Dulce Report Novels & Stories

“I’m going to fuck all of Vincent’s memory out of you,” he murmurs. “You’re Carter’s woman now.” ★★★★★ At just 21, Lyla Rose thought she had it all; a loving husband, a powerful mafia family, and a future she believed was secure. But everything comes crashing down when a medical report reveals she’s infertile. Vincent Ricci, her ruthless mafia husband, can’t tolerate that one imperfection. In a brutal, heartless move, he divorces her and replaces her with Maria, the fertile woman who can give him the heir Lyla never could. But that’s just the beginning. Refusing to be discarded so easily, Lyla struggles to let go. But when Vincent plans to lock her away in a basement, everything changes. Carter Ricci, Vincent’s cold, calculating uncle, steps in. He takes her to his penthouse, promising to protect her, cherish her, and vowing he’s nothing like his nephew. But Carter has his own dark secrets. And once they’re revealed, everything Lyla thought she knew about him will be shattered. When Vincent realizes the mistake he’s made, regret consumes him and he comes to take her back. But Carter has no intention of letting her go. He’s claimed her, body and soul. Now Lyla must choose: Will she return to the man who shattered her, or stay with the one who trapped her in a web of lies and manipulation? And can Carter really hold onto the woman he took through deceit, or will his dark past destroy everything they've built? ★★★★★ TROPES YOU’LL LOVE ✔️ Ex-husband’s uncle ✔️ Mafia x secrets ✔️ Betrayal & forbidden love ✔️ Innocent x ruthless ✔️ Age gap ✔️ Dominant x submissive ✔️ Dark obsession ✔️ Lies & twisted romance

Bianca is dying. Acute myeloid leukemia, stage three. The family doctor told me on the phone—bone marrow transplant, only option, perfect match. Identical twins share ninety-nine percent compatibility. I crushed the diagnosis report. My name was at the top: Gemma Blackwell. But the doctor trembled, whispering apologies. A clerical error. The sick twin was Bianca. The cure was me. I had to get home. Rain lashed the taxi windows. I rehearsed the scene: Father setting down his cigar, Mother gasping, me explaining the mix-up. The report has my name, but the blood work is Bianca's. I can fix this before it's too late. My phone lit up. Family group chat. Father's message was short: [Gemma is terminal. Bianca forbidden from donation. Family decision.] My blood turned to ice. They had seen the misdelivered file. They thought I was the one dying—and they had voted to let me rot. When I pushed open the door and saw Father, I felt it— the temperature drop, the world freezing around me. Tears burned my eyes. I couldn't stop them. "Father," I said, my voice barely steady. "I have a question for you." He looked up from his cigar, annoyed. "If it were Bianca dying," I whispered. "Would you have made me give her my marrow?" The room went silent. He set down the cigar. A long pause. "No," he said finally. "Of course. We have resources. We would find another donor. We would never ask you to take that risk." I smiled a little. Just a small, sad smile. "Good," I said softly. "That's exactly what you said. Don't regret this."

During the freshman orientation, Fletcher Stone, the campus heartthrob, leads a protest in front of the orientation leader, Lindsey Quinn. As a result, Lindsey decides to make everyone run laps around the field. While Fletcher has volunteered to run everyone's laps on his own, the truth is, he has transferred the fatigue to me. He finishes his 30-mile run without a shift in his expression. After that, he tells Lindsey that he's willing to take on everyone's orientation training on his own. Because of that, everyone becomes Fletcher's fans. I, on the other hand, keep getting admitted into the infirmary because of exhaustion, which results in me being late to the orientation. My tardiness ends up affecting our class' chances of receiving a good rank. I get berated by the entire class as a result. When I try to explain my condition to everyone, they all look at me as though I were crazy. "You've barely attended the orientation for a few days, so how is it possible for you to be this exhausted? I think you're just pretending to be exhausted!" "Are you jealous of Fletcher because he's way fitter and more handsome than you? Now, he's even more popular than you!" Driven by despair, I demand answers from Fletcher. But he just changes into his uniform nonchalantly. "Please step out of my way. I need to go on a weighted cross-country run as the college's representative, so I have no time to fool around with you." Once Fletcher is done with the run in the 104-degree weather, his expression remains cool and collected. But I'm so exhausted that I suffer from organ failure, leading to my immediate death. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the first day of the freshman orientation. This time, I decide to take the initiative to report to Lindsey. "I'll take on the punishment for the entire class."

