เรื่องสั้นแนว Feel-Good Story และนิยาย CEO Revenge

I've been with my girlfriend, Erin Palmer, for five years. But the moment she finally lands the job she's always dreamed of, she dumps me. It feels like a blade twisting in my heart. Without my support, she would've never gotten to where she is now. What stings even more is discovering she's been cheating on me with my supervisor, Gavin Trent. Yet little does she know that this company is just one of the subsidiaries under my name.

I had been the company's top sales performer—the kind who brought in tens of millions in revenue. But just because I hadn't praised my boss' girlfriend in the company group chat, she fired me without hesitation and replaced me with her cousin. Not long after, the company's sales dropped straight to zero. That was when she had come to my door on her own to apologize. "Please, come back," she had begged. "My boyfriend said he'll break up with me if you don't return."

On our tenth wedding anniversary, I was trapped in a cabin with my daughter, Sofia Costello, as floodwaters raged outside. With shaking hands, I used the emergency satellite phone to call my mafia husband, Henson Costello, and begged for help. I dialed more than 90 times before the call finally went through, yet all I heard was the breathy moans of his first love, Angelina Rossi, on the other end. "Henson...slower..." Before I could even process the shock of his betrayal, I heard a conversation that sent me straight into hell. "That kid was dead weight anyway. Trading him for control of Pier 9 was the best deal the family ever made." It seemed that Leo Costello, my son, who had supposedly drowned at the beach five years ago, had not died in an accident after all. Henson had used him as part of a business deal. All this time, I had been drowning in guilt for taking him to that beach, blaming myself for the tragedy. I never knew the truth was this cruel. Tears streamed down my face as my body shook uncontrollably. After ten years of marriage, I finally realized I had never truly known the man I loved and sacrificed everything for. I picked up my phone again and dialed Vincenzo Moretti's number. "Vince, I'll marry you. But you have to help me destroy the Costello family from power." After a brief silence, his voice came through the line. "Aurelia Astor, I've been waiting ten years to hear you say that."

The most powerful Godfather in the mafia underworld—Dante Costello—had an expensive diamond signet ring custom-made to fit my finger perfectly and sent straight to our home. He said that whoever could wear the ring would become the lady of his family. The Monroe family had long since fallen from grace. All that remained were four women. On ordinary days, we fought endlessly, tearing each other apart. Every single one of us wanted to marry Dante because marrying him meant preserving a life of dignity and comfort. In the first life, the fake heiress, Blair, secretly had the ring resized smaller and married into the family. Dante took one look at her, then had her thrown into the river to drown. “Not her.” In the second life, my cousin, Chloe, underwent plastic surgery to alter her fingers and force the ring on. Dante gifted her a staged car accident. “Still not her.” In the third life, my stepmother, Catherine, clenched her teeth and forced the ring onto her finger. Her blood hadn’t even dried when she married Dante. He coldly slashed her face, then locked her in the basement, where she slowly wasted away until death. By the fourth life, all three of them were terrified. None of them dared to marry him anymore, so they hurriedly pushed me forward instead. I put on the ring. This time, the size was perfect. Just when I thought my good days had finally begun, Dante stabbed me to death on our wedding night, his eyes burning red with madness. After my rebirth, the consigliere of the Dante family delivered the ring once again. This time, all four of us avoided it like the plague.

Donna Sofia Marino's birthday is held on Valentine's Day. When Francesco Rossi, the Underboss of the Costa family, announces the news on behalf of Don Enzo Costa, everyone in the family is very happy. Well, everyone but me. As expected, Francesco is quick to add, "Someone needs to guard the headquarters. Camilla, you'll be the one in charge of this task." "What the Underboss means is that you don't really carry out any missions in your daily life. Besides, you have tons of spare time anyway. This time, you are to guard the headquarters so that you can deal with any emergencies that might arise." I just smirk sarcastically. The truth is, I'm always the one dealing with the most dangerous matters concerning the Costa family. The transactions of the firearms worth hundreds of millions of dollars are successfully carried out thanks to the plan I've spent countless sleepless nights perfecting. When a crossfire breaks out, I'm always on the frontlines, fighting for the family's glory despite getting injured. While I'm given the title as the executive director, I'm never given any actual power. In truth, my standing is lower than that of a soldato. I'm always the one carrying out the hardest, the most menial, not to mention the most dangerous tasks. But every time credit is given, it's never given to me. I've been enduring this injustice for five long years. This time, I no longer want to keep enduring anymore. With a smile on my face, I stand up from my seat. "Alright then, Underboss Rossi. I shall guard the headquarters. But this will be the last time I ever do this. After this task is completed, I will officially leave the Costa family once and for all."

