Cerita Pendek

After severe trauma wiped my past memories, I spent a blissful year with my fated mate, Alpha Rhys. One day, while gathering herbs near our pack borders, I was stopped by a lost little pup. He frowned, his tone icy. "Father sent me to bring you home. Haven't you caused enough trouble?" Amused, I knelt to pat his head. "Little one, have you mistaken me for someone else?" He dodged my hand, his voice sharp with impatience. "Stop pretending. If you behave, I might let you tell me bedtime stories from now on." Though I was bewildered, sensing he was a lost pup from a neighboring pack, I decided to take him back for his own safety. We crossed into the neighboring territory. At the entrance of a somber, oppressive manor stood an Alpha, his posture rigid and his eyes sinister. Seeing me, his expression flickered, but his scent flared with contempt. "Cora. So you finally decided to crawl back?" He reached out, trying to drag me through the door. But I wrenched myself free, hitting the emergency dial on my phone. "Rhys, I think I've run into a pack of mad wolves!"

Fifteen minutes until City Hall closed its doors at five. At the last possible second, my fiancé, Grayson, and I were scrambling up the steps. Our friends cheered from the bottom. "Get in there, Chloe! This is the eighth damn time. Let's make this one stick!" My best friend, Maya, helped me straighten my veil, her own eyes already red-rimmed. Just as we reached the entrance, a voice called out from behind us—Grayson’s “sister,” Tessa. "Wait, Grayson!" She held up a telltale blue box from a luxury jeweler, her face a mask of apology. "They engraved the wrong anniversary date on the silver frame I ordered for you guys. I have to run to the flagship store on the corner and get it exchanged, right now." My steps faltered. Grayson stopped dead. "Okay, take your time." Tessa shot me an apologetic smile, though something in her eyes didn't quite match. "Chloe, don't worry. I'll be right back." "I special-ordered this frame for you two. It has to be perfect, you know, for good luck." With that, she casually handed a shopping bag to Grayson. "Hold this for me." He took it without a second thought. A sudden silence fell over our group. The smiles vanished from our friends' faces. I stared at him. "Grayson, they stop admitting people at five." "If we go in now, we can just make it." Grayson frowned. "Don't be so tense. I'm right here. A few minutes won't make a difference." I watched him standing by the curb, patiently consoling Tessa as she fumbled in her purse. A dry laugh escaped me. I lowered my head, pulled out my phone, and sent a text. [Remember how you joked that if my eighth attempt at marriage failed, it would be your turn?] [Come to City Hall. Before five.]

At the party celebrating our win for "Lakeside Manor," the architectural masterpiece we designed together, my husband, Nolan Vaughn, dropped a bomb. He and my once-trusted assistant, Zoe Clarke, had a one-year-old son. The weight of the crystal award in my hand was intensely real, solid and heavy, but his words felt like a venomous hallucination slipping into my bloodstream. He leaned in close, backing me against the velvet-draped wall of the VIP lounge. His breath, heavy with the scent of expensive bourbon and his signature cedarwood cologne, brushed against my ear. It was a proximity that usually sparked heat between us; tonight, it made my stomach violently churn. "Back when you lost the bid for your first major project, I was in a dark place. You were spiraling, and I felt useless. We fucked after the charity gala. It was a drunken, catastrophic mistake." "Our son, Noah, was born while you were in Italy overseeing the marble quarrying. He's the spitting image of me." "The reason I couldn't join you on stage tonight... was because I was hosting his first birthday party. My entire family was there." My world shattered. A chill so sharp it felt like splinters of ice shot straight through my spine. My most trusted assistant and my husband of seven years… had a child? Seeing the blood drain from my face, Nolan set down his crystal tumbler and coolly slipped my phone from my clutch. A sickeningly domestic photo of their family of three illuminated the screen. His thumb brushed intimately across my lower lip—a possessive, rough gesture that once made my pulse race but now felt like the scrape of a serrated blade. "Noah needs to be legitimized, Ava. I need to add him to the family trust, get him on my health insurance. I won't have a son of mine growing up as a dirty little secret." His eyes darkened, fixating on my trembling lips with a twisted, suffocating intensity. "Darling, you've always been so painfully rational. We don't need to ruin our marriage over this. You'll be a wonderful mother to him, won't you?"

