Mortgage Mailing Lists Novels & Stories

My husband, Malcolm Thorpe, has low sperm motility. After 33 rounds of IVF, I finally got pregnant. On delivery day, I start hemorrhaging, and the medical team calls for an emergency C-section. Malcolm signs the consent form, then rushes straight back to his childhood sweetheart's birthday party. But instead of starting the C-section, the surgeon says, "Ms. Jacobson, the electronic medical record lists you as single. This consent form isn't valid." I stop breathing for a beat. The happy marriage I believe in turns out to be a sham. Later, Mom and Dad rush in and sign the consent for me. But by then, the baby is gone. The asphyxia lasted too long. After surgery, I scrawl my name on the cremation consent with shaking hands, then dial a number without thinking. "Samuel, are you free now? Meet me in front of City Hall."

My boss, Patrick Hoffman, has made a bad investment that fails. When the board wants someone to be held accountable for the loss, he makes me the fall guy. Now that I've been fired from the company, I can no longer make my mortgage payments. My wife, Georgia Lowe, ends up falling seriously ill as well. In dire need of money, I ask Patrick for my severance pay. Sitting in his luxury car, he simply tosses me a few hundred dollars, saying, "You expect me to give you severance pay? I lost over a billion dollars because of you, Heath! How dare you ask me for money? "Here. Take these hundred-dollar bills and buy your wife a decent coffin!" My fists clench as I watch him drive off. Later that night, I drop a bombshell in a group chat filled with investors and business owners. "Seeking employment—bringing years of professional experience in cooking the books to the table. My former boss has nothing but praise for my abilities!"

My husband had just ducked into the bathroom when his phone started ringing. I glanced at the screen and saw it was his brother calling. A frown creased my brow, but I answered anyway. "George, why haven't you sent the $10,000 to Mom and Dad this month?" Ross Serrano said. "Mom just asked me about it." I hung up without a word, but a rush of fury surged through me. My husband stood at the bathroom door, his hands still dripping wet. I forced a bitter smile. "You make $8,000 a month, right? $3,000 goes to the mortgage, $2,000 to me, and you pocket $1,000 for yourself. You told me you sent $2,000 to your parents, so how did that magically turn into $10,000?" His lips quivered, his face draining of color. My heart sank, and my hands trembled uncontrollably. We'd been married for five years, and I'd never once laid eyes on his bank card. What other secrets was he keeping from me?

After getting retrenched, former sales representative Nathaniel Underwood searches for ways to gain employment, but fails. Left with no other choice, he becomes a gigolo serving wealthy older women in Neon City while keeping the truth from his long-time girlfriend Regina White, a renowned travelling journalist. With bills to pay and a house mortgage to pay off, Nathaniel resorts to seducing these women so that they will keep on taking his services and also to increase his feedback score. However, fate causes Nathaniel to get entangled with the wealthiest young woman in the whole of Neon, Alyssa Dawson, the wealthy CEO of AD Systems Corp. When he extorts from her with a sex tape of their night together, she retaliates by presenting him with an offer that he cannot refuse: to become her exclusive gigolo! But when Regina returns one day to stay in Neon for good, can Nathaniel continue keeping the truth from her? Or will she divulge his secret relationship with Alyssa? And what feud does Sirius White, Regina’s stepbrother, have with Alyssa, and why does she hate him so much?

I spent ten years raising my stepson. Even though he never once called me 'Dad,' I never let him go without. Food, clothes, tuition, living expenses, I paid for everything. But on New Year's Eve, during the family reunion dinner, he suddenly spoke up in front of everyone. "Old man, I've got my eye on that apartment in the old district that's about to be demolished. Transfer it to me. I'll use it as my wedding house." I frowned. "That apartment is meant for your mother's retirement and your sister's education. Pick another development instead. I'll help cover the down payment." He slammed the table. "A down payment? That's nothing. "You want me to carry a mortgage at my age?" Then he looked me dead in the eye. "If you refuse to transfer the property, believe me, I'll make my mom divorce you." Instinctively, I turned to look at my wife beside me. But she only lowered her head in silence.

At the dinner table, my mother-in-law slid a contract across to me, right in front of more than 20 relatives. "Just sign it," she said lightly. "Consider it a favor to me." I looked down. A home mortgage agreement for 150,000 dollars. Across from me, my husband's younger brother, Jim Canfield, watched with a grin. Beside him, my husband's eldest sister, Cindy Canfield, urged impatiently, saying, "Shirley, what are you waiting for? Just sign it." I said I needed to go home and talk it over with Howard Canfield first. My mother-in-law's expression darkened. "What? You can't even make this decision for your own marriage?" That night, I did not sign anything. Later, she sent a three-minute voice message in the family group chat, accusing me of being childish, ungrateful, and heartless. More than 70 replies followed—not a single one in my defense. A month later, I came home from work to find three men waiting at my door, there to seize the house. I pulled out my phone and checked the property registry. The record was clear. [Mortgaged. 150,000 dollars.]

