Tikbalang Story

Carl Anderson doesn't show up for our engagement party. I finally find him in a bar's private room after night has fallen. "I only think of her as a sister. Who would've expected her to want to latch onto me like that? There's no way I'll marry her in this lifetime!" He downs his drink. Later, when he and Angela Moran get married, he tells his friends to stop me at the entrance. He's afraid I'll crash his wedding and ruin it. "Keep an eye on Iris, guys. Don't let her crash the wedding!" he says. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I show up with Henry Moran. "Don't even dream of stepping in there, Iris!" Carl looks at me warily. "You're so rude! You have to call her Aunt Iris now!" Angela greets me warmly and leads me inside.

The new project was short on staff. Over everyone's objections, I pulled three former colleagues out of an overlooked department where they'd been warming the bench for years. The four of us became the project's core team. The bonus was generous, the workload light. They all said I was their lucky charm. Three months later, with delivery just around the corner, I passed the break room and overheard them talking. "The biggest credit for this project belongs to the three of us. Why should Chloe get an equal share of the bonus just because she recommended us? She barely did any real work." "Exactly. Let's talk to the director. We'll say all the core work was done by us, that she's not up to the task. We'll apply to have her removed from the contributors list." "Just thinking about not having to split those tens of thousands with her—it feels amazing." I pushed the door open. They stared at me, stunned. I smiled. They wanted to kick me out? Too bad. I was the director who parachuted in to evaluate them.

My mother claims my husband has cheated on me and pushes me to get a divorce. I want to collect evidence before proceeding with anything—if it's true, I have to uphold my rights. Yet she causes a scene at an art exhibition I've worked on for three years, humiliating me in public and making me sound like a gold digger. "How are you any different from a prostitute when you're holding this dumb exhibition with a man's money? I didn't raise you to be a gold digger! How can you be so revolting?" She slashes the million-dollar paintings in the exhibition, claiming that she's doing this for my good. She wants me to see the error of my ways and return to the right path. Meanwhile, I clutch my bloody hand, which she slashed with her blade. I say, "You say you want me to return to the right path, but is that what it really is? You want me to divorce my legally wedded husband, who's a CEO, without a penny to my name. "Then, you want me to marry a 45-year-old cheap man who has a child and no money? He even wants me to support him!"

While waiting for my husband to pick me up at the parking lot, I came across a trending topic in my city. "How do I deal with an overly-clingy wife?" Amidst a flurry of boastful, lovey-dovey comments, one female username caught my attention. "Just pretend to be incompetent! My childhood friend was forced to marry someone he didn’t love. I gave him the idea to pretend to be directionally-challenged, which he has done for five years now. "When his wife got pregnant, he secretly mixed lubricant into the shower gel, causing her to slip. Then, on the way to the hospital, he pretended to get lost. He deliberately circled the suburbs several times, which led to her miscarriage and now she can't have children anymore." "Coincidentally, today is supposed to be the selection day for her promotion to professor. He offered to drive her to work, but he actually plans to pretend to get lost to make her late so that I can get promoted instead. "When she fails the selection, he’ll use that as a chance to convince her to quit her job, turn her into a useless housewife, and then kick her out!" Reading this suspiciously familiar experience sent a chill down my spine. Before I could ponder further, I heard my husband’s apologetic voice. "Sorry, honey, I got lost. I hope this won't affect your selection."

When I visit my girlfriend's house during the Christmas holidays, her cousin, Antonio Esposito, humiliates me in front of everyone because of a scar on the back of my hand. "This scar looks like a remnant of the crossfire with the mafia! Bianca, why did you think that bringing an ex-convict home was a good idea?" The entire Romano family stares at me in a mixture of horror and shock. My girlfriend, Bianco Romano, even shakes my hand off while staring at me in disgust. Not only does Antonio flip the table, but he also calls over a few hooligans in an attempt to take me to the local police station. "We must teach scumbags like him a lesson!" he declares. After that, Antonio and the hooligans strip off my jacket and strap me to the tree in the courtyard. They then attempt to force me to admit that I'm working for the mafia. I can only gnash my teeth together stubbornly, refusing to yield no matter what. What they don't know is that the scar is a medal from my time in a peacekeeping war as a soldier!