To help my "destitute" husband pay off his debts, I scavenged for scraps for five years. My son and I survived on expired canned food. That changed on my son's birthday. I saw him in a bespoke suit, spending millions to celebrate the birthday of the woman he truly loved. That was the moment I realized he was actually the most powerful billionaire on Wall Street. To please the love of his life, he let our child be injected with unknown drugs, leaving him on the brink of death. He even forced me to drain my own blood to save her son. Later, I became someone he could no longer reach. I linked arms with a man far more powerful than him and walked away. That once arrogant man ended up kneeling in the Arctic snow, clutching a photo I had burned, weeping like a stray dog.

In my previous life, my boyfriend's adopted younger sister, Rita Wood, came to me at the hospital for a prescription because she had a sore throat. I asked her if she was allergic to any medication, and I even explained the dangers of being allergic to medication. She told me "no" very firmly. When I insisted on producing the informed consent form and having Rita sign it, she started a video call with my boyfriend, Ryan Wood, on the spot. On the screen, Ryan frowned at me before saying coldly, "I know Rita's health very well. She definitely doesn't have a history of allergens. She's my younger sister, so don't keep targeting her over the smallest reasons. I'm very busy, you know. Bye." So, I gave in and prescribed Rita the medication without undergoing the official process. Three days later, Rita showed signs of miscarriage due to her allergy toward the medication, leading to her being sent to an emergency treatment room. Apparently, she hid both her allergy to medication and her pregnancy from me. Thanks to her, I was held accountable for this incident, which led to me losing my chance to get promoted. At the same time, this incident got onto the news as a medical mishap. I ended up getting blacklisted by the medical world permanently. Not only that, but I had to pay off a huge debt. In order to clear the debt, I worked three jobs at the same time through day and night without resting. Finally, I collapsed and never got up ever again on a particularly exhausting night. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the day Rita is here for a prescription.

On the night I discovered my husband, Charles Lockheart's affair with the secretary, Whitney Keaton, both of them ended up dying in a fire. I was left with a pair of twins. Despite my family's objections, I decided to adopt the twins. For the next 18 years, I put in all of my resources, blood, sweat, and tears to raise them. Finally, they are accepted into Hallwood College, a globally prestigious college. But on the day the twins get into Hallwood College, Charles and Whitney, who are supposedly dead, make a shocking appearance before us. Whitney links arms with Charles, a wide smile on her face. "As expected of our biological sons! They really are amazing for getting accepted into Hallwood College! It's all thanks to you raising our sons that we got to spend so many years in our honeymoon phase!" Charles wears a victorious and smug look. He doesn't feel guilty in the slightest for faking his death. "Let's get a divorce, Brittany. Now is the best time for the twins to be reunited with Whitney and me." Everyone turns to look at me, waiting for me to have an emotional breakdown. But I remain cool and composed as I reply icily, "What a coincidence. I feel the same way."

The wedding's in half an hour, and my fiancé's assistant, this woman, just hands me this paper. Rule number one: No physical contact with him outside, not unless he explicitly permits it. Rule number two: Intimacy is to occur only when he initiates it. She is obligated to satisfy his desires at least once a month. Rule number three: He can demand his due at any time, any place, and she cannot refuse. ... After I finished reading this entire two-page contract, I had to fight to keep a smile on my face. Swallowing the fire in my gut, I called my fiancé. "Marcus, what the hell is this?" "What do you mean, 'If he fathers a child, she must raise it, no matter who the mother is'?"

