Novels

After eight years together, I took a hit for my surgeon boyfriend. Milton Woodard vowed I could ask for anything. Everyone assumed I'd seize the chance to propose, locking him down for good. Instead, I looked him in the eye and said, "Let's break up." Then I walked away without a backward glance. Milton smirked, betting with his buddies that I'd come crawling back in under three days, calling me a desperate lapdog chasing his attention. He was dead wrong because I'd been reborn. In my last life, I proposed to him and won. Overwhelmed by the news, his first love threw herself off a rooftop and killed herself. Milton unleashed his grief-fueled rage on me. On our wedding night, he slashed my face and locked me in a dank, claustrophobic basement. When I got pregnant, he force-fed me supplements until the baby grew too big for me to deliver. I hemorrhaged, torn apart, and died in agony on the birthing table. Now, reborn on the day I saved his life, I was done playing his fool.

The night before our 17th wedding attempt, my mafia husband, Rafaeal Holloway, looks at me and promises an uninterrupted wedding.

When my roommate Aria Lawson learned that pregnant students received special treatment at university, she boldly posted on the campus forum seeking pregnancy partners.

I took on Jaxson, the notorious playboy everyone thought I was obsessed with.

My name is Malia Petrov, and my sister Fiona Petrov is obsessed with voyeurs. She deliberately changes clothes in front of surveillance cameras.

During dinner, I browsed a popular forum where a trending post caught my eye: “The woman funding my education is kind, but I want to marry her husband and replace her. Any foolproof methods?” I clicked the top comment: “Create dependency. First, offer to cook and clean at her house to show you’re the perfect homemaker.” “Then, arrange to stay overnight—say the dorms are locked. Wear something subtle. Wake up early and make breakfast.” “Key step: Pretend to be drunk. Cry about being alone. See if he hugs you out of pity.” The manipulative advice sickened me. I looked up at Ivy Chen, the girl I sponsor, sitting across from me. She sweetly placed food on my plate. “You have to try this, Mary! I should cook for you more often!” She suddenly put down her chopsticks, eyes shining. “My dorm has such an early curfew… Next time I clean your house, if it’s late, could I stay over?”

My mother, Naomi Phillips, told me I was born with a body that could captivate any man. She warned me never to get involved with men before turning twenty. In my previous life, I took her words to heart. So when Sebastian Howard, heir to Washington's most prominent family, was drugged and pulled me into his arms, I pushed him away forcefully. But after my twentieth birthday, all the skincare treatments I did somehow transferred their effects to Naomi instead. When I applied face masks, wrinkles and dark spots appeared on my face while Naomi's skin became increasingly smooth and delicate. When I exercised, my body grew fatter and more bloated while Naomi's figure gradually became as proportioned as a young girl's. When my father Samuel Phillips saw me looking like a forty-year-old woman, he cursed at me and threatened to sell me to some twice-divorced old man. I cried and begged Naomi to save me. But she just looked at me with that face that had returned to twenty years old and said, "Everything we do is for your own good." Left with no choice, I ran away from home and wandered the streets. But I discovered that the farther I got from home, the faster I aged. Finally, three days after leaving, I died of heart failure in a garbage dump. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day I first encountered Sebastian. This time, I didn't push his hands away. Instead, I pinned him down on the bed.

My husband suddenly announced, "From now on, we're splitting everything, 50/50. I'm only responsible for myself."

I was born unwanted. When I was three, my mother left me and fled the country. When I was five, my brothers poured chili water down my throat. I smiled and told them it was delicious. My third brother, Noah, would deliberately leave me stranded outside the kindergarten. My older brothers, David and Joseph, would corner me with the other children, blocking the way to the bathroom, laughing as I was humiliated. Then one day, the little girl next door got sick. I was sick too. Without a moment's hesitation, my father swept her into his arms and rushed her to the hospital. He told me to go die somewhere far away. But later, so much later, my father would look at me, tears streaming down his face. "Rosie," he’d beg, his voice breaking. "Can you please... just call me 'Dad' one more time?" I would just clutch the hem of my shirt, my mouth opening and closing like a fish, unable to make a sound.