My husband's new mistress sent me a photo. In the photo, my husband was sleeping soundly. The black rose tattooed over his heart for me was now being strangled by a menacing snake. She even added a provocative caption: "Donna, Julian is exhausted. Tonight, he's mine." I stared at the snake for three seconds, then I smiled. I calmly screenshotted the photo and the chat log, then sent them both to the family's elite inner circle network. My caption read: "Congratulations to Miss Cassia on securing her new position." After hitting send, I shut off my phone. Two days later, I turned it back on. Hundreds of missed encrypted calls and countless messages flooded in, nearly crashing the device.

When I received the brusque call from my mother, another of my new algorithm patents had just been licensed for a nine-figure sum. Her tone was the same as always: commanding, with that familiar undertone of East Coast elitism. "Your sister, Savannah, is getting married in Oyster Bay this weekend. You need to be here. Don't make it a whole thing, Clara." After she hung up, I opened the long-dormant family group chat. It was buzzing with a predictable barrage of condescension. Kyle tagged me, a rare event, warning me not to embarrass Savannah with cheap rental clothes. Chad, our high school's fading golden boy, quickly chimed in to remind me that my 'state college ceiling' was the reason my life was supposedly such a struggle. Finally, my former best friend, Jessica, capped it off by suggesting I beg the Ashworth family for a 'cushy entry-level handout.' I scrolled past their synchronized insults, not even bothering to type a reply. I glanced down at my buzzing smartwatch. The Ashworth family? A new encrypted message flashed on the screen from Julian Blackwood, a titan of the financial world and the most notoriously ruthless venture capitalist on Wall Street. For the past three months, he had been practically begging for an audience with me, exhausting every high-level connection he had just to secure a five-minute meeting. The irony was almost poetic. The very same Ashworth family they all worshipped was currently on the brink of collapse, and Julian just happened to hold their entire financial future—and their ultimate survival—squarely in the palm of his hand. I smiled and locked my screen, anticipating the weekend.

There were only fifteen minutes left until the five o'clock closing time. At the last possible moment, my fiancé, Liam, and I were racing up the marble steps of the Cook County Administration Building. Our friends cheered for us from the bottom of the steps. "Get in there, Olivia! This is the freaking eighth time! You've got to make this one count!" My best friend, Ava, smoothed the wrinkles on my white tailored jumpsuit, her own eyes already glistening with tears. Just as we were about to reach the entrance, a voice called from behind us—it was Liam's 'adoptive sister,' Scarlett. "Wait, Liam!" She was holding a beautiful box containing custom acrylic vow cards, her expression a study in remorse. "I was just picking them up when I accidentally spilled my iced matcha on them, smudging the words. I have to run to the studio around the corner and get them reprinted immediately." My steps faltered. Liam came to a complete stop. "Sure, go ahead." Scarlett offered me an apologetic smile, but the subtle, triumphant gleam in her eyes made a cold knot tighten in my stomach. "Don't worry, Olivia, I'll be right back." "I had these vows custom-made for you two. They have to be perfect, you know. It’s bad vibes to start a marriage with ruined vows." As she spoke, she casually handed a heavy Nordstrom shopping bag to Liam. "Hold this for me." He took it without a second thought. A sudden silence fell over our group. The smiles vanished from our friends' faces. I stared at him, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached. "Liam, the marriage license bureau closes at five." "If we go in now, we can still make it." Liam frowned, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of pure annoyance. "Don't be so uptight. I'm right here. A few minutes won't make a difference." I watched him stand by the curb, patiently consoling Scarlett as she fumbled through her purse. A dry, humorless laugh caught in my throat. I looked down, took out my phone, and sent a text message. [Remember how you joked that if my eighth attempt at marriage failed, it would be your turn?] [Come to City Hall. Before five. Don't make me wait.]

