I let debt collectors break my ribs just so I could afford his "life-saving" meds.

Until I saw him at a VIP club.
No wheelchair. No illness. Just a bespoke suit and a glass of expensive whiskey.

"You've faked this terminal illness for five years," his friend laughed. "Isn't Evelyn punished enough for upsetting your adopted sister?"

My brother smirked. "Almost. I’ll stage a 'miracle recovery' soon. She believes everything I say anyway. I'll make it up to her later."

Standing in the shadows, I wiped the blood from my mouth and walked away.

He his terminal illness is a lie.
But mine is real.

"Is lying the only skill you have left? Don't play dead until you actually land in a coffin!"
That was what my billionaire brother roared as he crumpled my stage-four cancer diagnosis and threw it at my face.
To him, I was a spoiled brat who needed a brutal reality check.
He engineered a fake DNA test, gave my identity to a manipulative orphan girl, and watched me get dragged to a disciplinary camp.
Now, he offers me an arrogant ultimatum: Stay quiet and wait half a month, and he’ll graciously allow me to come home.
I clutched my agonizing stomach and laughed until I cried.
Wait half a month?
I can't even guarantee I'll wake up tomorrow.
But I can't wait to see his face when he finally decides to forgive me, only to realize I've already been dead......

Born beneath Pluto’s ill omen, I was marked a blood curse for the Constantine mafia clan, my twin Cataleya blessed with a fortune chart my parents clung to blindly.
They starved me of warmth, forced me to bear every blade, bullet and crime in her stead, and my husband Rafael, whom I once loved with all I had, sacrificed me without hesitation to soothe her feigned sickness.
I was locked in an underground dungeon lab to serve as her live drug test subject, tormented day and night by lethal experimental serum.
When I finally died alone on that cold steel table, my family brushed off my passing as a childish tantrum—until panicked enforcers crashed in, screaming the Russo crime family was storming the manor to wipe us out.
Only in ruin did they see the truth: they’d guarded catastrophe, and buried their salvation alive.

Eighty-eight times.
That was how many times I had put on a white dress, or packed my ID, heading to the registry office to marry Harrison Churchill. And eighty-eight times, I ended up in an ambulance.
The first time, it was a street drive-by. A bullet tore through my shoulder just two blocks from City Hall.
The fifteenth time, a car bomb shattered three of my ribs.
The forty-second time, a steel frame plummeted from a construction site, cracking my skull.
......And this time?
The eighty-eighth time. A massive cargo container "accidentally" slipped from a crane at the docks, crushing my car.
Maybe, it’s time to say goodbye.

I was snatched at three.
By fourteen, I was missing both legs, half-deaf, and half-blind.
When my billionaire blood family finally brought me to their Texas ranch, the fake heiress cornered me.
"Try any tricks to steal my place," she sneered, "and I’ll break your legs."
I just unhooked my prosthetics and let them drop to the floor.
When my biological brother grabbed my shoulder, hissing a warning in my ear to stay in line, I tapped my skull and yelled, "What?! This ear is entirely dead! I can't hear you!"
They both backed away, looking at me like they’d seen a ghost.
A few days later, the fake heiress threw herself down a staircase to frame me—and accidentally tore my shirt open.
The whole party froze. My back was a horrific map of trafficker brands and whip scars.
My parents pulled me into their arms, trembling violently. "Who did this to you?!"
"It wasn't me! Don't try to pin that on me!" the fake daughter shrieked in panic.
I nodded slowly. She was right. The traffickers did it.
I was the only kid who crawled out of their hellfire alive.
And I promised the kids who burned that I would make our monsters pay.

When Aunt Luna let the AC repairman in, I was five, fast asleep in my bedroom.
By the time I woke up, the police were already bagging evidence. Aunt Luna was wrapped in a blanket, bruised and broken, staring blankly at the wall.
She never smiled again. Instead, she collected scars on her arms.
Her ex-husband Ethan dropped everything to hold her, promising it wasn't her fault. But the PTSD won. Two years later, she swallowed a lethal dose of pills. Ethan followed her in death the very same night.
Every year, my mom would take me to their graves, crying as she whispered: If only I hadn't let your aunt call that repairman.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the summer I was five!
Aunt Luna walked out of the kitchen with her phone, fanning herself.
"Stella, I called a guy to fix the AC. Be a good girl and go take your nap."
The next second, the front doorbell rang.
"Hello! HandyPro AC repair."
My blood ran ice-cold!
I recognized that voice—Jake Dalton.
The rapist who destroyed both our families in my past life!

I am the Don Dante's wife, but my life runs through my husband's underboss who always seduce my husband, Elena.
I can't wear a coat without Elena's passcode.
My cards are monitored. My cash is approved. Dante calls it protocol. He calls it protection. He never asks why I wear the same faded sweater in winter.
I swallowed every humiliation because my mother's ventilator depended on his signature.
But Elena intentionally delayed funds for my mother’s medical treatment.
The brutal clash made me miscarry.
My mother died alone without timely treatment. I stopped filing all daily spending applications for three days straight.
Today he calls, calm and condescending, telling me the medical accounts are restored.
He thinks I'll fall back into line.
He doesn't know the only thing I'm requesting now is a signature—his, on the divorce papers.

