Partial Differential Equations For Engineers And Scientists

"Hello, I want a divorce." In the third year of her marriage, Roxanne Levine decided to file for divorce. But she did so without telling her husband. Across the desk, the lawyer, Nathaniel Shepherd, responded in a formulaic tone after hearing her intent. "If you wish to proceed with a divorce, both parties need to sign the divorce agreement. After that, there will be a one-month cooling-off period before the divorce is finalized. Did your husband not come with you today?" Roxanne paused for a few seconds. "I'll make sure he signs it." "Very well. I'll draft a divorce agreement for you."

“Fuck—say my name when I’m inside you,” Drake’s voice was a dark growl against my ear, his hand pinning mine above the headboard. “Drake… oh God, harder—” I cried, my body arching into his relentless thrusts. “Not just Drake. Say what I am to you.” “My ex’s father,” I gasped, shame and desire tangling on my tongue. “That’s right, sweetheart. And now you’re mine.” It was supposed to be a reckless mistake. A reckless sex with a stranger after catching my boyfriend screwing my best friend. But the stranger wasn’t a stranger at all. He was Drake Humphrey. My ex-boyfriend’s father. Older. Filthy rich. Ruthlessly dominant. The man I should have run from. Instead, I let him own me. In his penthouse, on his desk, in his car. I let him ruin me with every touch. But what started as lust has become obsession. Drake doesn’t just want my body. He wants my heart. He wants me under his name, his control, his power. And when our secret erupts, the world around us catches fire. My ex wants revenge. His mother wants blood. His father wants me. And I can’t decide if I’ve been destroyed… or if I’ve finally come alive.

In the third year of our marriage, my wife’s ex-boyfriend of eight years suddenly posted a picture on social media showing off a multi-million-dollar wedding house. His caption read: “Wow, got myself a huge villa, I’m the master of charming women!” I stared in shock at the picture, which showed my wife swiping her card at a sales office, and left a single comment: "?" A second later, my wife called to scold me. “I was just fulfilling a promise I made to him back when we were dating, buying him a house. Why are you getting mad at him?” “What? Are you really going to be so vicious as to force me to break my word?” That evening, her ex showed off another lavish post, this time flaunting a renovation bill worth hundreds of thousands. I knew it was a gift from my wife to please him. But by then, I no longer cared.

My girlfriend keeps saying that she comes from a poor family, but she gives her childhood sweetheart a yacht on our anniversary. I text her to ask about this, but all she does is berate me. "Who do you think you are? How dare you stick your nose into my business! I'll give anyone whatever I want. My money, my call. Get lost!" Unbeknownst to her, I'm covered in blood on the other end of the line.

In my parents' hearts, there was always a "perfect son" who died too soon. I was just his flawed substitute, while my younger brother was their new hope. They pretended to be poor for 20 years, secretly funneling all their resources to him. While I was in the final stages of stomach cancer, writhing in pain, they were spending millions of dollars to build him a state-of-the-art study room. When the doctor told me to notify my family about hospital bills, I felt helpless, thinking they were just ordinary, broke workers. When my mom finally showed up at the hospital, she grabbed my hand, not out of concern. "Neville is under so much stress with his college entrance exams. Can you not die right now? He can't take it." My dad stood by, wearing a stern expression. "David was way more sensible than you."

When struggling waitress Elira Cruz was forced into entering a contract marriage with cold, ruthless billionaire Caelan Ferrer, she thought she was sealing just another business deal: one year, no emotions, no strings. But behind that icy stare lay hurtful memories Elira unknowingly played a part in. Snowed in by her messy kindness, the man who swore never to love again slowly began to thaw. Secrets begin to unfold underneath. A hidden link ties them much closer than either one would have imagined. Will their fake marriage survive the truth...or will love become the price of revenge?

Their contract had expired a week ago and considering the fact that Miller's long term crush, Alexia was back from her six months trip, Miller decides to bring her back into the pack. Hurt and betrayed, Summer tries to reject him knowing she'd rather die than become his breeder, “I, Summer Dubios, reject…” Miller's cold voice cut her short instantly, “Summer! Are you out of your mind? You have no right to reject your mate! I’m not done with you yet. I alone have the right to reject you as my mate. Not until I am satisfied with the pleasure you bring, you're still my mate and you'll remain here till I have no use for you and that's final!”

I'm the female protagonist of a spicy novel. One day, the system tosses me into an innocuous novel to be reformed. What a joke! I turn to the male protagonist. "Hi there. Want to make out?" He has me thrown behind bars and accuses me of molesting him. Much later, he does even naughtier things than the male protagonists in spicy novels do.

A woman marries a powerful man to destroy him from inside, only to learn that the enemy she was hunting is not the man she married but the people who controlled both their pasts. Revenge turns into truth, pain turns into healing, and love grows where hatred was meant to live.

My husband, Hank, is dead.  On our wedding anniversary, he ventured out in the pouring rain to buy me a cake, only to be hit by a truck. His body was badly mangled in the crash.  My sister-in-law, Lyra, called me a killer, claiming that I did not deserve Hank’s inheritance.  My mother-in-law, Judy, kicked me out of the house.  Overwhelmed by grief and guilt, I often wondered if he would still be alive had I stopped him that day. Eventually, emotions gripped me, and I was diagnosed with cancer.  Judy came to visit me on my deathbed. “You’re an idiot to believe everything!”  She threw a family photo in my face.  The shock and anger were more than I could handle, and I breathed my last.  It turned out that Hank was never dead. He had a child with his old flame.  When I opened my eyes once more, I returned to the day my husband faked his death.