On the way to the celebration for my solo design exhibition, my husband, Harrison, received a call. The voice of his ex-fiancée, Genevieve, filled the car, piped through the Bluetooth system. "I'm back. And I'm ready to take back everything that rightfully belongs to me—my man, and my position as your official wife." Harrison didn't respond. His jaw clenched as he wordlessly stabbed the end-call button. I took it as a clear rejection. Until late that night, when his lawyer delivered the divorce papers. Staring into the impenetrable depths of his gray eyes, I calmly signed my name. "Do I need to move out tonight?" I asked. He must have expected arguments or hysterics, because a rare flicker of surprise crossed his cold, ascetic face. His Adam's apple bobbed. "No need," he said, his voice low. "This Manhattan penthouse will be transferred to your name tomorrow." I offered him a brittle smile and nodded. Harrison didn't know that for a man with his intense need for control, me walking away with his money—calmly and without a single tear—was the ultimate act of war. He thought he could just toss me aside as a disposable pawn. He had no idea that in three years' time, this cold-blooded CEO who so ruthlessly abandoned me would be the one crawling back, begging on his knees for a second chance—and I would be the one holding his leash, making him obediently eat out of the palm of my hand.

After my best friend was schemed against by her scumbag ex-husband and forced to leave with nothing, I took her into my home. Because of this, my boyfriend, Adrian Fordham, frequently frowned, "She demands to be chauffeured everywhere, never wears an outfit twice, insists on having someone else shell her seafood, and only eats the heart of the watermelon and the tip of the strawberry. Mia Serrano, are you her dog? Were you born to serve her?" "She's so dramatic and high-maintenance, she deserves to be dumped by men." For once, I lost my temper and said sternly, "She's my best friend. Without her, I wouldn't be who I am today." Later, I went to the UK for a research project; when I returned home with my luggage three months later, I found my best friend lying on the sofa, while Adrian Fordham skillfully cracked snow crab legs, placing the shelled meat into her bowl, his eyes filled with a doting tenderness I had never seen before.

In the tenth year of the apocalypse, my Mercenary Captain brother finally found his long-lost biological sister. Back then, when he rescued me from a Mutant Nest, he said: "From now on, you're my sister. If the sky falls, your Brother will hold it up for you." Now, under his sky, there is no longer a place for me. "Captain, the Deputy has risked life and limb for the team for so many years. Are you really going to kick her out just because of... because of a word from her?" He was silent for a moment, his voice cold and hard: "From now on, there is only one young lady here. If she is unhappy, no one gets to be happy." Watching that girl act all high and mighty towards me, while he tacitly approved of it all. I smiled and didn't say much. It's just that while packing my bags, I also accepted the olive branch extended by the leader of the rival base. And I took half of the team's elite members with me.

After I was forced to give up my mate-to-be, Garrett, to my adopted sister, Lilith, for what felt like the hundredth time—always for "the future of the Pack"—the Luna cornered me on the day of Lilith's bonding ceremony. Her words were sharp as claws: she told me that despite our blood, Lilith was the only one she truly considered her cherished daughter. She explained that since Lilith also loved Garrett, my presence was an obstacle, and a mother had to clear the path for her true pup. My father, the Alpha, added that my talents as an Aura Weaver were too gentle, that I lacked the necessary primal aggression of a wolf. That, he admitted with chilling indifference, was why he'd framed me, leading the council of elders to declare me "Unclean," effectively stripping me of my rank and any right to challenge for leadership. It was all because he couldn't stand seeing his own illegitimate son, Kian, overshadowed by me. I trembled as the Alpha's oppressive scent crushed down on me, the dominance in the air making it hard to breathe. "Why are you only telling me this now?" I rasped. With a voice dripping false sympathy, the Luna explained they had been afraid I wouldn't agree before. But now, with my inner wolf failing and me left with nothing, she pitied me—a feeling she claimed was only natural for a "compassionate mother." The Alpha nodded in agreement. "If you have a problem with it," he snarled softly, "you can challenge me. Or declare yourself a Rogue. The choice is yours."

