Mistress Of The West

"The property management fee this month comes to 1,500 dollars. Please make the payment whenever you're free." I notice my husband's phone screen lighting up on the dining table. After glancing at it, I grabbed it immediately. "The management must have gotten it wrong. Our apartment's fee is 28 dollars per month." That's when Liam Moore shoots up to his feet and reaches out to snatch his phone back. "Yeah, they must have gotten it wrong. I'll text the person in charge and explain everything to him." But I've already tapped into the link, which shows me the details of the property that's being charged. It's Cloudridge Villa, and the property deed owner is… Matilda Shaw. The young housekeeper who's currently cooking in the kitchen is also Matilda Shaw. My mind buzzes loudly instantly. While the three of us have to make do with a tiny, rundown replacement housing that's provided by the government, Liam, my own husband, has actually bought a villa for Matilda.

After Celine Anderson let her newly-promoted assistant take credit for my billion-dollar project for the ninth time, I handed in my resignation letter. I also refused to show up in the same place as her. Whenever she was interviewed by talk shows as a public figure, I would switch off all the screens in the building. I also got the security guard to stop her from entering even if she brought me a cup of coffee in the middle of a tornado. To see me, she purposely rescheduled three virtual meetings with foreign companies. So, I immediately bought air tickets to leave the country. I blocked her everywhere and formatted the hard disk that contained all of our memories from the past decade. When I was twenty, I studied with her in the university library. When I was twenty-five, I ate the cheapest bread with her when she first started her company. When I was thirty, I finally knew how to let go of things that no longer serve me. On the ninth time I was accused of sleeping my way up, I came across a photo of her and her assistant kissing. Meanwhile, I was sitting at our dining table with food that had turned cold. It turned out that our decade-long relationship had been a joke. However, it was fine. It was not too late to come to my senses.

Seven years after I lost my wolf, I watched my mate, Alpha Glen, get his heart ripped out and his body torn apart. The pack demanded the killer's name. I bit through my tongue and kept my mouth shut. Lena, Glen's childhood friend, hated me with everything she had. Six-year-old Nick cried and asked why I hadn't saved his father. I shoved them all away. Then the pack broke my leg and cast me out. For fifteen years, I drifted. I barely stayed alive in a dead northern town, wolfsbane buried in my bones, one leg ruined, half-crippled, waiting to die like some rogue. The day the door crashed open, Nick was already Alpha. He grabbed my chin, his eyes burning with pure hate. "You hid the murderer. You don't deserve to be my mother. "Take her back to Thanis. Strap her to the Mindfang Rig. I want the truth—even if that machine kills her." I thought that device would kill me. But when the truth was finally ripped into the open, Nick dropped to his knees and broke down, calling me Mother. Lena wanted to die to beg my forgiveness. And the whole pack lost its mind.

On my fourth year anniversary, my wife, Rachel Brady, hands over a divorce agreement to me. "My mom is afflicted with a severe disease, and she's dying soon. Her final wish is to watch us get a divorce. "I promise that this is just a fake divorce. Once my mom has passed away, we'll get remarried again." As I watch Rachel sob sadly in front of me, I agree to her proposition out of sympathy. But as soon as we get divorced, Rachel quickly posts a photo of her and her first love, Max Cohen, in wedding attire on her social media account. Even my ex-mother-in-law, who's said to live on borrowed time, is included in the same photo while looking hearty and hale.

When I turned eighteen, I completed my shift and finally gained my wolf. The Lycan King of the Northern Tribe—Karl Gilmore, my father's close friend—handed me photos of his sons and told me to choose a mate. Whomever I chose would become the next Lycan King. Without hesitation, I pointed to his eldest son, Sven Gilmore. Everyone was stunned because everyone knew, for years, I had always loved the third son, Erik Gilmore. I'd trailed after Erik like a shadow, declaring loudly to the whole world that I'd marry him someday, that I'd be his mate. In my previous life, I did marry Erik. And he did become the next Lycan King. But a year into our marriage, he betrayed me with my stepsister and got her pregnant. Furious, the old Lycan King forced her to abort the pup and exiled her to another pack. From that moment on, Erik despised me. He started bringing home a different mistress every night. I was furious, helpless, and eventually, I died in the dead of winter. I never expected that when I opened my eyes again, I'd be back at eighteen, standing at the very moment I was meant to choose my mate. This time, I won't choose Erik. This time, I'll step aside and let him have his love with my sister. But why did Erik break down in tears when I chose someone else, begging me to come back?

After my rebirth, the very first thing I did was ride from one blood donation van to another, giving blood until I nearly collapsed. Why? Because in my previous life, my fiancé's newly hired intern, Shirley Lynch, had bound herself to a blood-exchange system. Every milliliter she donated was siphoned directly from my own veins. In just a month, she transformed from an ordinary college girl into the nation's beloved Blood Angel, showered with fame and fortune, while I, suffering from severe anemia, was fired from the hospital for being unable to work. When I exposed her scheme to my fiancé, he looked at me with disgust and broke off our engagement. "You're selfish and cowardly," he sneered. "You refuse to donate your rare blood type, and now you slander Shirley? You call yourself a doctor, yet you believe in such ridiculous nonsense!" From then on, every time Shirley donated blood, I would suffer heart palpitations, dizziness, and sometimes collapse outright. I begged the doctors in my department for help, but my fiancé blocked every attempt, accusing me of jealousy and wasting medical resources. In the end, to steal my promotion ahead of schedule, Shirley donated a full 1000 milliliters of blood live on television. As her blood drained, so did mine. I went into shock and died. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day Shirley first claimed she carried my rare blood type.