On my 50th wedding anniversary, I took my worn, crumbling marriage certificate to City Hall to renew it. The clerk glanced at it—and froze. “This certificate is fake. Our records show you’ve never been married.” I stared. “Impossible. I’ve been married to Damien Slater for fifty years.” The clerk pulled up his file. “Well…Yes, Mr. Slater is married—but his wife’s name is Vanessa Grant.” Vanessa. His widowed sister-in-law. A military doctor who’d spent decades living among the troops. My hands shook as I returned home and confronted Damien. He didn’t even try to deny it. “I’ve treated you well all these years. Isn’t that enough? Vanessa is my true love. I only ever wanted her—our children, our life.” My son counseled me and said, “To spare your feelings, my parents kept it a secret their whole lives. You’re getting old now. What more do you want?” Only then did I learn the truth. The child I had raised with my own hands was never mine by blood. Decades ago, Vanessa and I gave birth on the same day. To ensure her child would grow up with intellect, privilege, and a future that I could provide, Damien switched our children. My own son? Damien drowned him in the pond the moment he drew breath. And I—fool that I was—raised Vanessa’s boy as my own. I even got him all the way to Claremont University. The truth broke me, and I collapsed. When I opened my eyes again—I was back. Back to the day I went into labor.

Late one night, as I scrolled through social media, I came across a relationship influencer with over a hundred thousand followers, teaching men how to "control" their wives. "She actually tried to talk to me about privacy?" he scoffed. "I ignored her for three days, and she handed over all her passwords, crying and begging me not to leave her." The comments exploded almost instantly. The chat went wild. [Take me under your wing, man!] I felt sick to my stomach. Then, without warning, he lifted his phone and pressed a kiss to the screen. A face appeared in the reflection. Mine. Smiling, he turned back to his audience of thousands. "See this? This is the perfect wife I spent three years training." A chill ran through me. I clicked into his profile and scrolled all the way back to his first post. The upload date was the same day we got married. He claimed he was filming prank videos and that it was all just for the livestream—no wonder he got increasingly out of hand. That was when it hit me: he had been lying to me all along. From the moment I stepped into that marriage, I had been nothing more than his experiment, his content, his source of money. Fine. If that was the case, then I would turn his livestream into his worst nightmare. I picked up my phone and sat directly beneath the camera he had installed, then sent a deliberately suggestive message to another man. Three seconds later, the bedroom door burst open. Matthias stormed in and snatched my phone. After reading the message, his lips pressed into a tight line. However, he did not explode. He did not even look at me. Instead, he turned, opened his livestream, and faced the camera. "Send something through, and I'll show you exactly how to put a cheating woman in her place."

I suffer from extreme mental illness. My sister, Ava Monroe, became a facial model to earn money for my expensive medical treatment. She was 5’3” tall but was noticed because of her beauty by a wealthy young man by the name of Dominic Pierce with a leg obsession. He imprisoned her. “This is the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. If only your legs were a bit longer, I’d die with a smile.” Ava was forced to have leg-lengthening surgery. After the operation, her legs began to rot. Dominic found her disgusting and locked her in the basement. He tortured her until she died. I got kicked out of the mental health institute because I could not pay the medical fees. I found Dominic surrounded by beautiful women with long legs. “Those are the prettiest legs I’ve ever seen. If only your face were a little cuter, I’d die with a smile!” I pointed to the painting of Ava and scoffed, “What if I become her?”

I was framed by my boyfriend's childhood sweetheart and spent five years in prison. While I was locked away, he moved her into my home, seized my property, and built a perfect life, thriving off everything I worked for. However, I would take back everything that they stole from me.

My mate, Andrew Claude, is the Alpha of the Celestial Pack, the sworn rival of my father’s Venus Pack. For three years, we have hidden our bond, knowing that our union could either bring peace between the packs or ignite war. On Lunar Year's Eve, beneath the full moon’s silver glow, we stand on the castle terrace, whispering promises of our future. Tonight, we finally agree to perform our bonding ritual, sealing our fates before revealing our love to our parents. My wolf stirs in anticipation, her instincts urging me toward him. But then, Andrew leaps down into the grand fire-dance festival, his powerful wolf form shifting mid-air before landing in a flourish. The scent of burning pine and roasted venison fills the air, warriors howling in celebration. The pack’s bonfire crackles with enchanted flames, casting shadows of prowling wolves against the towering stone walls. I watch from above, heart pounding with joy—until my smile fades. In the heart of the revelry, Carol Sinclair, an Omega maid, clutches a bundle of enchanted fireworks. Andrew strides to her, a warm, easy grin on his face. With a flick of his fingers, golden flames dance from his palms, sparking the firework in her hands. "A little fire magic to help you, Carol," he chuckles. She gasps in admiration, giggling as the firework ignites—only for it to spiral out of control. It veers wildly, the enchanted embers lashing through the air. Searing pain blooms across my arm. The stench of burning flesh fills my nose. I barely react before Carol bursts into tears and flees into the crowd. Before I can speak, Andrew turns on me, his golden eyes flashing with rage. The onlookers fall silent, ears twitching to catch their Alpha’s words. “Did you bully her, Bella?” His growl rumbles deep in his chest. “Just because you’re an Alpha’s heir doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want!” The warriors glance at each other, their tails stiff with tension. I stagger back, stunned. He doesn’t even ask if I’m hurt.