False Confession

Natasha Kisniver never planned to steal from the Mafia. But when her younger sister collapses and the hospital halts her treatment over unpaid debts she couldn't afford, Natasha is pushed beyond desperation. Her only option? Steal a priceless ring from Jackson Darkmoon—a billionaire tech she believes is untouchable. The ring is sold on the black market, and her sister’s treatment resumes. But then she discovers a fatal mistake she made on her research: Jackson Darkmoon doesn’t exist. He’s a false identity, a fictional character of Alexander Darkmoon—the elusive and feared godfather of a Mafia empire her late father had always warned her about. Realizing she’s stolen from the most dangerous man alive, Natasha runs. But Alexander Darkmoon is not a man who forgives theft—especially not something so personal. He finds her within hours. She can’t repay him in money, so he takes her instead. Claimed as his property, Natasha is pulled into a brutal, opulent world where power is everything—and one wrong move could mean death. She vows to escape. But as she sees the man behind the monster, she changes her mind. As days turn into weeks, the line between hate and desire begins to blur. Alexander's control slips the more time he spends with her. Enemies start circling, and her presence — once a punishment — becomes a dangerous liability. Or worse, the key to his downfall. Just when Alexander begins to trust her, Natasha makes a desperate move to help her sister again — unknowingly putting a deadly plan planned by Alexander's rivals into motion. Betrayed and furious, Alexander pushes her away. But when she’s kidnapped by the very enemies he warned her about, Alexander is faced with a brutal choice: Let her go—or burn his empire to save her.

My friend and I married into the Castellar family together. I married the older brother, who worked in high finance. My best friend married the younger, a senior fire officer. They didn’t tell us the truth until we were both pregnant. They were vampires. We were furious. But in the end, we forgave them because we still loved them. Until that night. We were staying at a vacation cabin when the fire started after midnight. The front door sealed itself shut, locked by a spell, trapping me inside. My best friend had gone out for a walk and escaped the fire by sheer luck. A car passed by on the forest road. She ran into the headlights, begging the driver to ram the door and save me. The man said coldly, “Pay first.” Inside the cabin, blood ran down my legs and soaked the floor. I tried to transfer the money, but my account was frozen. I called my husband. He hung up three times before the call finally went through. But the voice that answered wasn’t his. It was a woman’s. Vicky sounded calm, almost amused. She said he was busy. Then she added lightly that he’d been helping her set up a subcard and had accidentally disabled mine. My best friend called her husband next. She was crying. She told him there was a fire and I was trapped. He snapped back at her. “Stop lying. I hate people who make false emergency calls. I’m with Vicky checking fire hazards in her new place. Don’t bother me.” She didn’t hesitate again. She shoved the driver out, and drove straight into the cabin. The door shattered. She dragged me out with her bare hands. We lost our babies on the way to the hospital. When I woke up,we looked at each other for a long time. “I’m getting divorced,” she said. “So am I.”

The day my brother, Chester Rodney, came to the orphanage to take me home, my boyfriend Dominic Huxley looked at me coldly and said, "If you choose to acknowledge your birth family, we're over." I knew he had his pride—he could never accept the difference in our social standing. So, for him, I turned my back on the family I had yearned for my whole life. In the decades that followed, I toiled without complaint, saving every cent to help him rise to success. By the time I was not yet fifty, overwork had worn me down. Lying on my deathbed, my breathing shallow and weak, I watched Dominic on television. He was now an acclaimed scientist, just awarded the nation's highest research honor. Tears welled in his eyes as he thanked another woman. "All these years," he said, "I never felt worthy of Alicia. But now, maybe I can use this award as the prologue to a love I've owed her for decades." The "Alicia" he spoke of was the woman mistakenly switched with me at birth—the false heiress the Rodney family raised as their own. The camera zoomed out. Alicia Rodney stood radiant, graceful, and perfectly preserved by years of luxury, blushing as she accepted the trophy. "I waited for you for decades," she said sweetly, "but marriage is still something I'll need to ask my brother about." Chester, who had long taken over the family, looked at her with an indulgent tenderness tinged with something unspoken. "I was adopted by our uncle back then for one reason—to protect Alicia. Making the only princess of the Rodney family happy has always been my life's mission." Only then did I realize—everything I thought I had chosen freely, every sacrifice I made without regret, was nothing but a trap, carefully woven by two men, all for Alicia. The betrayal pierced my heart. I died without peace. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day Chester came to take me home from the orphanage. I glanced past the two men eyeing me with subtle disdain. Without hesitation, I stepped into the car. "Take me home," I said. This time, I'd send whoever stole my life back to the gutter they slithered from.