He Married His Mistress at My Funeral—So I Played Their Sex RecordingThree days after my husband drugged me and sent my car into a reservoir, he stood beside my coffin at my funeral.
He took the Donna’s ring from my hand and placed it on his secretary’s finger.
“From this day forward, Camilla Ferraro will be the new Donna of the Russo family.”
He thought a dead woman could not answer him.
He had no idea I was inside the coffin, listening.The Perfect Husband's Deception“It’s just a baby,” Tristan told the doctor.
“We’ll tell Rose it was stillborn. Vivienne can raise it.”
I stood outside the exam room, seven months pregnant, listening to my husband decide who deserved my child.
Then he said, “If one of us has to hurt, it won’t be Vivienne.”He Chose His New Woman, Then Lost His EmpireThe Calder family had a rule.
If a new Consort wanted to be accepted, the woman before her had to hand over something close to her body.
Not jewelry bought for show. Not money.
Something she had worn. Something that proved she had once existed there.
That night, Roman Calder stood before a hall full of guests and said Vivian Cross, the princess of the Cross family, was the woman fit to stand as Calder's Consort.
No tears came from me. No scene followed.
The black obsidian wolf pendant left my neck after seven years, and my own hands placed it on Vivian.
They did not know Serena would soon stop existing.
Forty-eight hours later, the O'Rourke motorcade would enter New York.
My real name was Seraphina O'Rourke.Claimed by My Fiancé’s Alpha BrotherFor six months, I sat beside my comatose fiancé’s bed while everyone praised me as the perfect future mate.
They did not know that every time his older brother, Alpha Lucas, walked past me, my wolf woke with a hunger I could barely hide.
Then I found a hidden folder in Lucas’s study.
It was filled with videos of me.
Before I could close it, the door locked behind me.
“You weren’t supposed to see that yet,” Lucas said.The Price of a Thousand DaysFor three years, I lifted my paralyzed father, changed his clothes, fed him, and slept beside his bed. When he died at three in the morning, I was the only child there.
My brother arrived asking for the property deed. My sister arrived with perfect makeup and dry eyes. At the will reading, they fought over a city apartment and hundreds of thousands in cash while I sat forgotten in the corner.
They believed the youngest son who had sacrificed a thousand days would receive whatever scraps remained.
Then the attorney reached the final item.
My father had kept a record of every hour, every payment, and every act of care they never saw. The inheritance was not simply money. It was his final judgment on the children who came home only when there was something to divide.
They counted his assets. He counted who stayed. 