“I’ll court you all over again. I’ll start from the beginning. I’ll wait until you’re finally ready to accept me again.” The Supreme Alpha of the Northern Frost Pack—the man who commanded thousands, the man who broke my heart—was groveling in the freezing mud, begging for my forgiveness. I stared down at him, my expression perfectly calm. “I won't ever be ready.” For fifteen years, Selena lived in the shadows. As an unawakened Omega, her only purpose was to endure the agonizing pain of drawing her own blood every full moon to soothe her True Mate, Damian. She was his secret savior, his anchor, the only reason his volatile wolf spirit hadn't torn him apart. But devotion means nothing to an Alpha blinded by ambition. When Damian parades a legendary warrior she-wolf into their Pack House, giving her the Luna’s crown that rightfully belonged to Selena, he crosses a line that can never be uncrossed. “She is my mate,” Damian had coldly declared, “but the North needs a Luna who can make all wolves submit. You can.” Shattered and cast aside, Selena makes a desperate, irreversible choice. She drinks a dark, forbidden potion from a black market witch—a violent elixir that will slowly, excruciatingly sever their True Mate bond over fifteen days. For fifteen days, Damian ignores her silent agony. For fifteen days, he flaunts his new Luna. And on the fifteenth day, when the countdown hits zero and the sacred bond shatters entirely, the backlash drives the Alpha’s wolf completely feral on his very own coronation altar. He thought his True Mate would never leave him. He was dead wrong. Now, as an awakened, immensely powerful Silver Moon Healer under the protection of a rival Pack, Selena has finally found her freedom. But an Alpha driven mad by a severed bond will burn the world down to get his mate back. Damian will soon learn a brutal lesson: some ties, once broken, can never be mended. And the ashes of a ruined mate will never warm his bed again.

Jaxson's embrace was once my entire world. But tonight, his deep pine and musk scent was tainted by the sickly-sweet floral stench of another woman clung to him. I endured the sharp pangs of pain from our mate bond. He just laughed, telling me I was being paranoid. "Your wolf is just on edge. You're too tense." I tried to tell myself it was just me. Until his childhood friend, Corinne, came to visit. The moment she stepped through the door of our home, Jaxson didn't hesitate to give her the warmest fur blanket, the one usually reserved for the hearth. Corinne paused, then deftly wrapped herself in it. "Oh, Jaxson, you're as thoughtful as ever." A flicker of something unreadable flashed in Jaxson's eyes, and he cleared his throat to explain, "Corinne's wolf has been unstable lately and needs soothing. The harsh winds from the eastern silver mines have drained her." He turned to me. "Don't read too much into it. It means nothing." But I vividly remembered him boasting about how he’d hunted the beast for this very pelt, specifically for his future Luna. By the fireplace, Corinne sat on the blanket that should have been mine. Jaxson immediately stepped forward to stoke the fire, coaxing the flames higher. "Corinne's wolf is sensitive to the cold. You need to be more considerate." "The alliance between our two packs has lasted for centuries. As the future Luna, you'll have to get used to it." It was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over the embers of our bond. I lowered my head, silently reciting an ancient incantation as I began preparing the ritual to sever our mate bond. I also contacted a Rogue smuggler operating near the northern borders. Your throne is too crowded, Jaxson. I’m giving up my seat.

On the day of my seventh anniversary with Julian Croft, he turned my dream wedding into a "canceled wedding" prank for the third time. This time, I wasn't hysterical. My stomach didn't pitch, and my pulse remained devastatingly calm. My heart had simply plunged into an arctic sea of its own making. All around me, Julian's frat-boy cronies and Wall Street friends erupted in roaring laughter, while I stood expressionless in their midst, letting the camera flashes broadcast my humiliation to the world. The laughter only began to subside when they noticed my unusual silence. Only then did Julian approach. The familiar scent of his Tom Ford cedarwood cologne wrapped around me as he reached out, ruffling my hair as if soothing a pet. He gauged my reaction with those piercing, ocean-blue eyes that had once been my absolute downfall. "Amelia, you're not really angry, are you?" I remembered overhearing his conversation with a friend last night. He’d said offhandedly that this was the last time he’d do this for Scarlett—a twisted favor to appease her fragile mental state—and that afterward, as compensation, he’d give me a real wedding of the century. I stared at him quietly, my fingertips ice-cold, but a searing, hollow smile stretched across my lips. "So the wedding's canceled? Fine. Let's continue."