I've been married to my wife, Stacy Howard, for 12 years now. She doesn't let me sleep with her unless it's on the 5th or 20th of the month. I thought she was just uninterested in physical intimacy. That is, until I accidentally witness her walking together with her first love, Devin Fisher, on the street on Thanksgiving Day. Stacy, who's always cold and aloof to me, is actually smiling softly at Devin. Our daughter, Tammy Gilbert, tags along with them as well. She holds Devin's hand while calling him "daddy" in the sweetest tone ever. Instead of demanding answers from Stacy, I turn around and head home. There, I dig out the divorce agreement that I've already prepared in advance.

On the day my body gets blasted into pieces, Amanda Stone, my wife and a police captain, is busy riding the merry-go-round with her childhood sweetheart, Mark Horton, and his son, Keith Horton. Three days later, she finally remembers our son, Evan Johnson, and me. "It's been three days! Is he still mad that I used him and Evan to exchange for Mark and Keith? He's even trying to get the entire police squad to play along with this fake disappearing act of his, huh?" "Captain Stone, Caleb has died in the line of duty. Evan was also injur—" "That's impossible! What I did was only a temporary measure. I set up three layers of defense. There was no way anything would've happened to Evan or him!" Lara Chase, Amanda's colleague, turns away. She can no longer bear to look at Amanda. "Mark did it. He lied about the situation and used your authorization to move everyone away. We've already identified the kidnappers. They're the remnants of MW Syndicate. This was all part of their attempt to get revenge against you. "We also found out that, when you were trapped at the border three years ago, it was Caleb who led the rescue attempt and risked his life to bring you to safety, not Mark's deceased wife…"

My husband, Luca, had a childhood sweetheart named Sophia. Years ago, during a brutal gang shootout, Sophia shielded him from the worst of the bloodshed, and since then, she had suffered from severe PTSD. Because of that, Luca would push aside family business every year and fly to our estate on a secluded island off the coast of Sicily to spend three months “helping her recover.” “Victoria, she lost her mind because of me,” he told me. “I’m responsible for her. I hope you can be magnanimous.” So, I nodded. And eventually, I got used to the fact that every year, my husband would disappear for three months to fulfill what he called a moral obligation. That was until the day I flew in without warning to inspect the family’s money-laundering network on that island and saw him. In the town square, under the bright Mediterranean sun, Luca was standing there with a five-year-old boy by his side. “Papa, how long do we have to hide on this island?” the child asked. “I want to go to New York. I want to see the Empire State Building.” Luca laughed gently and scooped him up in his arms. With his other hand, he held Sophia’s. “Antonio, be good,” he said affectionately. “Papa’s position is… complicated. When you turn eighteen and pass the family’s initiation ceremony, I’ll kill that woman and her dead old man. Then, I’ll take you back to New York to inherit the entire Corleone family.” I stood in the shadows, unseen. Slowly, I lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around me as their voices drifted over, the conversation getting more vicious as it went. Sophia leaned into his chest, her tone sweet and coy. “Luca, I’ve been with you for seven years without a name or a title. How much longer are our son and I supposed to live like ghosts?” Luca sighed. “I don’t have a choice. The old man in the Corleone family is still alive. I married Victoria just to get her territory. Don’t worry. I’ve been adding something to her milk every day. She’ll never get pregnant in this lifetime. My family bloodline will only continue through you.” The last thread of reason in my mind snapped. In the six years of marriage we shared, I had been infertile. I’d taken countless hormone injections to stimulate ovulation. I’d knelt in church and prayed more times than I could count. Yet, all along, the devil poisoning me was my own husband. The initial shock faded quickly into rage. I crushed out my cigarette and pulled out my phone. Then, I dialed my uncle, the family’s clean-up man. “Uncle Rocco,” I said calmly, “Luca betrayed me. He betrayed the family. Order a coffin in the finest black walnut for me, and make it large, large enough to fit a family of three.”

My husband of five years, Eric Vale, came home drunk again. As I laid him in our bed, he murmured, “Don’t worry, my love… I’ll take care of you and our baby.” My heart stopped. Baby? We’d been on birth control since the day we married. There was no baby. I shook him lightly. “What are you talking about, Eric?” He blinked at me, confused, then smiled like nothing had happened. “Hey, babe… did I say something?” The next morning, I checked our joint account. Every month, ten thousand dollars had been wired to a woman named Bella Evers. Yesterday, he sent two hundred thousand more—with a note: I can’t wait for our baby to be born. Bella was Eric’s mistress and was now six months pregnant. So I made one call. “Papa,” I told the most feared Don in the South, “I’m getting a divorce.” I glanced at my sleeping husband. “I want him gone. And I want him broke.”