Madara Photo

To help my surgeon husband with his erectile dysfunction, I made an appointment with an expert six months in advance. But as the day approached, Isiah Coleman canceled it without explanation. Just as I was about to call him to demand answers, I spotted a post from his female friend on her social media. My usually stoic husband was beaming as he wrapped his arms around her. The caption read: [Only I can cure your illness.] What struck me, though, was the telltale bulge in his pants in the photo—a reaction I'd never seen from him with me. With a cold laugh, I liked the post and left a comment: [What a miracle worker!] The post exploded, with everyone speculating whether I'd confront the mistress. But what awaited him after the holiday was our freshly printed divorce certificate.

Zhalika, seorang guru mengaji yang baru mengajar di sebuah masjid pinggiran kota, diberikan sebuah photo pria dari salah seorang jamaahnya, yang menginginkan ustadzah muda tersebut menjadi menantunya. Putranya yang bernama Sadewa. Seorang pria tampan tetapi acuh terhadap wanita, karena dia hanya fokus ingin membahagiakan keluarganya, terutama sang Ibu yang sudah menjanda. Pria yang baik dan patuh pada ibunya, yang tanpa sepengetahuan keluarganya ternyata Sadewa adalah pimpinan dari Geng Srigala Hitam. Masa lalunya yang keras dan kelam membawa takdirnya dalam dunia kekerasan. Apakah niat menjodohkan keduanya tersebut akan terwujud sesuai keinginan sang Ibu? Atau justru dunia yang saling bertolak belakang itu tidak dapat dipersatukan.

My best friend, Maya, flew in from Miami for my bachelorette week. My last days of freedom. She insisted on a girls' night in to celebrate, ordering all my favorite takeout. She asked me to hold her mobile phone and wait.Then her phone lit up. A message from some guy. A shirtless pic. Text: I need you tonight. Another photo buzzed through. Sex toys. Bondage gear straight out of a movie. My face burned. My heart hammered against my ribs. I’d just stumbled into her secret life. But the next image made my blood run cold. A close-up of the man's chest. A jagged scar I knew better than my own reflection. It belonged to my fiancé, Luciano Carbone.

Chuck's beloved ex, Ella, got divorced and showed up with her two-year-old daughter. Without asking me, he let Ella and her kid move into our home. Then Ella posted a photo of Chuck holding the child, captioned: [My husband cheated, so I filed for divorce, gave my baby a new dad, and found myself a new husband.] The comments were full of praise: [Real-life boss woman drama!] I had to laugh—so being a homewrecker is what counts as a strong woman now? Chuck didn't see a problem. He even told the child to call me "Momma." "Ella's husband cheated on her. She's raising a kid alone. As a woman, can't you have a little empathy? I'm just helping her out." Well, I had no empathy to give—not for the mistress, and definitely not for the scumbag.

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.

I stumbled across an encrypted folder on my husband's phone, filled with photos of a little girl I'd never seen before. From newborn to first steps, sorted by month—two full years' worth. But the child in those photos wasn't our daughter. When I confronted him, he said she was a girl named Rosie from the children's home I sponsored. The director sent growth updates, and he'd been saving them for me. I never imagined that my warm, thoughtful husband would use my charity to spin a lie. Because every single photo was geotagged to the apartment complex next to his office. And the children's home was on the other side of the city. I didn't call him out right then. Because I wanted to know whose child she really was.

I have claustrophobia, yet Luther Jansen abandons me in a stopped elevator so he can bring some flu medicine to his assistant. I ask for a divorce after that. He signs the papers without hesitation and laughs about it with his friends. "She's just throwing a tantrum—her parents are dead, so there's no way she'll leave me. "Besides, there's a 30-day cooling-off period for divorces, right? I'll generously let this matter slide once she regrets this, and she'll be back." The following day, he shares an intimate photo of himself with his assistant. "I want to record every moment of your shyness." I count the days until I'm free. Then, I calmly pack my stuff and make a call. "Can you buy me a flight ticket to Nanderton, Uncle David?"

A few days before my postpartum period ended, I found two plane tickets to Mirelia tucked inside Daryl’s wallet. I was secretly delighted. I thought he had planned a surprise for me. But on the very day I was supposed to recover, he told me that his company had suddenly sent him on a business trip. I tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep—only to see his first love post on social media. [Finally fulfilled our promise to kiss at Saint Vyron Cathedral. Thank you, God. After all this time, it’s still you.] The photo showed the two of them holding hands and kissing. I didn’t confront him right away. Instead, I turned to look at my sleeping daughter beside me, then picked up my phone. [Dad, I've made up my mind. I'll take over the family business.]

I run into a group of rogues on my way home for my daughter's birthday. I call my wife for help, but she blocks my number. I'm dragged out of the car, stabbed a dozen times, and thrown into the bushes to die. My neck is broken, and my organs are spilling out of my body. The rogues think I'm going to die—they even mention each other's names before me. Then, they drive off in my car while whistling happily. I hold onto my head and organs as I crawl to the roadside, hoping against hope that someone will save me. Before I'm taken to the hospital, I see my wife's social media update—she and her secretary have taken a sweet photo together while celebrating our daughter's birthday. The first thing I do after being discharged is demand a divorce.

My college dormmate, who spread nasty rumors about me, sends me an e-invitation. "I'm marrying the richest man in the country and will soon be a trophy wife—I'll be leagues above you. Seeing as we were once dormmates, I'll begrudgingly allow you to be my bridesmaid. Don't miss this chance!" I frown. What is wrong with Jasmine Teach? I'm the country's richest person. When did a man overtake me? I want to block her number and delete the conversation, but I check the e-invitation to be sure. I'm stunned when I see the photo of her husband-to-be. Isn't that Harold Jackson, my husband? He's supposed to be on a business trip. My lips curve in a cold smile, and I type a response while gnashing my teeth. "I'd be honored to be your bridesmaid. I'll prepare a huge surprise for you, too."