At my engagement party, an anonymous email accused me of fabricating medical data that could have revolutionized cancer treatment. My fiancé called off our engagement in front of everyone. The moment I became the laughingstock of Aethelburg high society, the king of the Exchange District, Julian Blackwood, pulled me from the abyss. A heady scent of bergamot and dark cedar washed over me. He took off his bespoke suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders. His scorching body heat seared my skin through the thin silk of his shirt, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he pulled me flush against his chest. His dark, predatory eyes locked onto mine, capturing my soul as he leaned in, his warm breath ghosting my ear. He promised to protect me. As long as I became the canary in his golden cage. I agreed. Three years later, as I was celebrating the success of our IVF treatment, I accidentally opened the safe in Julian's study. It turned out the email that had destroyed my life was forged by him. Julian had orchestrated my downfall for a single, terrifying reason: an obsessive, consuming need to break my engagement and claim me for himself. But the horrors didn't stop there. Hidden in a separate, encrypted folder were communications between his security chief, Marcus, and his alleged savior, Scarlett Pierce. They detailed a plot to use me as a stepping stone. They were the ones who tampered with my medical records and supplements. What I had believed to be my salvation was a masterclass in manipulation. I was trapped in a cage built on lies, surrounded by vipers. I wiped away my tears and dialed the number of his biggest rival in the Exchange District. "I have the key to a fatal vulnerability in Julian Blackwood's firewall. Interested in a partnership?"

The tenth year of our marriage. My fiancé, declared dead ten years ago, has returned. He burst into the Grimaldi family dinner, travel-worn but with a complexion that was infuriatingly healthy. The only reason the Soldati hadn’t shot him on sight was the frantic intervention of his mother, Caterina. He threw a blood-stained Saint Christopher medal onto the table, where it landed with a sharp clatter. "Seraphina, it's been ten years. You look… tired. Gia must be in elementary school by now, right?" "I brought back what you wanted," he said, pushing the medal toward me. "Now, come with me." I froze in my seat. Ten years ago, when I was pregnant with Gia, I had casually mentioned wanting a Saint Christopher medal as a symbol of our love—something to bless him and keep him safe. Nico Grimaldi went without a second thought. It was during a brutal turf war. He’d sworn he’d take the last bullet for me. Afterward, the family brought back everyone who fought. Only Nico was missing. No body, no news. Everyone believed he had died on that bloody night. And I had shouldered the blame for ten long years. For ten years, guilt had tormented me, stealing my sleep. But the Nico before me was completely unscathed, his face holding more color than mine. My parents cast worried glances in my direction. From the head of the table, Matteo’s gaze, cold enough to freeze hell over, settled on me. His large, calloused hand slid under the table, gripping my thigh with a possessive, territorial heat that instantly grounded me. The unspoken threat in his dark eyes wasn't aimed at me, but at the ghost daring to claim his wife. My face a mask of indifference, I raised my glass of Barolo, offering him a chilling smile. "Nico," I reminded him softly, "you should call me 'sister-in-law'."