She gave her submission to a stranger. He was never a stranger at all. Vivian Ashworth is the perfect executive assistant. Polished. Professional. Unflappable. Nobody knows about her secret life: the anonymous platform where she kneels for a Dom who calls himself Sir. For six months, he's commanded her through screens and encrypted messages, pushing her limits, learning her body, knowing things about her desires she's never told anyone. By day, she works for Alexander Kane—CEO of Kane Industries, demanding perfectionist, the kind of boss who makes assistants cry and competitors tremble. She hates him. She respects him. She definitely doesn't dream about him. Then Alexander says four words that shatter her world: "Or should I say... Velvet?" Her anonymous Dom. Her impossible boss. The same man. He's known who she was from the beginning. Every confession she typed in the dark. Every fantasy she whispered through her phone at 2 AM. Every time she begged for permission to come. He was testing her. Training her. Waiting. Now he wants to formalize everything. A contract. Total power exchange—at work and in his bed. No more hiding. No more pretending. Complete submission in exchange for complete care. She should refuse. She should run. She should report him to HR and never look back. Instead, she's kneeling in his penthouse, reading the contract, and realizing her body has already signed. But Alexander has enemies. His bitter ex-submissive knows their secret and wants revenge. The lines between professional and personal are blurring dangerously. And Vivian is discovering that surrender isn't the same as weakness—it's the most terrifying kind of strength. The contract is about to become a problem. Will she sign away her heart along with her submission? Or will the man behind the mask prove that control and love aren't mutually exclusive?

“Ma’am, there’s no marriage record between you and Mr. Mark Henderson in the system.” My fingers tightened around the pregnancy report as my legs nearly gave out beneath me. Five years ago, Mark was recruited by a top law firm abroad with a high-paying offer. Without hesitation, I followed him across the ocean. He had told me, “Once I’m settled, I’ll take care of your status.” However, five years had passed, and my lawful permanent residence was still “in process.” Meanwhile, his assistant, Tonya Irving, who followed him abroad, had secured hers under his sponsorship. Back then, I made a scene, insisting on a divorce so I could return home. For the first time, the ever-composed Mark, an attorney, lost his calm. He grabbed my hand and said, “Tonya’s all alone out here, and it hasn’t been easy for her. Helping her is just the right thing to do. You’re my wife. Your status is only a matter of time. My work is sensitive right now, and I need to avoid any complications. You understand, don’t you?” But I had understood him for five whole years. My phone suddenly rang. Mark’s voice came through, light with laughter. “Tonya’s permanent residence was approved today. We’re celebrating tonight. I need you to get home early and cook up a feast.” I stared at the marriage license in my hand—now nothing more than a worthless piece of paper. A cold chill spread down my spine. As it turned out, I was never his legal wife. I had no legal status and no protection, much less rights secured for the child I was carrying. After hanging up, I scheduled an abortion and booked the earliest flight home. This time, I wouldn’t look back.

On the day after my twin brother, Jonathan Sander's death, I've married Natania Gilmore, my widowed sister-in-law. That day, Natania prints a thousand copies of Jonathan's death report and announces to the world that I'm the actual killer. Because of that, everyone despises me. Even my parents sever all ties with me on the spot. After our marriage, Natania keeps getting into romantic scandals. She's also brought countless men home with her. She makes me stand outside her room while listening to their debauchery every time. I'm also required to take photos of her and her boytoy with my camera once they are done with their lovemaking. I can only stomach everything quietly. My only plea is that I get to have a child with Natania. But Natania just scoffs at me. "Just how much of a filthy wuss are you, Leon Sander? If you need a woman's touch that badly, go ahead and find yourself another woman out there. Doesn't the idea of kneeling by my feet while begging for my touch like a mutt disgust you? "What, you really think having a child with me can tie me down? I'll have you know that I will never settle down with you for the rest of my life!" In order to shatter my hopes, Natania even goes out of her way to be cruel to me by spending a fortune on building a horse ranch. Each horse stable is taken up by her lovers. Even the people in the elite society claim, "The group of stallions that Natania keeps in her stables are a lot better than the simping mutt who wags his tail at her at home." Three years later, my mother-in-law, Wendy Gilmore, suddenly texts me a reminder. "Remember our promise, Leon. Three years are up. You have one more week to tie up all the knots in your life."

“Paige Miller. Stay here for a bit.” He said when my foot was already out the door. I swallowed hard and looked at Darla who just shrugged and closed the door. I was alone with the hot Callan Montgomery Holden. “So, Paige. I thought you were a bartender.” “And I thought you were just a rich asshole kissing girls all day. Never would've peg you for a CEO, boss.” “Hmm. You're funny. I like you.” “Please don't.” I said and he chuckled again. He bit his lower lip, and I could feel myself wanting to hump him right there on his swiveling chair. “You're thinking the same thing I am, right?” “That I should report you to HR for sexual harassment?” “Ha! Good one. But no. I know you want me too. Right here right now. I can feel you getting hot and wet.” “From the way you kissed me, last night? Sorry, but no. Besides, I'm married.” I lied. I realized I was being stupid and reckless when I remembered it was very specific in the job listing that I had to be single with no kids. “Okay, look. I'm not married, but I'm not interested either. I can't afford to be your next plaything. I need this job to save enough money to start my own small business and not work for anyone ever again. So, please. I know you're probably a great guy, but I'm just not interested. So, if there's nothing else you need professionally, good day, Mr. Holden.” “Sure. But they always say that at first. You'll come around.” If I didn’t have a daughter to think of, I'd have made you come in my mouth already you rich spoiled brat!" I wanted to say, but of course absolutely couldn't.