On our third wedding anniversary, I brought a gift to my husband’s office. Walking past the secretary's suite, I stopped dead. A king-size bed had been set up inside. A young woman in a designer dress was sprawled across it, a handheld game console in her hands, surrounded by imported snacks of every variety. "Kevin, the lunch you ordered yesterday was pre-packaged meals. Marcus and I both felt sick after eating it. Today, make sure it's from The Palace Hotel." Kevin -- my husband's personal assistant -- bowed and scraped before her, his face a mask of obsequious flattery. "Mrs. Thorne, please don't worry. Mr. Thorne made it very clear -- everything should be tailored to your preferences and the baby's. He knows you love the chef at The Palace Hotel, so he set up a standing VIP account for you. Anything you want, anytime." She was Mrs. Thorne? Then what exactly was I? My brow furrowed. I glanced down at the wedding ring I'd worn for years. The girl beamed, radiant. "For the baby's arrival, my husband is throwing a lavish yacht party. Every important person in New York is getting an invitation. I want the whole world to know that I'm the love of his life, and that our son will be blessed by the most powerful people before he's even born. The champagne and flowers must be the finest available -- no budget limit. Our child is going to have the best of everything from day one." I stared at the gentle swell of her belly and called my father. "Dad, that divorce agreement you drew up three years ago -- you can have the lawyers send it over now."

Late that night, I came across a post online. [I've been with my boyfriend for seven months. Out of nowhere, he dumped me, saying I got eliminated from the girlfriend selection. That's when I found out that in their rich social circle, it's normal to date a dozen girls at the same time, score them regularly, kick out the lowest, and pick the best one to marry.] It sounded so ridiculous. I couldn't help but jump into the comments and tear into the guy. Then I saw a reply from my boyfriend's secretary, Ayla Butler. [Well, considering his status, it's only fair. For high-value men like him, a selection process makes sense.] I rolled my eyes so hard that it almost hurt. I was just about to fire back when I heard the front door open. Fred Thompson and I had been together for five years. He had always been attentive, gentle, and endlessly patient. I had already made up my mind that the moment he proposed, I would tell him the truth about who I really was, the daughter of the richest man in the country. I never expected to catch a glimpse of his phone lighting up with a message. [You hooked up with Ayla again today? Gave her such a high score, too. Keep this up, and Hannah's gonna lose!]

At the company banquet, my boyfriend of five years, Lucas Cowan, dropped to one knee and proposed to his first love in front of everyone. I did not cry or make a scene. I stood off to the side, sipped my wine, and wished them well. Afterward, Lucas pulled me aside to explain. "Rebecca's family has the resources I need. Her mother said she would only agree to the partnership if we married." He paused, then added, "Don't worry. Once I get what I need, I'll divorce her and marry you." I smiled and told him, "I understand. The company comes first." In my previous life, I lost control on the spot. I stormed the stage and drove Rebecca out of the company myself. She went straight into the arms of Lucas' biggest rival, and that company skyrocketed overnight. As a result, Lucas locked me in a basement and starved me to death. This time, I wouldn't stand in their way. What Lucas didn't know is that every connection, every deal, and every resource his company had ever relied on was arranged quietly by me through my family's connections. From now on, each time he got close to Rebecca, I would cut off another lifeline, another resource. I wanted to see what his precious company looked like when nothing was left to hold it up.

After suffering a devastating blow to the head, I unexpectedly regained my memories. Before I could share the good news with my wife, I overheard a conversation between her and the doctor. "Ms. Morgan, Mr. Johnson is showing signs of recovering his memory again. Do you still want us to inject him with the neurotoxin? This is already the tenth time. Mr. Johnson's father already went to prison after taking the blame for you, and his sister was forcibly committed to a psychiatric hospital. I know you want to protect Liam, but there's no need to do this to Mr. Johnson." "If Damien regains his memory, Liam's role in the hired attack will be exposed. His life will be ruined. Liam is innocent. He just wanted to prove himself. "Besides, Liam and I are about to get married. I won't allow anything to go wrong. "I promised Liam that he and Ben are the only family I have. I will never let them down. It doesn't matter if Damien becomes a fool. I'll hire the best caregivers and look after him as a cripple for the rest of his life. "Let me spend the rest of my life making it up to him." My entire body trembled in agony. So the people who destroyed my family had been right beside me all along. My father was sent to prison on false fraud charges. While trying to clear his name, I was attacked and left with memory loss. Since everything was nothing more than my own wishful thinking, I'll give them exactly what they want.