The night before my engagement party, I walked in on my future husband and my closest cousin, Scarlett, entangled in my private studio. I ran out into a Manhattan downpour and tried to drown my sorrows in whiskey at some dive bar, only to stumble into a different kind of trap—a man's low voice drew me in, his warm breath a spark against my skin. His touch was intoxicating, his heavy thrusts and predatory growls in the dark stripping away my inhibitions until I completely surrendered to the heat of the night. When I woke up the next day, before I could even process what had happened, nude photos of me were already circulating through New York's high society. The headline, "Valeriano Heiress in Nude Photo Scandal on Eve of Engagement," ignited a media frenzy. Overnight, I became the shame of my family, facing a broken engagement and the ruin of my career. In my darkest hour, he appeared: Matteo Rinaldi. My ex-fiancé's enigmatic uncle, the man who held the city's underworld in his iron fist. He gently wiped away my tears with the pad of his thumb. He told me he'd always wanted me. He offered me the protection of his name—a shield from the world—if only I would be his wife. Staring into his possessive gaze, I thought I was grabbing my only lifeline. For five years, he locked me in a gilded cage, protecting me from every storm. I believed I was his most cherished treasure. Until our fifth wedding anniversary, when I overheard a conversation between him and his Consigliere. "A ruthless move, Don. Not only did you shatter her engagement to Nico and protect Scarlett's name, but you obliterated Aurora's future to clear the path for your niece." "All these years, you've poured resources into Scarlett—making her a Hollywood star, even helping her marry your nephew. And you want nothing in return? Is that how deep the obsession runs?" After a long silence, I heard Matteo Rinaldi let out a low, chilling chuckle. "Scarlett's ambition was merely a convenient tool," Matteo's voice was a cold, arrogant drawl. "I needed Aurora broken. A bird that can fly will eventually leave. By giving Scarlett everything Aurora wanted, I clipped Aurora's wings." "She thinks I'm her savior, but I'm the one who built the cage. As long as she belongs to me, trapped in my bed, what does her ruined future matter?" So, it was never a rescue. The man I thought was my savior was the demon who had dragged me to hell with his own two hands, all for a sick, twisted obsession. If that's the truth, Matteo Rinaldi, then let this be the end of us.

I once thought an arranged business marriage was already the end of the road. I never imagined the real trap would be giving my heart to the wrong people. My husband, Ethan, the man I had loved with everything I had, and Chloe, my best friend, the woman I once treated like a little sister, worked together to push me off a cliff. My face was destroyed. For three years, I crawled my way back from hell and rebuilt myself from the bones up. I changed my face. I had myself made into the image of his dead mother. Then, step by step, I planned my return and married his aging father, Victor. At our wedding, I looked at Ethan and Chloe’s bloodless faces. My smile was gentle, but every inch of it was laced with poison. Then I said softly, “Call me Mom.” From that day on, I lived inside the Mafia family as Donna. On the surface, I made their lives miserable, cruelly forcing them to taste every bit of suffering I had once endured. Behind the scenes, I joined hands with Jasper, Ethan’s uncle, stirring up chaos and helping him seize power and take control of the family assets. I planned Ethan’s downfall with my own hands. I ruined his reputation, exposed his affairs during marriage, and watched as he and Chloe turned on each other, drowning in suspicion and hatred. But what I never saw coming was that Victor had known the truth all along. He had seen through my identity. He had seen through my purpose. And yet he said nothing. Worse, he fell for me. He was even willing to hand over the power in his grasp to me. This game of revenge was supposed to be mine to control. But in the end, it began to move in a direction I had never planned.

My best friend just sent me an Instagram screenshot: my husband of three years, kissing a girl. An Ivy League intern our family foundation sponsored. To protect his fragile pride, I'd given up my family's trust fund to start from scratch with him in a downtown loft. Now, he was laughing on a beach in the Hamptons with another woman—the same weekend my body was actively miscarrying our child. I didn't cry. My grief had already hollowed me out, leaving behind nothing but cold, hard clarity. I called my lawyer, then my mother. Two days later, I sat across from the most feared man in New York—Julian Thorne—and signed a two-year marriage contract. On my wedding day, my ex-husband crashed the ceremony, begging for my forgiveness. Julian shielded me with his body, his large hand claiming my waist with a scorching, undeniable possessiveness. He leaned down, his breath brushing my ear, "Leave the trash to me, Mrs. Thorne." And in the ensuing chaos, looking up into his dark, obsessive eyes, all I could think was that my wedding night was going to be anything but strictly business.