Good Books

The year of my college entrance exams, I gave up my acceptance to Harvard for James Carter. But after five years into our relationship, I ended it. Outside the dorm building, I caught him holding Sarah Williams, who was dripping in designer labels, locked in a passionate kiss. James smirked, "You're just a simple farmer. What kind of life could you possibly offer me?" But he seemed to forget that I had bought him everything - from his tailored Tom Ford suit to his Rolex watch. Heartbroken, I walked away. If someone else wanted to be a doormat for him, they could be my guest - I was done. Later, I focused on growing my agricultural business, eventually expanding into space farming. That's when the media uncovered my true identity as the heiress to a multi-billion dollar fortune. Mr. Williams groveled, forcing Sarah to kneel beside him, begging me to consider a business partnership. James, his eyes red from crying, grabbed my sleeve and said he regretted everything.

I finally became pregnant after my husband and I underwent over a dozen rounds of IVF. However, to my horror, I discovered that the embryo growing inside me was the fertilized egg of my husband and the family maid. They even schemed to have me disappear so that the child could inherit everything. I pretended not to know, carried the child to term, and took care of him, raising him with love and care. It was not until 20 years later that they forced me to sign a share transfer agreement by my hospital bed, along with a divorce agreement that left me with nothing. "After 20 years, we finally have our happy family. You never saw this coming, did you? The child you fought so hard to give birth to is my biological son!" Even my son, without any remorse, said, "Honestly, your illness is beyond help. It'd be better for you to just die." With a knowing, almost bittersweet, smile I replied, "For your happiness, I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

Lesley Hummer, my husband's sister, lies to me about being unable to conceive. She wants me to help her produce a child. To my shock and horror, my husband and mother-in-law agree with her! I refuse to give in, so they drug me and force me into bed with my her husband. When the pregnancy comes to term, I give birth to a daughter. My husband and his family go nuts because it's not a boy. They kill the baby before my very eyes! They even take away all my organs that can be exchanged for money. Then, they continue searching for a surrogate for Lesley. When I open my eyes again, I'm back to the day Lesley kneeled before me to beg me.

During lunch, an older female colleague asked me, "How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend? When are you planning to get married?" I shook my head. "Twenty-seven, no boyfriend, and no plans to get married." She was momentarily stunned. "What are you talking about? How can a woman not get married?" she asked. I smiled without responding. Realizing I wasn't joking, her expression darkened. "Did you work as a escort and get caught? Is that why no man wants you?"

I'm diagnosed with late-stage cancer after undergoing a pre-employment medical checkup. My husband says the medication for my condition is expensive. He also says it can only relieve my pain, not treat the cause. I only have a year to live. Upon my husband's pleading, I agree to do an IVF. I endure the pain and put myself through torture to leave him with a child. However, I overhear him saying the child growing inside me isn't mine—it's his and his lover's. He's the one who wants me dead!

On our fifth anniversary, my fiance, Caleb Alton, mixed up gifts meant for me and someone else. When he pulled out a set of lingerie, he looked flustered and explained that the store had sent the wrong item. The next day, I saw a video posted on social media by his junior colleague, Mia Lawson. The caption read, “He said that old lady of his is out of shape, but I look the sexiest in this.” In the video, she was wearing the same lingerie and lounging seductively in Caleb’s arms. I glanced at the engagement ring identical to the one Caleb wore and decided to call my boss. “Hello, Mr. Farrington. I’ve made up my mind. I can start at the branch office next week.”

On the eve of giving birth, my world turned into a nightmare. My husband’s sworn enemy broke into our home, seeking revenge. I was brutally cut open and my baby was ripped from me. Yet, I made the chilling choice not to call my husband for help. In my previous life, desperate and terrified, I begged him to return home. He abandoned a Valentine’s dinner with a scholarship student to rush back. That night, the student was preyed upon in a bar, leading to her tragic suicide. My husband’s wrath was unrelenting. Blaming me for her death, he locked me in a kennel, leaving me to be savaged to death. “This is the pain Wynne endured because of you. Now it’s your turn to suffer!” Given a second chance, I resolved to make a different choice. This time, I let him stay for his romantic Valentine’s evening with her. But when I returned home, he had spiraled into madness.

My boyfriend refuses to accompany me to the airport to pick my mother up, but he later rams into my car from behind in my new Maybach. He looks at my secondhand car and wraps an arm around the young woman beside him, who looks frightened. He says, "It's just a rusty old Volkswagen Beetle! So what if I've crashed into it? I can afford to pay for the damages!" The crowd praises him for being handsome and rich. With his back to them, he warns, "This is the woman my mom wants me to date. I'm just playing along for her sake. Don't make things embarrassing for me." I nod understandingly and tell the young woman, "Since you like collecting trash so much, you can have both him and the car. I'll have my lawyer send you the bill." Now, my boyfriend panics. He looks devastated as he hangs around outside my company all day, begging me to give him another chance.

My best friend asked me to conduct a blood test on her before she got married to the richest man in the city. That was how I found out that she had AIDS. Due to patient confidentiality and her claim that her fiance would not mind, I did not tell him about her diagnosis. Later on, he contracted AIDS as well. When this happened, my best friend went online and pointed the finger at me. “Maya Sullivan intentionally kept the results of my blood test a secret. That’s why my husband got AIDS. It’s all her fault!” Even my boyfriend added fuel to the fire. “This isn’t the first time Maya has set Pearl up. She only got AIDS because Maya used an infected needle to take her blood sample!” No matter how much I insisted otherwise, everyone kept hounding me about it. To avoid the fallout, I was forced to move myself and my parents to another city to start fresh. However, in a fit of rage, Pearl’s husband crashed into our car and killed all of us. He was later sentenced to death, so Pearl inherited all of his assets. She then lived in luxury with my boyfriend. When I opened my eyes again, I discovered that I had gone back in time. It was the day that Pearl had undergone her health checkup.

Two years ago, as a graduate of Werewolf Medical School, I volunteered to go to the most remote and poorest pack, as it had always been my dream to help werewolf patients in need. I heard from my teacher that the werewolves in the Rogue Pack were the poorest and that their living conditions were the worst. Most of the werewolves there were old and weak, so I volunteered to go to that pack as soon as I graduated. After I arrived, I helped them build an infirmary and even set up a blood station. Every year, I led them in voluntary blood donations. But one time—right after I had taken a short break following a blood donation—they turned on me. They slandered me, calling me a selfish and heartless healer. Worse still, they accused me of faking illness, claiming I was lying comfortably in bed while patients were dying—refusing to lift a finger to save them. Not only that, they stormed into the infirmary, seized all my herbs and equipment, and completely trashed the place I had built for them with my own hands. Recalling the days I had spent day and night healing them—only to see my infirmary destroyed and my dream shattered—I let out a bitter smile. I picked up the phone and called the dean of my home pack. "I'm ready to return," I said. "I want to serve the patients in our own pack." Then, without a trace of regret, I left that place behind. However, after I gave up, the whole pack regretted it and begged me to return.