My brother Christopher owned a boutique on Fifth Avenue. I'd gone in, picked out a few pieces, grabbed a silk scarf on the way, and was heading for the door. The clerk behind the register stopped me. "Ma'am, we'll need you to settle this now." I looked up. Her name tag said Yvonne. Unfamiliar face. Probably new. I didn't think much of it. "Just put it on the owner's account," I said politely. "He knows who I am." She gave a little snort through her nose, eyes raking from my hair down to my shoes. "We don't run accounts here. You might have the wrong store." She pushed an itemized bill across the counter. Four hundred thousand dollars. I scanned the line items. Personal Style Consultation. Premium Fitting Service. VIP Client Private Service. Every single charge cost more than the clothes themselves. I let out a short laugh. "I'm a Whitfield. Christopher's my brother. Whatever this is, he can deal with it at home." Her smile got uglier. "Anyone can claim to be a Whitfield, sweetheart. Are you trying to skip out on the bill, or are you just trying to embarrass yourself?" I didn't bother arguing. I pulled out my phone and texted Christopher: [Fire the clerk named Yvonne in the next ten minutes, or I pull every dollar I have in this store.]

Jake Carter called and asked to meet. We settled on the small hometown diner we used to hit up. He couldn't look me in the eye the entire time, and we didn't exchange a word during the meal. It wasn't until we were about to leave that he finally pulled a property deed from his bag. "This is for you," he said. "I accept my defeat. Consider it compensation for your emotional distress. Your name is already on it." I didn't bother with polite refusals. I took the deed, mumbled a quick thanks, and got up to leave. Jake scrambled to his feet, calling out from behind me with the one question he'd been burning to ask all along. "If you loved me back then, why did you let Brenda get to me first?" I turned around, looking him in the eye for the first time all day. "Are you really going to pretend you never knew how I felt? You were just playing dumb the whole time." "I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "Can we still get dinner together tomorrow?" "Forget it. I don't need your apology," I said blandly. "You were a victim in this mess, too. As for dinner, don't bother. I'm resigning from the company tomorrow, and it's best if we don't see each other again." The iron wire ring I once treasured as proof of love had turned out to be a cage. Stepping out of the diner, I threw the rusted ring straight into the trash. From now on, I would live for myself.

Back when I was young and dumb, I slapped some college guy working a side gig at a nightclub. My boyfriend had just ditched me for my best friend, Vanessa Shannon. Then, not even five minutes later, I caught her in the corner, sliding her hand under another guy's shirt. He bit his lip and just took it. Something in my brain short-circuited. I stood up and walked over. If Vanessa wanted him, why couldn't I? But the second I reached for him, he smacked my hand away. Vanessa cracked up. The whole private room turned to watch. Mortified, I slapped him. "You work at a place like this. Don't play innocent." Later, my family went broke, and I ended up working at a nightclub just to get by. The private room was loud as hell. I lost a game, and everyone at the table started chanting for me to take my bra off. My face went hot. I stood there, completely frozen. Then a low voice cut through the noise with a cold laugh. "You work at a place like this. Don't play innocent." I looked up. Our eyes locked. His stare was icy, full of pure mockery. It was the college guy I'd slapped years ago.

