How To Extract Text From A PDF File Online?

What if an omega servant can hear the inner wolf of the ruthless Alpha King—when no one else can, not even the king himself? Will it be a secret that save her life… or destroy her?

My cold-blooded Mafia boss, Don Cassius, tore my painting to shreds. Right in front of everyone. I needed to vent. I texted a picture of my legs in fishnets to my dark web sugar daddy. [Wanna be stepped on by your Mistress? Stroke it for me. Now.] I looked up. Cassius—usually an untouchable iceberg in a bespoke suit—swallowed hard. His ears flushed a dark red. Curious, I sneaked a peek at his phone. My photo. My filthy command. Both flashing on his screen. Holy shit. Ice shot through my veins. My stupid fucking thumb slipped... and hit the video call button.

A serial killer targeted me. My sister-in-law was assaulted and murdered while trying to save me. Not only did I refuse to call the police, I pushed my father-in-law and mother-in-law down a flight of stairs when they came to help. I even helped the killer destroy the evidence. When my husband learned that his entire family got killed, he broke down in tears. He grabbed me by the collar and demanded, "Why? Why would you do this?" I deliberately waved photographs of his family's gruesome deaths in front of him and burst into laughter. "Why?" I sneered. "Because they deserved it." My parents begged me to cooperate so I wouldn't be sentenced to death. Instead, I publicly severed all ties with them. Meanwhile, the murderer who escaped justice struck again, claiming another victim. As public outrage reached its peak, I was selected for the Memory Extraction Program. Before the sentence was carried out, my husband asked me one final time, "The Memory Extraction System is still a prototype. You could die during the procedure. "Tell us the truth now, and there's still a chance to make things right." I slowly raised my head to look at him. "You're not getting a single word out of me." The crowd instantly erupted. People shouted that a worthless life like mine deserved to die. But when my memories were finally extracted, they were the ones crying and begging someone to save me.

He almost never texts me first, and in person he barely says a word. In three years together, he's never remembered a single anniversary, and he's never once suggested we celebrate a holiday. But the second I message him first, he lights up, all "baby" this and "baby" that, fussing over me, coaxing me to sleep. Sometimes I'd get this strange feeling that there were two different Noahs. His explanation was that he was just bad with words face-to-face, and that texting or voice notes felt like less pressure. I kept telling myself that being together meant meeting each other halfway. He was quiet and reserved, so I'd be the one to reach out. He forgot anniversaries, so I booked the restaurant and reminded him to keep the night free. He had no time to schedule our engagement shoot, so I handled the whole thing with the studio myself. He was too busy with work to help us move, so I packed everything alone, booked the movers, and got it all done. When I was so worn out I was about to break, I'd send him a voice note, and he'd say, "I'm so sorry, baby. The lab was insane today. I couldn't be there for you, and it kills me to watch you run yourself into the ground." Hearing how guilty he sounded, all my hurt just melted away. And that's how I carried three years of this relationship on my own, running on the flawless tenderness he only ever gave me online. Until today, when I found a program on his laptop called Boyfriend Assistant. It analyzed every message I sent and generated the perfect reply, the perfect response, every single time. Cold snap? It sent: Bundle up, baby. Time of the month? It pinged an API and auto-ordered hot chocolate to my door. All those late nights he spent "working," the gentle voice notes that lulled me to sleep, every one of them was synthesized in Noah's voice. For three years, the person who'd been there for me, day and night, was never Noah at all. For three years, I'd been performing a one-woman show.

Lately, my lunch buddy at work, Kaia Watson, always sits there grinning at her phone. Whenever I ask what she's watching, she snaps impatiently, "It's just my lunchtime entertainment. Mind your own business." But before long, I notice everyone in the office staring at their phones during lunch as well. They're completely engrossed, and they break into mocking laughter every few moments. Finally, during one lunch break when no one is around, I take a peek at the video on her phone. It's an AI-generated pornographic video. To my horror, the woman seductively posing in it has my face. Before I can react, Kaia returns to her desk and snatches the phone out of my hands. Seeing my face turn pale with anger, she lets out a dismissive laugh and says, "What? Don't tell me you're about to accuse us of spreading fake rumors about you? If you didn't do it, you wouldn't be so afraid of people talking. "You sneak into the boss' office every day to take your lunch break. I don't think I need to spell out what kind of woman that makes you." Only then do I realize that my colleagues have known all along that I go into that office surreptitiously every day to take a nap. What they don't know is that my father is the owner of the company.

Accounting is supposed to pay out the commission for our biggest client project. Instead of an 88,000-dollar deposit alert, I get a message from my boss, Jim Zeller. "The AI already sent you the money." I check my bank account. I only have 18 dollars and 20 cents left. When I ask if there's been a mistake, he adds me to the project group chat. "Zoe, don't get greedy. Your 88,000-dollar commission has already been paid, so stop pretending you didn't get it." Then he posts a screenshot of his chat with the AI. "Pay Zoe Hunt her 88,000-dollar project commission." "Payment complete. The funds have been deposited into the employee's account." I explain, "The AI can't access the company's funds. No money was ever transferred." Jim immediately posts an AI-generated payment confirmation. "Here's your proof. Keep this up, and I'll have HR report you for attempted extortion."