Winthrow Financial. The fastest growing firm on Wall Street, and I had been lucky enough to land a job there right out of college. Despite being the youngest woman on the floor, I quickly made waves in the company. Carter Winthrow, the sexiest boss a woman could ever have, noticed me quickly. When he came to meet me personally, he also took notice of my body. Within days, I was promoted to Carter’s personal assistant. While the job itself was fantastic, the real perk was getting to work with Carter himself. The suave and sexy billionaire playboy managed to exude charm and confidence every time we spoke. And as I proved myself great at the job again and again, he became more and more comfortable with me. As I saw him giving to charities and holding his niece, I realized he was the ultimate alpha male. Those strong, chiseled abs and huge arms was all that the “Sexiest Bachelor” lists saw, but I saw the real man. A family man, just waiting for someone to give him that family. I knew that what I wanted, more than this job, more than a career, more than life itself, was Carter’s to give. I would do anything to get Carter to give it to me. And as he took my fertile body over and over again, I knew that he wanted more than just a business partner. He wanted it all. A wife. A family. But most of all, a baby...

For a decade, my world had been measured in laundry cycles, grocery lists, and the ever-growing pile of dishes in the sink. I was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing the remnants of another family meal, when it happened. A sudden, silent cascade of text flickered at the edge of my vision, like subtitles for a movie only I could see: [Gosh, the heroine is so tragic. Her husband's entire family has been feeding on her luck like parasites!] [Her husband stole her graduate school admission and her career!] [The in-laws are literally siphoning her health away. No wonder she's always sick.] [And the sister-in-law took her "romance" stat! No wonder her love life is a desert.] [Heads up! Her husband's about to give her another "gift." Let's see how much more he takes from her this time.] My hands, clutching a greasy plate, froze. Right on cue, my husband, Tristan, sauntered into the kitchen. A smug, self-satisfied smile was plastered on his face as he took my wet hand. He slid a flimsy, garishly colored plastic bracelet onto my wrist. "Look what I got for you, sweetheart," he announced, his voice dripping with pride. "I made a special trip after work. Found it at the dollar store. It's romantic and economical, just like you always say you want. You love it, don't you?"

I found a cure for a rare brain tumor a year ago, but in my own home, I am still just the embarrassment who wears rags instead of silk. While my mother and stepsister obsess over guest lists and social standing, I spend my nights in a quiet lab, trying to save lives. I thought my future was set: more research, more bullying from my family, and eventually, a forced marriage. But Lyon came along. His mother is dying of the same tumor I had found a cure for, and he wouldn't leave my lab until I go with him. He is an Alpha shifter, a man with money and power that makes my family look like amateurs, and he didn't care about my protests before he carried me away. “Name your price, Doctor Christie Graves. I can give you anything you want as long as you save my mother.” But it's not ANYTHING I want. I want every inch of him. I want to know what making love would feel like. And with a man like Lyon. I should be ashamed of that. My job is supposed to be my only pleasure. Yet, when he tells me that there's a bond between us and that he can't let me go, I'm ready to go on my knees and ask him to make love to me.

On Christmas Eve, my friend, Lenny Gibson, sends me a text message. "I've rented a Maybach for our cat so that we can go back to our hometown for the holidays. It'll be seven thousand dollars per person. The car is fitted with air conditioning and security cameras. Don't you think this is a good deal?" I glance at my bank app, which has just deducted my monthly house mortgage from my account. "Nah. Bebe isn't a spoiled princess. I can't afford to rent such an expensive car." The next day, I receive a selfie of Lenny hugging Bebe while seated in the Maybach. "It's such a shame that you aren't here, Noah. The Maybach's owner is a hot chick, not to mention she's kind-hearted enough to give me a ride home as well!" On the evening of Christmas, I hear sounds of rapid knocking coming from the front door as soon as I enter the house. Lenny's anxious parents can be seen standing on the doorstep. "Is Lenny here with you? He hasn't come home at all! He told us yesterday that he wanted to prepare a birthday gift for you, so he had us give him 20 thousand dollars!" Before I can recover from my shock, the police come knocking on my door as well. It turns out that I'm the last person Lenny has contacted…