At the medical summit, my husband's precious first love thought the old professor's clothes were too shabby for such a grand occasion. So she dropped his conference badge into the trash. The old man shook with fury and threatened to pull his company's partnership with us on the spot. In my last life, I slapped her across the face right there, then bowed and scraped until the professor forgave us, and that was the only thing that saved our company. My husband, meanwhile, was heartbroken that his darling had been hit, and took her home to comfort her. Later, our company rode the professor's patented miracle drug all the way to its IPO. On the day of the celebration, indecent videos made with my face swapped via AI rolled continuously across the giant screen. And in front of a hall full of sneering guests, my husband pulled his first love tight against his chest. "You love slapping people in public, don't you? Today you get to taste what it feels like to be finished." I ran out of the hotel, sick with shame, and a runaway truck flattened me into the pavement. Then he turned around, threw the wedding of the century for his golden girl, and drove my parents into the street to die alone in the cold. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the exact second she tossed that badge into the trash. This time, I didn't fly into a rage to stop her. Instead I curled my arm sweetly through my husband's and laughed louder than anyone in the room. "Babe, Tiffany's got such a sharp eye. Security should've thrown this ragged beggar out ages ago."

I could see floating live-chat comments from the future. And that little trick saved me from dozens of cheating scumbags. But today, my adoptive parents gave me an ultimatum. I had to pick a fiancé, or else… The family’s real daughter, Wendy Wellington, who was recently found and welcomed back with open arms, clutched my hands. Tears welled in her eyes as she pointed to a man in a wheelchair. The man, Harry Peterson, wore a faded undershirt and a tattered blanket over his knees. Word on the street was that he had gone bankrupt, owing over a hundred million dollars. "Sister, my health is too fragile for a hard life," Wendy sniffled while trying to hide her smirk. "What would people say if the real heiress was seen riding a public bus? “You’re so much stronger than me. Do this one for the sake of the family." She glanced over at a guy leaning against a blood-red Ferrari nearby. "I’ll handle the billionaire’s son," she added quickly. "You shouldn't be blinded by money to make a mistake." I looked at Harry in the wheelchair. Floating right above his head was a wall of glowing comments. “LOL! She’s dumping the city’s richest hidden billionaire for a guy who’s going to prison next week?” “He’s only playing broke and disabled to catch his rivals off guard. Once he clears his name next month, his net worth is going to skyrocket!” I squeezed my sister’s hands tight and a sweet smile spread across my face. "Since you've put so much thought into my future, I would hate to disappoint you," I said. "I'll take the guy in the wheelchair.”

For Children's Day, I help source and purchase gifts for my son's class. I not only keep the budget to a minimum, but I also manage to get expensive toys that are way over budget for them. During checkout, because my son, Harry Chandler, has grabbed a limited edition toy robot, the PTA representative, Darren Larson, shouts at me, "Jordan Chandler, are you trying to tell me that you didn't embezzle the class funds for that 500-dollar toy robot?" The class teacher, Kevin Brown, and the manager of the toy store, Florence Young, immediately pause in their footsteps. I feel dozens of pairs of eyes staring at me in the mall. Darren complains animatedly, "You were trying to pay for that 500-dollar toy with the class funds, basically using everyone's money to spoil your son, weren't you? "Both Mr. Brown and the manager are right here, but you still dare to pocket our money? I can't imagine how much of the class funds you must've used to line your own pockets behind our backs! I daresay, for someone with no morals like you, the children you raise will be thieves in the future too!" Darren glares maliciously at me, looking me up and down. Even Kevin is giving me a look of suspicion and disdain. Instead of arguing with him, I turn to the cashier and ask in a calm tone, "My family owns this mall. Do I need to pay for a toy I just grabbed off the shelf?"

Someone @'d me on the hotel's internal guest service system. "Hey, penthouse guy. You're alone. What do you need a whole infinity pool for? My wife's hosting a livestream event. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you three grand a month. It's a sweet deal. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. This was a joke. I was Don Alessandro Ricci. The ruler of Chicago's entire underworld. I checked into my family's flagship hotel under the radar to keep a low profile—needed some peace to close a critical overseas deal and take a few days off. That pool was the penthouse's exclusive amenity. The crown jewel of this hotel. And now someone thought they could take it for three grand? I shot back two words: "Dream on." I didn't expect the hotel manager and two security guards at my suite door the next day. Someone had filed a complaint about me "misusing hotel public resources." And now, for the sake of "guest harmony," they were demanding my keycard. Fine. You want to bring it on yourself? I'll play.