4752 Book(s) Related to My husband says that he loves me

Her marriage, which has lasted for three years, ends in a divorce. The whole city laughs at her and mocks her for being the abandoned wife of a wealthy family. Six years later, she returns to the country with a pair of twins. This time, she has taken a new lease on life and is now a world-renowned genius doctor. Countless men are now lining up to court her and marry her, until one day, her daughter tells her that “Daddy” has been on his knees for three days straight, begging to remarry her.Roxanne, a kind-hearted and innocent young woman, is married off to the wealthy and enigmatic businessman, Lucian. Roxanne’s life takes an unexpected turn as she finds herself in a loveless and suffocating marriage. Lucian is portrayed as a distant and cold husband, consumed by his own ambitions and scandals.Despite her efforts to be a dutiful wife, Roxanne's marriage becomes increasingly unbearable. She discovers that her husband is having an affair with a scheming socialite. Roxanne’s heartbreak and humiliation push her to the brink, leading her to make a daring decision: she leaves behind her luxurious life to find herself anew.Roxanne’s journey of self-discovery takes her to the bustling city of Paris. In the artistic and bohemian atmosphere, she begins to unravel the layers of her own identity. Through a series of chance encounters, she befriends the charismatic and free-spirited artist, Who in turn becomes Roxanne’s guide to a world of pa*sion, art, and liberation that she had never known before.As Roxanne navigates her new life, she gradually lets go of the constraints that had bound her in her former existence. The novel beautifully portrays her metamorphosis from a timid and abandoned wife to a confident and independent woman. Through mentorship, Roxanne discovers her own artistic talents and finds solace in painting, using the canvas as a means to express her emotions and aspirations.

At the Morello family’s Christmas dinner, I stood beside Vincent, waiting for him to announce our engagement.
Instead, in the very next second, he walked in holding a little boy and claimed him as his son.
And the woman he said he was going to marry? Scarlett Morello. The one he had always introduced as his “sister.”
The whole room erupted in applause. I stood there frozen, like a nail hammered into the floor.
Later, in his study, he took my hand and said, “Scarlett is dying. Late-stage breast cancer. She only has six months left. After she’s gone, I’ll marry you.”
But there was no guilt in his eyes. No love, either.
Then he told me to go to his villa that afternoon, to take care of the woman who was supposedly “dying.”
I opened the photo he sent me. Scarlett was lying in a hospital bed, pale-faced, an IV in the back of her hand.
A professional tennis player who had been playing in an exhibition match three weeks ago, and who had dropped three grand at Louis Vuitton on Fifth Avenue just five days ago.
But sure. She was “dying.”
At three in the morning, I was curled up by the front door of my apartment, crying so long I lost track of time.
Then my phone lit up. A text from an unknown number:
[Elena, I’m downstairs. When we were kids, you told me that once I controlled the docks on the East Coast, you’d marry me. The docks are mine now. Does that promise still stand?]
I pulled back the curtain and there he was. Ethan Vitale, my first love, leaning against the door of a black Cadillac, lifting a hand in a lazy wave.
Three years ago, when he left New York, he was only a Capo.
Now, he was the Don of the Vitale family.
He didn’t rush me. Didn’t pressure me to come downstairs.
He came for one reason only, to let me know he was back.
I wiped away my tears and texted back:
[It still stands.]
Because I wanted to see for myself just how long that woman could keep up her act.