My attempts to marry Ethan Ward had been derailed exactly seven times.
The first time, Peyton threw him a "surprise" party, and he was too hungover to make our City Hall appointment. 
The second time, she got into a minor fender bender and hysterically convinced him her neck was broken. He rode with her in the ambulance. 
The third time, right as we were signing the papers, she swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills over a bad breakup. Ethan literally carried her to the ER.
Fourth time, fifth time... it was Peyton. Every single time.

"Hurry up, Diana! This is the eighth time!" my best friend, Mia, shouted frantically. "There are only fifteen minutes left before City Hall locks their system at 5 PM sharp. Let's get this over with!"
We were just about to walk through the doors when a voice called out from the backseat of Ethan's car. It was Peyton Reed, his childhood best friend. Again.
"Wait a second! My lucky charm bracelet broke. I need to restring it."
Ethan stopped walking. 
"Okay. No rush," he said. 

Peyton kept her head down, fiddling with the red string and little beads, flashing me an innocent smile. "Don't be in such a hurry, Diana. I'll be done in a sec. I got this blessed lucky charm bracelet just for you two. It's supposed to bring luck to your marriage."
Then, as naturally as breathing, she held her clutch out to Ethan. "Hold this for me?"
He took it without a word.
The buzzing crowd of our friends went dead silent. Everyone exchanged awkward, pitying looks.
I stared at him, swallowing my anger. "Ethan, the system at the marriage bureau locks automatically at 5 PM. If we go in right now, we can just make it."
Ethan frowned, looking slightly annoyed by my pressure. "I'm already here, Diana. A few minutes won't kill us."

I looked at him standing by the car, patiently waiting for Peyton to fix her stupid string, and I suddenly laughed. 
I pulled out my phone and quickly typed out a message:
[You once said if my eighth attempt at getting married failed, I should give you a chance.]
[Get to City Hall before 5 PM.]

My husband doesn't love me, and he certainly doesn't love our son.
On the day Toby was born, Graham didn't even look at him before tossing him into my arms.
For seven years, he kept our marriage a secret and strictly forbade our boy from calling him "Dad."
Then, his first love returned.
The usually cold and distant billionaire came to our rundown cabin dead drunk, a rare, tender smile on his face, and actually pulled our seven-year-old into his arms.
Toby's eyes lit up with pure joy. He excitedly hugged the man's neck and whispered to me, "Mom, what's wrong with Uncle Graham? He's hugging me!"
I knelt down, pulled my son away from the man who smelled of her perfume, and forced back my tears. "Uncle's favorite person just came back, sweetie. So we shouldn't bother him anymore. We're moving away."
I secretly made a vow: I would give Graham exactly three chances.
That night, watching my son's heartbroken face, I silently made a vow.
Three chances. I would give Graham exactly three more chances to choose us.
The countdown has started. Once his three chances are up, he won't just lose his family—he will watch his entire legacy burn to the ground.

I wasted five whole years of my youth chasing Gerald Darkmoor, the Alpha heir of the Darkmoor Pack.
On the very day I was supposed to marry him, standing there in my white bridal gown, I accidentally overheard a conversation between Gerald and his friend.
"Gerald, are you really going to marry Elowen?" his friend asked, sounding skeptical.
A dark shadow crossed Gerald's eyes.
"Of course. The Wardens' Concord has been breathing down our pack's neck. And since Sylara is carrying my pup, the Concord elders are furious with me. Marrying Elowen is the perfect way to pacify them."
"Aren't you worried Elowen will find out about your affair and go after Sylara?"
"No. She is madly in love with me. She'll keep my secret."
"She's soft and easy to control. As long as I marry her, the Darkmoor Pack will be temporarily safe from a Concord purge, and Sylara will be out of danger." 
My entire world collapsed in that instant.
In my daze, I wandered off, was ambushed, and severely injured.
When I finally woke up from the coma, I remembered everyone. Everyone except Gerald.
So, when Lord Vale, the leader of the Wardens' Concord, sent a rune-message asking me to return for a political marriage, I immediately arranged for an escort convoyseven days later.

I’d spent four years slaving away in the hospital basement sorting medical waste.
I thought I’d finally scraped together enough money to pay for my brother Leo’s brain damage treatment.
But he just took the card and tossed it onto the coffee table.
“I got better ages ago. That lousy little paycheck of yours? I blew it on a necklace for Victoria.”
My husband David pushed open the study door. “That story about me going bankrupt and losing my board seat? Total lie. Victoria and I have been together for a year.”
“We planned that whole thing together—sending you down to the basement to pick through trash.”
My parents held out an organ donor agreement in front of me. “That waste disposal job? Victoria got it for you. Her kidney match results came back. You’re the only match. Sign this, and you can still be our daughter.”
Victoria walked in, holding a little boy’s hand. It was Eli—my son, the one I’d thought died in that car crash four years ago.
He stared at me with this cold, disgusted look, like I was a stranger. “Mom, is this ugly lady gonna give you her kidney?”
I pulled the physical exam report I’d gotten a week ago out of my pocket.
Late-stage osteosarcoma. They said I only had ten days left to live.
Counting today,I had three days left.