Years after graduation, someone suddenly tags me in the class group chat. "Mr. Warren is gravely ill, Mira. Aren't you going to do anything? You really are heartless!" I only realize what's going on when I click on the fundraising link in the chat. Our high school homeroom teacher, Joseph Warren, has late-stage cancer. Thus, Lyra Fairfield, the class belle, is leading a fundraiser and patient-donor matching process. "I'll donate ten thousand dollars. My husband is the director of Waverly General Hospital, and I've already asked him to arrange a VIP ward for Mr. Warren." Right after I send that message, the group pounces on me. "Mira, you contracted an STD back then and tried to pin it on Lyra. She didn't even hold it against you, and now you're trying to steal her thunder? You're unbelievable!" "I can't believe you're still lying through your teeth during such a serious situation. You never change, do you?" Lyra immediately defuses the tension. "Mira, I don't blame you for what happened in the past, but you really shouldn't impersonate the director's wife. I've already arranged the ward and surgery, and I'm donating another 100 thousand dollars to Mr. Warren!" I'm this close to laughing out of sheer anger. She's the one who scratched her name off the diagnosis report and framed me for having an STD all those years ago. I never even confronted her about it, and now she's playing the victim? Lyra soon posts a photo in the group chat, showing off her husband's car. Yet, when I see the man in the passenger seat, I guffaw. Isn't that my husband's driver? When did he start running a hospital?

To help my husband, Henry Carter, pay off a million-dollar debt, I clean windows and scrub toilets in an office building on Valentine's Day just for the triple pay. After I'm done with the windows, I am about to transfer the last 50 thousand dollars of the debt when a post suddenly pops up on my phone. The title of the post is, "What is something you see in real life that makes you feel sorry for someone, even if they are your enemy?" One of the top comments says, "The person I hate the most is my boyfriend's wife. My boyfriend pretends to be poor to spend money on me and cheats his wife out of over a million. That woman works day and night at a cleaning company just to make money for me! "This has gone on for eight years. That woman has been scrubbing toilets for eight years! Even if she is my enemy, I feel sorry for her." I freeze, and my fingers tremble uncontrollably. No way. It has to be a coincidence. I stare at those words, stunned and unable to recover from the shock. Then, a new comment appears, "Now, my boyfriend plans to fake an illness by telling his wife that he has cancer. He's going to trick her into giving him money to buy me a car." At that exact moment, Henry sends me a message. The instant I open it, I feel my heart skip a beat. It reads, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sick—I have cancer. The doctor says we need to prepare 80 thousand dollars for treatment. I hate myself for this. Why am I even alive? I'm just dragging you down with me." The words "late-stage liver cancer" in the attached diagnosis report are painful to look at. I think in dismay, "Henry, you do not need to pretend to be sick. You are indeed in the late stage of cancer."

I knock on the door, heart pounding like it always does when I’m about to see him. “Come in,” Justin’s voice calls—cool, smooth, and frustratingly calm. I take a deep breath and walk in, holding the folder tightly. “Here’s the report you requested, sir.” He doesn’t even glance at me. Just keeps typing, his expression unreadable. “You’re late,” he says without missing a beat. I clench my jaw. “There was a delay at the printer—” “No excuses, Joanna. Just do better next time.” Ouch. Professional and cold. As always. I nod, ignoring the sting in my chest. “Yes, sir.” I turn to leave, gripping the doorknob—just one more second and I’ll be out of this weird tension-filled office— “Wait.” I freeze. I turn around slowly. “Yes?” Justin stands now, walking toward me. In his hand, a familiar brown paper bag. He holds it out. “You didn’t have lunch.” I blink. “I’m fine.” “You skipped breakfast too. Eat.” I hesitate. “What is it?” “Chicken pesto. No onions.” My breath catches. He still remembers? “Why are you doing this?” I ask quietly. He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “I just… remember things.” My fingers brush his as I take the bag. Warmth. Stupid warmth that shouldn’t still feel this familiar. Then, he looks at me—really looks at me. “You shouldn’t skip meals… wife.” Silence. My chest tightens. “Don’t call me that.” But my voice is too soft to sound convincing. I walk out before I say something I’ll regret. His words echo in my mind like a dangerous lullaby. Cold one second. Kilig the next. God… he’s still him. And that’s exactly the problem.